In response to a post on another thread regarding the deer I have killed and my thoughts of writing down some of the memorable ones in a short paragraph or so, here is a trial effort. Let me know what you think.



Saline Swamp, December, 1957.

I was out of school for Christmas break and we were camped deep in the Saline-me, Uncle Lester, Uncle Lloyd and Uncle Alphus. We had turned the dogs loose on Muddy Bayou ridge that morning and I made the drive. Uncle Lester killed a big spike and Uncle Lloyd caught 18 bass at the pipe flow on a yellow H&H.

That afternoon I was perched on a big cypress log trying to kill a wooduck on Back Camp Slough. The ducks hadn’t started piling yet and I was sitting there and kept hearing something in the water. I couldn’t see anything but I could hear it splashing.


After a bit, I could hear the splashing coming closer. I strained my eyes and almost fainted. A buck was slowly coming toward me. I could see his antlers moving and circles in the water as he walked He was feeding on the floating acorns in the slough.

I slowly got the number 6’s out of the tubes on the 12 gauge, L.C. Smith. It had twin 32-inch barrels and shot like a rifle. I slipped the double zeros in and quietly breeched it.

The buck kept coming and now he was just 30 yards away facing me and coming directly at me. Then he turned to pick up an acorn. The gold bead stopped right behind his left front shoulder and the right barrel belched. He jumped and ran broadside to me at 35 yards. The left barrel belched and he disappeared.

I tracked him by the bubbles and mud in the slough and within 50 yards walked up on him. A beautiful 8-point that might score 110 but he made my record book. I field dressed him and drug him onto dry land and went back to duck hunting.

When Uncles Lloyd and Alphas pulled up in the old iron horse, I had a buck and six squealer ducks laying on the palmettos. Five double aughts had caught him perfect. Four went all the way through and the fifth, caught in the hide on the offside, is in a box on my mantle. It was a great night.

John Sloan-Memories of a hunting Life 2010.
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Constipation has ruined many a good day. Not as many as stupidity, though.