Mine is also my first deer. I took it on my second day of deer hunting (in 1961) when I was 15.
My father had bought me an SMLE the christmas before, and I spent the next 11 months sporterizing it and learning to shoot it.
Our camp has a tradition that on opening morning each hunter does his own thing. Most sit, and others still hunt and all look for sign. Since I didn’t know the country, I was left at what was supposed to be a good watch - the Junction. That morning was cool, and the bush was very noisy. My youthful ears heard what sounded like continuous shooting from all directions, and the red squirrels kept me jumping out of my skin as they ran through the dry leaves.
At noon we went back to camp, and discovered that my uncle Hilliard had shot a nice buck. After lunch we went out to bring it back to camp (it was too heavy for him to hang by himself). This used up too much of the afternoon to organize a hunt, so we were on our own for the rest of the day. My father took me for a walk west of camp to show me around, and we flushed a monster buck that I managed to shoot at with an empty chamber - the click that was heard around the world.
The next morning, it was decided that we should repeat the previous morning’s activities. So I was left at the Junction again. This was a duplicate of the previous morning, and these two mornings are probably the genesis of my deep dislike of stand hunting.
In the afternoon, no one organized a drive, so my father decided to show me the country south of camp. To get there we went to the Junction, and turned south. We had an interesting afternoon, with my father relating fascinating hunting stories about each spot we visited. On the way back, as we approached the Junction, I asked my father a question which he began to answer.
I heard a noise, and looked to the right where I saw a doe coming down off a hill heading across in front of me. The deer heard my father talking, and stopped. I put my sight on its shoulder, it took a step forward, so I swung with it and fired. It was quite cold, and a gentle but heavy snow seemed to begin with my shot.
All I saw was smoke in the air that I assumed was burnt powder - no deer. After a short delay (I always accused him of checking for bullet wounds before he spoke), my father asked if I shot at a partridge. When I told him it was a deer, he seemed to get to my side immediately. At that point we saw the doe’s hoof rise up from behind a low brush pile.
When I swung with the deer, my bullet managed to pass through a 3” maple, and enter her shoulder fully expanded to about 1” square. The smoke I saw was the steam released from her lungs as they were destroyed.
When I got back to camp, I don’t know who looked prouder, my father, my grandfather or my uncle Fletcher (who taught me most about hunting). A few days later, Fletcher took me for a tandem hunt that produced my second deer.
I can still remember the smell of the air that Tuesday night at (of all places) the hated Junction.
