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On November 17, 2012 one of the most uneventful events happened in my life. I was at the right place at exactly the right time, and I realized after it all, that life is an oxymoron. You see, I do not consider myself a true hunter. I’ve been lucky enough to be in close association with true, genuine hunters whose coattails have generously drug me along through many hunting seasons. And if there was ever a year when I thought maybe I was in a league with these true outdoorsmen, I was quickly brought back to reality when they watched me struggle with a ratchet tie-down like a two-year-old looks at a Rubik’s cube. Or perhaps it was the time I grabbed the ‘yellow’ gas can to fill my buddies quad while hot coffee spewed from his mouth in a mad gasp to stop me.
Let me put this in another light. There are those who can plunk a few songs on the guitar, maybe even pretty darn well, and then there is Neal Young. I’ve been known to make a few great shots from time to time, bring home the game, but let me introduce you to my cousin/guide Mike Skrove (Neal Young), my older brother Derek (Bob Dylan) and my father, Wayne (Neal Diamond). You get my point.
Now, let’s get to back to November 17, the uneventful event I mentioned earlier. Neal, I mean Mike and I (and Mike’s son Coleton) were enjoying the view of Peace Country, just happy to be out for a walk along a ridge. It was the first hour of our hunt of ten days. We spotted some nice muley bucks and I was ready to take one—I had four tags to fill; it was quantity, not quality I was after—but we decided to pass and keep walking.
A few minutes later, about 200 yards below us, I spotted what was clearly a doe, but she had a mystery companion a few feet behind her. We had no idea at the time what ‘it’ was. The trees were just too thick and this deer would not move a muscle for the next 15 minutes. This was great for me. No pressure, no idea, no clue. I nestled into position, adjusted my bipod one millimetre at a time and put the crosshairs on this mystery deer. I took a few practice shots in my mind and actually remember taking another look at the scenery—just to give you an idea of how disconnected I was from the reality of the situation.
Mike, on the other hand, was sending off another vibe. Much like a yellow lab on a pheasant, he was pacing back and forth, melting the snow beneath him. You see, my coke bottle scope kept me in ignorance. Clearly what we had before us was a deer… a mule deer, brown with big ears. Mike’s Hubble Telescope, screwed onto the top of his gun on the other hand, was telling a much different story. He knew it was a buck with a thick, dark brown rack, but the trees prevented him from making out if he was more than a two-pointer.
Mike suggested he make a few grunt calls to get him moving. I agreed. Mike grunted, the deer moved to the side about five feet. What I saw at that moment I will never forget. It appeared to me that someone had glued a small tree to this deer’s head. I had seen enough and so had Mike. With the same tone as a dying man’s last breath I heard him say, “Take this deer, he’s a four-pointer… and remember me… the one who helped you find this deer. I pulled the trigger of my borrowed .270 and as the bullet made its way, it only then dawned on me what was on the line. In other words, I never really had time to think about how special and rare this moment really was and believe me, this was a good thing.
The shot felt good and it did the job. As the three of us approached this breathtaking animal, well, you know how it goes and I’ll leave it that.
Now here’s the thing. The wrong guy shot this buck. I don’t mean that in a negative sense at all, it’s just that if it weren’t for true hunters like Mike, my brother and my dad, I’d be back in Calgary posing with the mounts at Bass Pro.
Take my cousin Mike, for example. Here’s a guy who planned his marriage and the birth of his three children AROUND hunting season—now that my friends, is passion. I, on the other hand, got married in November, yes, November, and have spent many years calling my beautiful wife from a hunting camp on a cell phone with one bar, telling her how thankful I am to have…(static)… I truly love… (static)… All I can say is she is an amazing woman.
Or perhaps it’s the phone call I receive from Mike every June reminding me to put in my draws for a list of animals (some I never even knew existed in Alberta) in WMUs that God only knows where. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the buffalo draw in northern Alberta just isn’t happening. Anyway, this guy is the real deal and I love ‘em for it.
Bottom line: life handed me the rarest of privileges and I’m thankful for that, but I must give credit where credit is due. To the true hunters out there who wear this stuff on their sleeves and camo to social gatherings, who quad us around, tell us what bullets to buy, let us hang game in their garage and rip us around in the front seat of their trucks, this is for you. ■
For previous Reader Stories click here.
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