An Idiot Goes Deer Hunting

A Frustrating Trip to the Doctor, A Typical Trip to Wal-Mart, The Deer of a Lifetime, I Win a Trip to Disney World…and Blast my Cell Phone.

                It was the best of days and the worst of days.  Deer season was drawing to a close, and I had only killed one doe; I had the opportunity to get more, but I was saving room in my freezer for meat from the big buck that had been leaving his mule-hoof-size tracks all over my food plot. I had hunting plans for this afternoon of the last day I would be able to go hunting, but other tasks called first.

                I had a doctor’s appointment in Jackson at ten o’clock that morning – my last follow-up visit after having had back surgery three months prior -- but the card I received the prior week and the follow-up telephone call both directed me to be there at 9:15.  Since the doctor’s office is on the near side of Jackson, I knew two hours would be plenty of time to make the trip, especially since I would arrive in the metropolitan area after rush hour. I left home at 7:00 a.m. – a bit early.

                The drive began smoothly.  I was ahead of schedule when I reached Carthage, the half-way point, so I stopped at McDonald’s and got a cup of coffee, to go.  I enjoyed the leisurely drive as I listened to my “The Great Courses” CD, “The Secret Life of Words,” until I reached the outskirts of the suburban community of Flowood, about 10 miles from my destination. My blood ran cold at the sight before me: traffic cones, construction equipment and a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic stretching to the vanishing point.  It crept along at the speed of a deer being swallowed by a boa constrictor:  crawl and stop, crawl and stop over and over – until I reached the first of a long string of traffic lights, then it was crawl and wait through three changes of the light. The process continued for miles, while the minute hand of my watch rushed toward – then past – my appointment time.  Instead of arriving 15 minutes early, I arrived 10 minutes late. 

                I bolted up the stairs two at a time and, gasping, signed in at the receptionist’s desk. 

                “Who are you,” and whadda you want?” She asked?

                “I am Harold Anderson, and I am here for a 10:00 o’clock appointment, I am sorry I am late, but I got held up by traffic.”

                “Yeah, you must have come in on Lakeland Drive, that traffic is murder, but the doctor is in surgery today; he doesn’t have any appointments.”

                “But, I got a card and a follow-up phone call saying I have an appointment this morning.”

                “Let me check,” she said, consulting her appointment calendar. “Your appointment was two weeks ago.”

                “But why did I get a card and phone call saying it was today?”

                “I don’t know, must have been a foul-up, she said with a shrug.”

                The drive back home was uneventful, since only the in-bound lane was under construction.

                I ate lunch then went to my office to pack for a Project Learning Tree Workshop I had to conduct the next day at Mississippi State University.  Packing for a workshop is much more involved that just throwing a bunch of books in the car.  I had to unpack cases of books, apply labels listing my sponsors, re-pack the books, type names on certificates of completion, count and sort my hand-outs, get all my paperwork in order, etc.

                I normally takes about two hours, but today, my copier kept jamming and my printer ran out of ink, so I had to go to the office supply store to get a new cartridge.  Finally, I had everything carefully packed and loaded into my car.  It only took 30 minutes longer than expected.  All I had to do now was to stop by Wal-Mart and buy drinks and snacks for my workshop, and I would still have time for hunting.

                Even through Wal-Mart is cheap and on my way home, it was a bad decision.  The parking lot was almost full – a bad omen.  I loaded my purchases into a shopping cart and headed for the check- stands.  Four were open, when eight were needed (as usual).  I spied a check-stand with only one customer, so I got in line behind her.  Unfortunately, she had about $400 worth of groceries, and, in an accent from nowhere south of the Mason Dixon line, argued with the cashier over the price of each item: “I thought that was on sale. That’s cheaper at Williams Bros., don’t you match the lowest price? Isn’t this senior citizen’s discount day?  I am a retired veteran. Don’t I get a discount for that?”

                The haggling proceeded, as I looked out the window and watched the sun sinking lower, until the cashier finally told her the total.  The customer produced a debit card and swiped it into the machine and typed in her PIN number, only to get the following message: “Card Rejected.  Improper PIN.”  She tried again, and again, and yet again, with the same result.  What’s that Einstein said about trying the same thing again and again and expecting a different result? She said, “Maybe it is because I have a ten-digit PIN.  I am from the big city, and you have to be very carefully with security there,” she opined.  Finally, the cashier offered to run the card as a credit card.  Her system would not take it, so she called supervisor number one -- and the sun continued to sink.  Supervisor number one could not help, so she continued to go through supervisors as the sun sank lower in the sky, until supervisor number four solved the problem.

                She scanned my items and said, “That will be $19.50.” I fed my debit card into the machine, typed in my PIN and the machine declared that I had entered an invalid PIN or my card was damaged. The cashier started to call for her line of supervisors.  “Never mind,” I said, “I will pay with cash.” I paid and rushed from the store to the far edge of the “back-forty,” where my car was parked, fired her up and headed to my tree farm. When I arrived there was still a bit of sunlight, but I had to hurry.

                I went into the cabin, plucked my 30-30 deer rifle from the gun rack and knocked over a basket of cartridges, scattering them across the room and under the bed.  With no time to pick them up,  I just grabbed three and fed them into the magazine of my trusty “shootin’ iron” as I headed out the back door toward my deer stand.

                If you are not familiar with a Marlin 30-30 rifle, let me explain its operation.  This is a lever action rifle, like the ones you see cowboys in western movies carry in a saddle holster. The gun has a tube under the barrel – a magazine – into which one feeds ammunition.  This is just for storage: a round will not fire from here.  To load one into the firing chamber, the shooter has to operate the lever.  In one action, the gun moves a cartridge from the magazine into the firing chamber and cocks the hammer back.  At this point, one only has to pull the trigger to fire the gun, but, since it is dangerous to walk about with a gun ready to fire, it is prudent to put the gun on “safe.” This is accomplished by holding the hammer back with the thumb, while simultaneously pulling the trigger, then gently lowering the hammer to a catch or the “half-cock” position.  At this point, the gun will not fire even if the trigger is pulled or one drops it and it lands on the hammer.  To fire the gun, one has to thumb the hammer back to the fire positon, then pull the trigger. I prepared the gun as I left the cabin, because I once failed to do so, climbed 30 feet into a “tree stand,” had an enormous buck in my crosshairs, cocked the hammer back, pulled the trigger and heard the hammer fall on an empty firing chamber as the buck jumped, flat-footed, over a four-strand barbed-wire fence and high-tailed it for parts unknown, as I sat there with my jaw hanging open.

                To reach my deer stand – a “shooting-house” elevated four feet off the ground on poles beside a woods-road that dead-ends in a “food-plot” about a hundred yards away – one has to cross a springy plank that spans the ditch that leads to my pond, normally not a problem. But we had a four-inch rain a couple of days ago and the water level in the ditch was only a few inches below the plank.  As I walked across, it sagged into the water – soaking both of my tennis shoes.  It was getting cold. No time to turn back.  Suck it up, Harold, you are a big boy.  So I did.

                I settled into my deer stand, and before long, I saw a bush at the edge of the opening move, then a doe walked out, then another, and another.  They clustered together, eating the oats I had planted that fall.  I don’t know if you, dear reader, have ever observed a deer eating, but it does not just lower its head and go to it, rather, it “bobs” up and down, alternating eating and looking about.  The three does clustered together and ate in this fashion – then an enormous buck walked out, stood behind them and ate in synchronized fashion:  When they went down, he went down, so the does were constantly in my line of fire.

                I braced my gun on the window ledge and put the cross hairs on the chest of the doe directly in front of the buck, so that if she moved, I would be set up for the shot.  But she would not move. The light was beginning to fade, but I waited patiently, knowing this would be the shot of the season, and I did not want to blow it.

                Then the deer ambled off into the woods, but I continued to wait patiently: then a doe came back into the food plot and walked to the far side, then another, and another: All that was left was the buck, and he would have to walk fifty feet – across the open – to reach them.  The light was fading, but I could still see clearly, so I cocked my hammer back, and with my finger on the trigger, put my cross hairs on the spot where he would have to walk, kept the gun in position, and peered, with both eyes, over the scope – waiting – patently, yet eagerly.

                A bush moved. That was him!  He was getting ready to make his move!  Steady, now, it is getting dim, but there is light.  Hold the gun steady, wait for an open shot then gently press the trigger.  That is all there is to it.  There he is!  He is standing broad-side to me with his head up displaying those magnificent antlers.  My cross hairs were on his chest, and as I gently squeezed the trigger – my cell phone rang, startling me so that I flinched just as the gun fired -- and the shot went wild.

                I flipped the cover of the old-fashioned “flip-phone” open and said, “Hello.”

                “Congratulations,” the recorded voice of the pitch-man excitedly proclaimed, “You have won an all-expense-paid, five-day, vacation to Disney World for two.”

                Have you ever seen what a 30-30 bullet will do to a flip-phone – at close range?