By 3:30 a.m., Dad and I were where we wanted to be. It was Oct. 1, opening day of general rifle season. I had been scouting the area since early August and had seen some good bucks. We assumed the place would be overrun with hunters, but we didn’t see a single truck until 10 minutes before legal shooting light. Over the next few minutes, we watched more trucks making their way down various logging roads in Oregon’s Cascade Range.
Daylight came and the sun eventually crested the mountains behind us. Dad and I had yet to see a deer, but we dared not move. The logged unit we glassed was tall with weeds, willows and briars, making it hard to see deer unless they moved. Finally, more than three hours into the morning, a buck materialized from the brown fireweed. Then another … and then a third. These were the same bucks I’d been seeing all summer when they were in velvet. All the sudden traffic in the woods had put them on edge.
We already had the rifle set up in the shooting sticks. At 305 yards, Dad made a perfect shot. It took us a couple hours to get the buck out, but there was no hurry. This morning belonged to my dad, who was soon to turn 82 years old and had just taken a mature Columbia blacktail deer, his favorite big-game animal to hunt.
Driving home, we stopped and talked to a fellow hunter parked alongside a logging road. “Man, sure aren’t the deer there used to be,” he muttered. “I haven’t seen a deer all day!” When I asked if he’d been scouting, he said he hadn’t been able to find time.
I start
