The Last Stand

By Bill Bowling

My family and the generations before us are deer hunters. In recent years the popularity of huntng the whitetail deer has greatly increased and with it commercialization. Everything seems to be focused on killing, scoring, and the record book - not hunting. For the wealthy, one can actually be guaranteed to "harvest" a record book deer for upwards of $20,000. What happened to the passion for hunting and family heritage? I have that passion. It was passed on to me by my grandfather and I, in turn, passed it on to my two sons. The "Last Stand" is not a how-to book but I felt it was time for me to express what hunting means to us and why it's important to hunt ethically. Remember one thing, it's not important how many deer you kill or how many fish you catch but what you experience along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481771160

Bill Bowling

Bill Bowling was born in Raleigh, NC but grew up in Charlottesville, VA where he graduated from the University of Virginia in 1966. After moving to Roanoke, VA he became a licensed Architect in 1970. Until he retired in 2010 he was responsible for many significant projects primarilly on the east coast but also elsewhere in the US. Since a little kid he has always been an avid outdoorsman, primarilly hunting and fishing. He has four children, four grandchildren, and lives with his wife, Donna, on a small farm outside Fincastle, VA in Botetourt County.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 BILL BOWLING. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/28/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7115-3 (sc)

978-1-4817-7116-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911659

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

missing image file

Contents

Foreword

Chapter One: The Beginning

Chapter Two: The Early Years

Chapter Three: The Middle Years, Part One

Chapter Four: The Club

Chapter Five: The Middle Years, Part Two

Chapter Six: The Later Years

Chapter Seven: The Last Stand

Foreword

January 6th, 2007, and it’s the last day of the late muzzleloading deer season in Virginia. Back in my tent camp, on Chestnut Mountain in Franklin County, I pull a camp chair up to last night’s fire pit and mull over the morning’s hunt. It was a cold, drizzly, foggy morning, just the way I like it. The deer were moving late (10 am) and were surprisingly moving from the thick laurel ridges above the Pigg River to the open hardwood flats. Crop areas across the river are mostly gone and they were trying to browse on what was left of the heavy acorn mast of ’06, before it is gone as well. My treestand was located in a narrow funnel between the edge of the laurel bluff at the river and the hardwoods. I did see a small buck (maybe a six) and two does but I didn’t want them. Actually, I don’t really want one this evening either, I just want to be here.

Thinking about where the last stand of the season should be also brings to mind many previous hunts over the last fifty years, and I wonder where and when will be MY last stand. I am sixty four years old and not without potential serious health problems. These thoughts may seem morbid and depressing to some, but not to me! In fact, I am at peace. Career accomplishments, though impressive and rewarding, pale in comparison to my passion for hunting the whitetail deer. More importantly, I have instilled this same passion, and the passion of my forefathers, in my two sons. This story, or book, or whatever it turns out to be, is about that passion, why it’s important to hunt ethically, and my ultimate respect for the whitetail deer.

The Last Stand – Well, it’s not over yet! Look, there’s still a wisp of smoke coming from the fire pit and I can faintly hear Johnny Cash with Sunday Morning Coming Down on my radio in the old canvas tent.

CHAPTER ONE: THE BEGINNING

What is this passion and where did it come from?

Do you remember, when you were a kid, how everything always seemed bigger, darker, and scarier? I remember going to my great grandmother Grove’s house in southwest Virginia when I was around five or six years old. The entrance foyer seemed twenty feet tall and was full of dark wood and green velvet wall covering. There was even a carved lion’s head, snarling, on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. The light was dim but I could see a critter, or at least the head of a critter, hanging on the wall staring down at me. Come to find out that it was the stuffed head of a whitetail deer that her father (my great, great, grandfather) had shot somewhere around the 1850’s. The head is long gone, but I still have the horns, and hang them each year on the ridge pole of my tent. This buck is what we today call a non-typical and, though not a booner, he is a trophy in my book.

After being allowed to touch it, and after playing thewhat and why game, my grandmother told me stories of her family and their love for hunting. There were ducks, and squirrels, and rabbits, but mainly the whitetail deer, and especially the deer camp. As I grew older, and became obsessed (the wife’s word) with deer hunting and all that goes with it, I also became convinced that this passion must be hereditary. Definition: The all that goes with it means hunting October thru December. Shed hunting in February, cameras up by labor day, hanging stands in August, mountains, snowy days, the rut, scrapes, rubs, topo maps, Buckmasters, RealTree Roadtrips, Field & Stream, and of course the deer camp. I always plan my November camp menu during our family vacation in June. Oh, and don’t leave home without your Cabela’s Visa.

You hear deerhunters saying that it’s not about killing a deer similar to the football coach saying winning isn’t everything. They are right, but to me the passion goes much deeper. It’s really hard to describe the feelings I have while sitting in my old canvas tent by the sheepherder stove getting my

stuff ready for the next morning opening day. Stuff, carefully arranged in my backpack, might include such essentials as a Green River skinning knife, an old Buck folder, a coil of drag rope (ala Larry Benoit), flashlight, compass, surveyor’s tape, topo map, orange vest, rainsuit, .308 ammo, Tink’s 69, grunt call, doe bleat, binoculars, plastic bag for the liver, a water bottle, an apple, a peanut butter sandwich, a pouch of Levi Garrett, and four fun-size Snicker’s bars.

Later, in the dark (except for the flicker of the stove), while going over my strategy, I can almost hear those first faint footsteps in the frosty leaves at the break of day. Now, you have planned for this day, you have observed the bachelor groups in August, you have scouted the fringes of the crop areas in September, you have scouted the popular trails leading to the oak flats in October, and you have found HIS sign during the pre-rut. The sign is great, the set-up looks like a piece of cake, and you are pumped! HE won’t be there and you won’t either. You didn’t get your gray hair for nothing and neither did HE. Long before the shooting starts HE knows, and you have got a pretty good idea, where HE will be on that Monday morning (the season now opens on Saturday but I don’t like it and wish it were still on Monday). You must be very careful, but you must get down in the dirt with HIM. This old boy won’t make the same mistakes the younger bucks do, especially where the girls are concerned (me either), but HE might try and slink by you at daybreak or HE (like me) must get up to relieve himself about mid-day and you will (should) be there. You can find HIS places if you know where to look. It won’t be where there are many deer (if any), and there won’t be a lot of sign, but there will be some. It will be thick, and rough, but don’t spend your time looking for sharp open points with escape routes; HE is going to hide! HIS place won’t necessarily be the most remote but will be the least obvious to most hunters. Wind will be critical. HE will have picked this place (or places) to take advantage of prevailing wind direction. Many times I have chosen to not hunt HIS area for three or four days or even a week to avoid spooking HIM because of the wind direction.

OK, the first day is over with a no-show. Now it gets better, because you must match wits with HIM on HIS terms. You must draw on all of your past experiences and this year’s scouting to develop a new or refined game plan. It is a one-on-one contest.

Back to heritage. I can not begin to describe the rewards and feelings that I have experienced while teaching and then hunting with my two sons. Mike is forty-five and Will is twenty, quite a few years apart, but equally eat-up with hunting the whitetail deer. They have the passion. Whether they inherited the feeling or as Mom says monkey-see-monkey-do, who knows. I do know that I am quite proud of both of them, not only for their accomplishments as hunters, but because they know what it is all about and do it right. I remember when Mike was just a little boy he would sleep with sticks, deer sheds, and toy guns, and wouldn’t hear of such things as teddy bears. What says it all though is when Will, age 5, and in pre-school, was asked by the teacher to name a special holiday in October. His reply, opening day of bow season.

When thinking about all the things that make up this passion for hunting, it all really boils down to this. Picture yourself sitting by the fire late in the afternoon, the last bit of light outlining row after row of blue mountains, the frying pan sizzling with fried liver and onions (maybe a few mountain oysters), and, of course, your buck on the meat pole. Throw in a little Willie with Red Headed Stranger and it will bring tears to your eyes. It just don’t get no better than this!

Speaking of that buck on the pole: When that old grizzled, dark horned, basket racked, eight pointer tried to sneak by me that frosty morning I did take him, for as Brian Kilmeade wrote The Games Do Count.

CHAPTER TWO: THE EARLY YEARS

Learning what it is all about and getting pumped".

My family moved to Charlottesville, Virginia in 1949 shortly after I had turned six. My dad, Bill (I was Billy then), and my mom Diz were both thirty-five and my sister, Susie, was two. Another sister, Jane, came along two years later. Our house was located on the outskirts of town, a great location for me. The Rivana River was within walking distance and there were plenty of fields and rolling ridges loaded with oaks and hickorys. This fast became my personal playground.

My first gun was a Red Ryder BB gun (about age seven), then a Daisy pump (about age nine), and then a pellet rifle (maybe one year later). My dad was not a hunter but he owned two guns, one an H&R sixteen gauge single