by Paul Hensel
“Paul, wake up, its time to go.” I heard my dad say softly at 4:30 in the morning. I pretended to be upset because he wouldn’t let me sleep—not that I had gotten a wink at all that night. I was 13 years old and dad was getting me up to go hunting for the very first time. I had laid awake all night thinking about how exciting it would be to get a deer my first time out. After a quick breakfast at a local restaurant, which opened early for hunters on the first day of buck season, we were off.
Dad, my brother Carl, and I had driven about 45 minutes when dad proclaimed, “We’re here!”
Carl had been hunting for three years prior to me so dad let him go off on his own. I was fresh off of my Pennsylvania hunter’s safety course so I had to stick by dad’s side. I took my Savage model 110 chambered in .243 Winchester out of the back of our Ford Explorer, slung it over my shoulder, grabbed my shell wallet and stuck it in my pocket. (During the safety course they beat into our heads that you don’t load the weapon until you are at your hunting spot.)
Suddenly, from across the road we heard the loud “BOOM” of a .30-06 rifle shot. We looked over and saw the owner. His gun had still been halfway inside the trunk of his car when it went off. He had shot straight through his car! He calmly put the rifle back in its case, closed the trunk lid and drove away. I looked at dad, who was now laughing and I said, “That’s a good way to start the season.” Dad looked at me and said, “That’s why they teach you not to load a gun until you’re at your destination.”
Fifteen minutes later, while walking through the woods, I found a trail that split just before dropping over a 10-15 foot hill, right at the split was a tree on the edge of the hill that looked over a clearing about 50 yards in front of where Pine Creek and one of its tributaries came together. I said to dad, “This is where I want to sit.” He wasn’t about to change my mind since it was my first time out, and I knew this is where the deer would be, so he agreed. We sat down, leaned against a convenient tree, and I loaded my rifle. I was ready for the kill!
At about 9:00am, we heard something coming down the trail from behind us. I looked over at dad, smiled and gave him thumbs up. The stomping was getting closer, and then from around the bend walked a man probably in his 40’s or 50’s. In Pennsylvania hunters are required to wear 250 square inches of orange on their front, back and head. This man wore only a piece of blaze orange camouflage material about the size of an 8.5” by 11” sheet of paper. He had a woman with him, too. She wore a grey-colored jacket and a fluffy white hair band holding her pony tail in place—not exactly the colors you should wear when people are hunting whitetail deer in the area.
The couple plopped down about 40 yards in front of us. They set out a cooler, a blanket, and even pillows to sit on. I looked over at dad and asked, “Why would they sit there? They know we’re here. . .why would they do that?”
Dad answered, “Some people are just asses.” For the rest of the morning all I heard was the man yelling to the woman, “Pass me another beer.” and “Got any more of that hot brandy left?” Drinking, while hunting, is also an illegal activity.
After a while I heard the man say, “Well, I’m gonna do some hunting.”
I thought to myself, “Finally some peace and quiet.”
The man stood up, threw his AK-47, with a 40-round magazine sticking out of it (very illegal to hunt with in Pennsylvania), over his shoulders with the barrel pointing in my direction and tromped on about 100 yards through the woods making more noise than Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo. He came back 5 minutes later and yelled to his companion, “I don’t know why they call this hunting. I didn’t see anything.” Then he said, “I’m gonna take a nap. Maybe the deer will be around then.”
Dad and I got to sit and wait in peace for about a half-hour when suddenly a herd of about 20 deer came running across the clearing and stopped 60 yards in front of us. From my elevated position I could see a large buck right in the middle of them. He was a very nice 10-point whose antlers stood about 18-inches tall, with a good 20-inch spread. Who could ask for a better deer their first time in the woods? I clicked off the rifle’s safety and slowly raised the gun to my shoulder. Just as I got the buck in my sights the napping drunkard let out a loud burp that echoed through the woods. This of course startled the deer—which promptly ran back into the timbered woods, ruining any chance I had of bagging a nice buck during my first time out.
I clicked the rifle’s safety back on, lowered the rifle, and hung my head in disappointment. Dad came over and placed his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him and asked, “Why doesn’t someone shoot that guy?”
Dad looked me square in the eye and said “Don’t tempt me!” We walked to a new spot, but after an hour or so we decided to just call it a day. On the way back to the car I asked dad, “How can they expect people to stay interested in hunting when they let people like that in the woods?” I will never forget what dad said next:
“BEATS ME!”