First Solo Deer

I put a primer on the nipple of the breech plug, strapped on my camouflaged backpack and shouldered my muzzleloader. About five minutes into the trees I remembered I had forgotten a headlamp. I hesitated and almost turned back toward the truck, but thought, “Naa, I doubt I'll need it.” And with that, I continued into the forest. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Aspen leaves blazed in hues of orange, red and yellow, some of them breaking from the tree and wistfully dropping to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze to be felt. I had traveled here several miles on a bumpy dirt road and hadn't seen another soul. I felt as if I had the whole valley to myself. 

I parked off the road beneath a canopy of trees. Then I walked due east toward a gently rising hill. The terrain was a mixture of aspen and pine, with a sprinkling of small meadows and fallen trees. I walked slowly, every step with intent and always scanning for deer or elk. I only had a license to hunt the former, but I never complain to see the latter. 

To my disappointment I spotted a loose band of cattle feeding in one of the meadows. They saw me right away and immediately began to stampede to the north side. “Wonderful,” I thought sarcastically, “that's all I need are a bunch of cows to scare all the deer.” Here in the West, stray livestock is always an issue and it is possible to find sheep or cows grazing on public land. 

On a whim I changed my trajectory to the northeast. The cattle froze and went the other way. Soon I found myself again away from the livestock and in my own solitude. 

I came to the edge of rocky hill, at the bottom of which was a wallow. I sat down, slipped a camouflaged mask over my head, propped my gun on a shooting stick and waited. I will admit that this was more likely to be a place for elk than deer, but I didn't mind that. I also had a camera and would love to watch close-up a giant bull elk rolling around in the wallow. 

As I waited I noticed carvings on the aspen, one from 1930 and the other 1918. The names associated with those dates had now deteriorated with time and appeared illegible, their once fine cursive now a swollen black mark against the white trunk of the aspen. Apparently this little spring had been visited by humans for over a century, and most likely longer. 

After twenty or so minutes I became inpatient and decided to move on. After all, I was hunting deer, not elk. I found a nice game trail and followed it into a grove of aspen. I couldn't believe the beauty of the season. All around me the trees glittered in fall colors. The sun neared the horizon causing occasional rays of sunlight to pierce the forest floor. I stopped to take a few pictures. This is an issue that often makes me a poor hunter. I tend to look for landscape rather than game, searching for deer in the most picturesque place rather than where they might practically live. 

I walked through another grove of aspen and in the distance I could see the open space of a meadow. There I saw a half dozen of the black cows I had seen earlier. My first instinct was to once again switch course, but then a white object caught my attention. 

It was difficult to discern the object at first sight because between me and the meadow stood and long stand of tree trunks. I observed from a distance through the slits of open space. I pulled out my binoculars and honed in on two white objects. As I anticipated, they were the snow-white rumps of two deer, both of them at first glance appearing to be does. They fed on the grass in the meadow along with the cattle.

Although I was not in the market to shoot a mother doe, I decided it best to stealthily move forward to gain a closer vantage. Still some distance away, I softly stepped toward the animals, always moving when their heads were down and concealing my movements as best I could behind the cover of trees. I would then find a larger aspen, stop my motion and peer from behind the trunk through my binoculars to assess the situation. Then I would repeat the process. 

At last I came to a location I deemed good enough for the time being. I knelt down behind a tree and glassed toward the meadow. Although I was still about 175 yards away, I could observe the situation much better. I now saw three deer, one of them a spike and another a small two-point. 

In my mind I debated whether I wanted to shoot. The hunt was still early, but I had a lot of things going on and it would be nice to get the hunt out of the way. It would also be nice to get “something” since the last few years I got nothing. But on the other hand, I had a few days off work and if I were seeing bucks now, the odds were I would see more as time went on. 

As I debated in my mind I had my gun propped up on the shooting stick and also leaned against the aspen. I followed the deer in my scope, keeping a close eye on the two-point. There was a stand of trees between me and the meadow, which often blocked my view of the grazing deer. I was also keenly aware of the half-dozen cattle mingling among them. I did not want to shoot someones cow. 

The two-point stood in the cross-hairs with ample time to take a shot. I decided I was going to do it. With my thumb I cocked the hammer and waited for the right moment. I exhaled, then squeezed the trigger.⸺Then a whimpering pop. 

What the heck!!!???

Only the primer had fired. The startled deer heard the tiny blast and scattered to the edge of the meadow. “Well, that's that,” I thought as I figured all the animals would now scatter. But to my surprise, after looking my way, they all resumed their evening meal. 

At first I was baffled as to why only the cap had went off. But then it dawned on me⸺I had forgot to load my gun! I felt so silly, but at least no one else was here in the forest to witness my folly. 

I pulled a speed reloader from my possible bag and emptied two 50-grain pellets of black powder into the barrel of my inline muzzleloader. Then I flipped the reloader over and nuzzled a .50 caliber bullet inside the barrel. With the ramrod I pushed it down until it was snug with the pellets. Then I replaced the cap. 

Now I resumed my watch of the meadow. The three deer resumed eating as if I wasn't there. But from the edge of the clearing I noticed new movement. Two new deer arrived on the scene. And they were bucks! The first was a taller two-point and the second a three-point, with a possible small fourth branch. 

I was determined I would shoot one of the two, I just had to decide which one. Neither was a trophy, but they were big enough for me. The two-point appeared as if he were a bit taller and thicker than the other, but the other wasn't too shabby himself and had a third point. After brief contemplation, I chose the three-point. 

I followed him in my scope as he too grazed on the grass. My biggest obstacle was the black cow that stood directly behind him. By now the sun had set and we were entering the hour of twilight. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. 

When I felt the cow was removed at a safe distance, I put the cross-hairs right on the deer's vitals. This would be roughly a 175-yard shot. Once again I cocked the hammer and when the moment was right, I pulled the trigger. 

Boooom!!! 

There was no doubt this time that the gun fired correctly. From the plume of smoke I saw what may have been the three-point take off to the right while the others scattered to the left. The cows backed off also. I assessed the situation, not sure whether I had hit him or not, then reloaded my gun.
 

I stood up and slowly walked toward the scene. The closer I got the deer took off, but the cows stayed to watch. I scanned the ground for any downed animal, but saw none. Then as I approached closer, I peered to my right and saw the three-point floundering beneath the trees. He was hit hard, but appeared unable to move anything besides his head. I waited five minutes, not wanting to spook him enough to get up and run. When it appeared that he was losing the fight, I approached him closer and put a final shot through the back of his head. He was dead. 

I have shot many deer in my life, but they have always been with family or another person. I am now fifty-years old and this would be the first deer I shot and took care of completely on my own. I was all by myself. The time was now 7:30 and I knew the sun had set ten minutes ago. I knew I had a long night ahead. 

I cut the jugular and kneeled at the foot of the deer to begin the process of gutting him out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I should have brought the headlamp. Darkness was now setting in and I attempted to set my flashlight down in a way that it would cast light onto my area of work. 

The knife slit into the deer's underbelly and I was careful to stay away from the gut sack. My left fingers stayed beneath the skin and held the innards down as my right hand sliced the skin upwards. At this moment I really wished I had another person to hold the legs open to ease the work. Instead, I had to use my left knee to spread his legs, and even that kept slipping. The flashlight kept falling out of place also, which was very frustrating. And I never could place it in such a manner that it illuminated my work in an appropriate manner. 

In the end, I had performed one of the worst gutting jobs of my life. Blood ran up to my elbows and all over my pants. I'm sure there was an organ or two that remained inside the cavity. And as for the bladder and intestines, I'm pretty sure I somehow nicked them and there's no doubt that some fecal matter ended up on the meat. But the job was done and now it was time to move to the next step. 

Using a water bottle from my pack I washed the majority of the blood from my hands and arms. Now I had to drag the deer back to the dirt road. As I figured, I was about 1,300 feet away as the crow flies. The problem was that in that distance I would have to walk through a myriad of trees and fallen logs, all in the dark while carrying a flashlight and gun. 

I devised a plan that I would set my gun and flashlight down the way about fifty yards. Then I would go back, find the deer and drag him to the light. Then I would repeat the process. This worked well the first several times and I became overly confident of my dragging-in-the-dark skills. 

On the next one, not only did I grab the deer by the antlers and drag him to the flashlight and gun, but I dragged him past that point by a couple dozen yards. 

But the problem began when I decided to carry the flashlight in my hand as I dragged the deer. This worked once, but the second time I did it, when I returned to get my gun, I couldn't find it! I searched all over the place, shining the beam into the wooded landscape, but finding nothing. So I decided to return to the deer to reorient myself. To my complete consternation, I couldn't find that either! What a mess. I couldn't find my gun or the deer and I was probably walking around in circles, getting further away from where I should have been. 

The truth is, I didn't know where I was. At this point, everything looked the same. Some patches had aspen, others had pine, and some had more fallen logs than usual. I searched the ground for any footprints or drops of blood, but could detect nothing. I did this for twenty minutes to no avail. At one time I knelt and gave an earnest prayer. The woods were a spooky place at night and the beam from the flashlight cast all sort of shadows. I also worried about mountain lions. I had never seen one, but knew they came out at night. No doubt they would be looking for an easy meal. 

Then I spotted the gun. Hallelujah! From there I reoriented myself and within a few minutes I found the deer. I gave an audible thanks to God and continued my chore of dragging the deer. 

I have to inject that this was no easy task. The body of the deer was of no small size. Happily for me the course was slightly downhill. The longer I dragged, the more the muscles in my arms, hands and back began to ache. I often had to stop, just to give them a breather. But adrenaline was a mighty factor and little did I ponder on the stressful state of my muscles. 

As I pulled the animal over logs and around bushes and trees, I knew that I was getting near my destination. I came to a point where I could make out a faint alley-way through the trees, and in my humble judgment, I sensed that the road sat at the end of the corridor. 

Anxious to rid myself of the gun, I dropped the deer and walked to the end of this corridor, feeling that the deer would be simple enough to find when I returned. To my pleasure, after a hundred or more yards of walking, I arrived at the dirt road where I sat the muzzleloader down against a log. Then I returned for the deer. 

I thought I returned exactly as I came, but when I arrived there was no deer in sight. Here we go again, I thought. Again I walked all around, shining the beam on every tree and bush. Twice I even returned to the gun and retraced my steps. Still nothing. I arrived at a point where I was confident it had to be. There I set up two logs against a tree so I couldn't lose the spot. Then I went out searching. 

I found a splotch of blood and attempted to gauge how close I was to the two logs leaned against the trees. Of course, I couldn't find them either. I couldn't believe how disoriented everything came after dark. The deer had to be somewhere close to here, but where?

After another fifteen minutes of maddening search, I spotted the dead animal next to some bushes. And to make matters more bizarre, it was only ten yards away from where I had leaned the two logs against the tree! How did I miss that??!! 

At last I finally arrived at the road with the deer. The truck was close by and I drove it to the deer, shining the headlights onto the bedraggled three-point. With all the remaining energy I had, I hefted the weighty animal into the bed of the truck and there I cut out the tag from my license and tied it to the antlers. 

It was now ten o'clock. I had expended two and a half hours since I had shot the deer. I now had a drive home and more work to do after that. The family would be sleeping and I didn't want to wake them. I arrived home, hung it in my garage and proceeded to skin the hide. 

By the time I showered and wound down, ready to crawl into bed, it was three in the morning. You would think I would be sleepy and I definitely was. But sleep didn't come quickly. As I lied in bed, my mind kept returning to the blackened forest, either dragging or searching for that damned elusive deer! ♠ 

 

The ubiquitous Paul Hunter aspen.

Boat Ride on the Mekong

We arrived at the office for the boat, a dusty backroom of a restaurant on the quay. A man who only spoke broken English with a Khmer accent sat behind a desk and took our names. We set our luggage against the wall and waited on a chair while other passengers filed in. 

A lady with a straw hat, stringed tank top and light flowing long skirt came into the room. She traveled alone and spoke in an Australian accent. One family came from India, another from Hong Kong. Several carried red German passports. Today there would be a medley of passengers. 

At last the boat came and we carried our luggage out to the loading dock and stepped onto the vessel, handing our bags to a crewman to stow beneath the boat. We sat next to the window, behind the Germans, overlooking the river. 

At the loading dock in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

It was monsoon season in Southeast Asia and I watched dark clouds billow in the sky. The river was brown, nothing clean about it. Occasional trash floated on the surface along with green stalks and leaves of water hyacinth. 

I watched as we departed the port. Familiar sites of the Royal Palace and Wat Ounalom passed by as we moved down-river and within fifteen minutes the skyscrapers of Phnom Penh faded behind us. 

Goodbye to Phnom Penh.

The Mekong River is the twelfth longest in the world, wending nearly 2,500 miles from the Tibetan Plateau to the South China Sea. Once it enters Vietnam it begins meandering and spreading out, creating the Mekong Delta. This area is critical to the livelihood and food security for millions of people. It is known as the breadbasket of Vietnam. Much of the area is covered by rice patties that are irrigated by delta water and fertilized by delta silt. 

I sat gazing at the distant shore while the wake of the boat spewed water up and across the window. I spotted a Buddhist temple nestled behind the trees and a larger than life reclining Buddha. 

We passed beneath the Tsubasa Bridge, a mammoth structure that spans the entire length of the river. This bridge carries traffic between Ho Chi Minh City and Phnom Penh, eliminating the need for a ferry when it was built in 2015. We were not to pass another bridge the entire trip. This was remote country. Access wasn't easy. 

Splashing water on the Mekong River.

A glimpse of village life.

Tsubasa Bridge.

A ferry carries locals across the river.

Passengers enjoy the breeze.

Further down the river we passed more Buddhist temples, small fishing villages, barges on the river, water buffalo, and men working in the fields. But everything was at a distance due to the wide span of the river. Swollen as it was, it had to be over a mile wide in many places. 

After three hours we finally came to the immigration office at Kaorm Samnor on the Cambodian side of the border. We docked the boat and walked to a small building where we handed our passports and visas to a man behind a window. Fingers were scanned and pictures taken. And just in case we needed it, a Buddhist shrine sat on the grounds. 

We returned to the boat, only to get out a few minutes later on the Vietnamese side of the frontier. We waited in another room for over an hour. This time we waited in a room with tables and chairs. Outside was a wooden patio overlooking the river. By now the sun was setting, casting a glow on those dark monsoonal clouds. They finally returned our passports and we filed back onto the boat. 

Reclining Buddha on the shore.

Buddhist temple with small reclining Buddha (still in Cambodia).

Dark monsoonal clouds.

On the grounds of the immigration office in Kaorm Samnor, Cambodia.

Again we sped across the darkening murky waters and I wondered what we would do if the boat were to capsize. Could we swim ashore, or would we be swept down-river? It would be a terrifying ordeal for sure. 

We came to a point where we left the Mekong River and cut through a canal to the Hau River. The canal was long and our passage lasted half an hour. We passed trees whose bases were covered in water. We passed floating houses that sat at the water's edge. What would it be like to live here? The place had the feel of the bayou. These people lived at the water's edge with no other nighttime noise except the occasional speedboat, lapping of water and croaking frogs. 

Finally in Vietnam, enjoying the sunset.

At last we arrived at the Hau River, a distributary of the Mekong. This general area was the beginning of the Mekong Delta.  Instead of tributary rivers that fed into the Mekong, there were now waterways such as the Hau (Bassac River in Cambodia) that flowed out. 

Once on the Hau River, it wasn't too much longer until we arrived at the dock in Chau Doc. I was excited to spend three nights here as it was a location not yet on the radar of most tourists in Vietnam. We unloaded our luggage, and as warned from the literature, cyclo drivers were outside waiting for us. ♠

 

Final destination, Chau Doc, Vietnam.

On a cyclo, headed to our hotel.

First Hours in Ho Chi Minh

We stepped outside our hotel and into the humidity and chaos of Ho Chi Minh City. Horns and mopeds blared all around. The amount of two-wheeled conveyances boggled the mind. Everyone, it seemed, was on a motorbike: ladies in dresses, fathers holding toddlers, buddies, singles⸺most wearing masks and helmets. The chaos on the roads spread like an ant colony, especially at intersections where no obvious rules could be observed. Ants just weaved in and out as they pleased. 

Vietnamese women sat along dilapidated sidewalks and set up shop for the day. Dogs sat with them, some wearing leashes and some roaming freely. 

We found a man selling Banh Mi from his cart. With excitement he came and translated the options for us. “This one is fish,” he said in a strange accent. He gave us a strip of fried fish from his cooler where he kept it warm. We wanted two of them. 

He took a baguette and sliced it in half lengthwise. He piled on greens and cucumbers, along with fried strips of fish, more toppings and two types of sauce. When I bit in I could taste the sweetness of the sauce alongside the burning of raw pepper. I began to sweat.⸺ I gave him 200,000 dong and he gave me change. It only came out to 30,000 dong and I think he short-changed me, but I didn't catch it until later.

Our morning stroll took us past a Chinese temple, with images and burning sticks of incense along the sidewalk. Around the corner was another house of worship, this one appearing Christian due to figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Built next to it was a tall pagoda, crowned with a cross. 

River near our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City.

Our journey took us on a bridge that crossed a river. From here there were many good views of Ho Chi Minh, including the pagoda of the church. The trees along the bank reflected in the water. On the far side of the bridge we crossed over a street that ran parallel to the river. We peered down over the railing and watched the mopeds buzz underneath, their four-cylinder engines revving in unison. We watched the fruit shops down below setting up for the day. Ladies in cone-shaped rice hats pushed out plastic tables and cut herbs to sell with swimming broth of pho.

The smell of asphalt and exhaust filled the air, along with an occasional whiff of anise and herbs. Everything was dingy, from sidewalks to stacked buildings that served as homes. Some of the flats that faced the noisy street had clothes hanging out to dry on the balcony. 

Morning in Saigon.

Clothes hanging out  to dry.

Setting up shop on the streets of Ho Chi Minh.

Every intersection was a new adventure. Wait, wait, wait, read . . . after that car⸺hold on, not yet. Now! We walked slow and methodically across every busy intersection, with cars and mopeds passing in front and behind, usually honking. They didn't stop or slow down. They just swerved around. 

In a park we were approached by Mr. Tung. He wore green pants and a shirt that resembled military attire. When he learned we were Americans he became very friendly. I could barely understand him because of his thick accent, but from what I gathered he admired Americans because they helped his cause. After the North Vietnamese won the war, his family fled to the Philippines. I finally learned he was offering tours. He was very nice, but I could hardly understand a word he spoke, so I decided to pass it up. 

In that same park we passed a group of ladies doing slow aerobics (maybe Tai Chi?) to music. They pointed their arms in the air and slowly spun to music like synchronized swimmers. 

One of many crazy intersections in Saigon.

On the sidewalk we passed a man carrying a long stick over his shoulder, a wooden tray of coconuts on one end and a box of tools on the other. He was very convivial and let Jordan carry the weighted stick on his shoulder. We didn't think anything of it.  Then he stopped, pulled out a butcher knife from the wooden box, and whacked off the top of a coconut and handed one to each of us with a straw.

Of course he is expecting money, I thought. I pulled out my wallet, expecting to pay perhaps 10,000 dong each. When I asked him how much, he replied with 150,000 dong! There was no way two coconuts were worth 150K in Vietnamese dong. Reluctantly I gave it to him, but was determined not to be hustled again. 

Jordan carrying a load for the "coconut man."

Around the block we came to the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica of Saigon. I highly anticipated this visit. I had seen many cathedrals in Europe, as well as South America. This would be my first in Asia. This architectural marvel dated back to the French colonial period. 

To our disappointment the building and grounds were covered in scaffolding and fencing. It was closed to the public. Even the two iconic bell towers were obscured. We watched from across the street as workers labored on the roof. 

Workers on the roof of Notre-Dame Basilica Cathedral of Saigon.

Not far away we came to an interesting sign on a lamppost. Depicted on the sign were four people, including a construction worker and college graduate. In the background on one side was a farm, and on the other, skyscrapers. But what caught my attention the most was the banner in the center. It looked like an old Soviet-style red flag with a hammer and sickle in the corner. I found this curious because I knew this wasn't the flag of Vietnam (a red flag with golden star), but I also knew that Vietnam was one of five communist countries in the world (the others being China, Cuba, Laos and North Korea). 

The hammer and sickle has become a standard symbol around the world for communism as a whole. The hammer represents the workers and the sickle the peasants, and put together they are unified. Jordan translated the words of the sign on his phone: “Vietnam journals: unity, creativity, building the country for a more sustained development.” I don't know if you would consider this “communist propaganda,” but that's certainly what came to mind. 

Just a few more blocks and we arrived at our destination. Several tanks, a Chinook helicopter, and a Huey sat in front. We paid 40,000 dong and entered the War Remnants Museum. ♠

 

A propaganda sign on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City?