One of my fondest hunting memories happened during Pennsylvania's flintlock season several years ago. A snowfall, steady and heavy, coating every twig and branch. I had not yet been bitten by the blackpowder bug, so I grabbed my bow and headed out to the "Big Beech" tree. I could soon see the familiar red and black plaid Woolrich outfit that my father always wore deer hunting. I eased up next to him and we spent the next hour quietly talking.We talked about nothing, and yet everything. Soon we could see the brown forms of several approaching deer. We knew that they would soon be directly in front of us, and we started the old "you shoot" "No, you shoot" routine. I finally convinced Dad to shoot, mostly because I wanted to see if that old Thompson Hawken would go off.
He raised the .50 up to his shoulder and touched her off......BOOM!!!!
The smell of sulphur hung heavy in the wet winter air, and there was a doe kicking her last in the clean new snow only yards from us.....but what was it that was making me feel so warm? A flush of emotion at witnessing my first blackpowder kill? Well yes, it was that, but it was also the flash from the pan that had peppered the whole left side of my face. You see, since I didn't know any better, I stood, directly to my father's right, just as he squeezed off the shot.
Well, he looked at me, then at the doe, then back at me.....and we both just started laughing like we didnt have any better sense!
To this day, I have several small black dots by my ear and above my eyebrow to remember that hunt by, the first deer I ever saw taken by a flintlock, and the last deer I saw my father take, before he lost his fight with cancer.
Sorry to have gone long......sometimes you just have to tell the story
Merry Christmas all......
