STORY PAGE
Deer Hunting In Maine
Maine is very different from New York. So are its people. The woods however made me feel at home. A friend from work had asked me if I
would like to go hunting with him. He was going home to Maine for a few days. I said yes and plans were made. Soon we were on our way.
It was a long trip and we were tired when we arrived.
His family made me feel at home. Before we had a chance to visit, multiple friends were also making me comfortable. When they found out
that the new little Toyota 4-wheel drive pick up was his, the fun began. Comments of “Rice Burner” etc. abounded. He was also told that that truck was
made for deer hunting in NY. “It couldn’t get to the hunting camp, let alone carry an averaged sized deer from Maine.” The banter lasted for a while.
Plans were soon made. His friends would leave for their camp early the next morning. After a good night’s sleep, we would spend some time with his family and then see his friends at camp before dark. (If we could make it.) The next day after, was the first day of deer season.
That next morning we had a leisurely breakfast and visited with his family. We went to town and he gave me the quick tour. I asked where
we would purchase our hunting licenses. He explained that his friends took care of that for me and his had arrived by mail last week.
When we left for their camp I asked if his truck would be up to the task. He explained the big problem were if the woods were wet. It
took awhile to reach the road (More like a path) to the camp. It was wet. It was steep. It was slow going. When we met the big Chevy truck it was a problem.
It was stuck. We had to find a way around it to go further. It took at least an hour. When we reached the big Ford, the “road” was wide enough for us to
pass. It hadn’t been a walk in the park, but we were near the front door. We went in.
Compared to the camp at “Club 30” where I had recently hunted in NY, this was like a palace. There was no electricity or running water, but
there, the similarity ended. This had huge beams, and cut stone. The furniture was old, but good quality and well cared for. The cooking stove was only for
wood. It was made from cast iron and porcelain, and was about seven foot tall, six foot wide, and three to four feet deep. They had to have built the camp
around it or rebuilt the kitchen wall to have gotten it inside. The main room had a large fireplace. It was also warm and toasty. The remainder of their
“camp” was as comfortable and tasteful.
Before dinner, comments were made, remade, and made again once more. Examples would be: “Did you leave that Chevy to guide our way?”
“Shall I pull you out before we hunt, or after?” “My dealer doesn’t usually take Fords in trade, but he might make an exception for me.” And my
personal favorite, “Would you like me to put a little rice in your tank?”
Dinner was soon ready, after which we made plans for the following morning. For my benefit, they brought out topographical maps to
indoctrinate me to the lay of the land and the presumed best areas to hunt. They proceeded to tell me the area each planned to hunt and suggested a spot for
me. These were competent, knowledgeable hunters.
They then told me what my name was “so and so”. (I can’t remember now, except it wasn’t my name) They explained that only
Maniacs were allowed to hunt opening day in Maine. They had managed to get a friend that fit my description to obtain a license for me. It worked for me.
Opening day has always my best day.
I did not go where they had suggested. I chose an area that was where the others would not be hunting. I explained that I would feel
more comfortable there. It was close enough if I needed help, but away from their normal hunting area so as not to interfere if they or I chose to move. It
was also one of the few times I went up instead of downhill.
Once in the woods it was no different than NY. I found an excellent place to sit. I was down wind from a wide view below me. I chose not
to go below and check for deer signs. This way I would not leave my scent for a wondering buck. I grabbed a snack and waited. I do not remember how long I
waited but he was there.
He looked fairly big with a nice symmetrical rack. (Set of horns) He was leisurely walking, no cares in the word. (Except me, and he
didn’t know it) I had a .308 Remington bolt action with a 1˝-power scope. I aimed. I fired. He fell to his
knees. He got back up. I fired again, this time below the ear from behind. He went down again. I started towards
him taking my time. He would be dead before I got to him. Wrong. I was deciding how to finish him when another hunter arrived. He asked if I would like him
to use his service 45 to finish the job. I did. He did. I told him the name of the camp owner I was hunting with. He explained who he was, told me he had
seen one of my party, and while I was dressing my deer he would tell him where I was. I thanked him and started dressing the deer.
It was a large deer. I saved the heart and liver for whoever wanted. To this day I have never seen a deer
with a liver even half as large. Before I
completed dressing the deer most of the guys were there. Once we started to carry the deer I realized how big it was. Heavy too. It was a down hill carry and
even the big guys got tired. We took turns carrying him.
When we arrived at camp another friend was there with bad news. The fellow with the 45 had seen the NY plates on the Toyota. He was
pissed that someone he assumed was from NY (and was) had shot the deer he was trailing on the first day of deer season. He had said he was going to report
us. We had work to do. We pulled both Chevy and Ford to the camp. My friend borrowed one of the two (because
it had Maine plates) to go and register the
deer in his name. All deer must be registered, weighed, and checked for disease. I would pack our stuff and get ready to leave that wonderful place. When he
returned he told me it had weighed in at over 220 pounds dressed and was only two years old. It was definitely a contender for the State Big Buck contest.
(Good thing it didn’t win)
I had left a spot under the truck bed cover for the deer. It was soon in and we were on our way. We were headed east, back toward his
home. I didn’t understand. He told me we were headed for a butcher friend who would butcher the deer and get rid of the remains. We found the butcher. He
did the job. We returned to my friend’s house. We left meat for his family. We left meat for his friends. We packed the remainder in a large cooler and
still had meat left over. We found an additional cooler and now had room for ice. The horns were too big however to fit inside and I did not wish to give
them up.
We took back roads all of the way home to NY. We were never stopped, we saw no checkpoints, and we arrived home safely. We split the
meat and it was as tender as a small doe’s would have been. Those horns still hang in my boathouse supporting waders, power cords, a weed-wacker, etc.
I was never asked to go back to Maine to hunt at that wonderful place. After all we went through, I wouldn’t have asked me either.
Maine is very different from New York. So are its people. The woods however
made me feel at home. A friend from work had asked me if I would like to go hunting with him. He was going home to Maine for a few days. I said yes and plans
were made. Soon we were on our way. It was a long trip and we were tired when we arrived.
His family made me feel at home. Before we had a chance to visit, multiple
friends were also making me comfortable. When they found out that the new little Toyota 4-wheel drive pick up was his, the fun began. Comments of “Rice
Burner” etc. abounded. He was also told that that truck was made for deer hunting in NY. “It couldn’t get to the hunting camp, let alone carry an
averaged sized deer from Maine.” The banter lasted for a while.
Plans were soon made. His friends would leave for their camp early the next
morning. After a good night’s sleep, we would spend some time with his family and then see his friends at camp before dark. (If we could make it.) The next
day after, was the first day of deer season.
That following morning we had a leisurely breakfast and visited with his
family. We went to town and he gave me the quick tour. I asked where we would purchase our hunting licenses. He explained that his friends took care of that
for me and his had arrived by mail last week.
When we left for their camp I asked if his truck would be up to the task. He
explained the big problem were if the woods were wet. It took a while to reach the road (More like a path) to the camp. It was wet. It was steep. It was slow
going. When we met the big Chevy truck it was a problem. It was stuck. We had to find a way around it to go further. It took at least an hour. When we
reached the big Ford, the “road” was wide enough for us to pass. It hadn’t been a walk in the park, but we were near the front door. We went in.
Compared to the camp at “Club 30” where I had recently hunted in NY, this
was like a palace. There was no electricity or running water, but there, the similarity ended. This had huge beams, and cut stone. The furniture was old, but
good quality and well cared for. The cooking stove was only for wood. It was made from cast iron and porcelain, and was about seven foot tall, six foot wide,
and three to four feet deep. They had to have built the camp around it or rebuilt the kitchen wall to have gotten it inside. The main room had a large
fireplace. It was also warm and toasty. The remainder of their “camp” was as comfortable and tasteful.
Before dinner, comments were made, remade, and made again once more. Examples
would be: “Did you leave that Chevy to guide our way?” “Shall I pull you out before we hunt, or after?” “My dealer doesn’t usually take Fords in
trade, but he might make an exception for me.” And my personal favorite, “Would you like me to put a little rice in your tank?”
Dinner was soon ready, after which we made plans for the following morning.
For my benefit, they brought out topographical maps to indoctrinate me to the lay of the land and the presumed best areas to hunt. They proceeded to tell me
the area each planned to hunt and suggested a spot for me. These were competent, knowledgeable hunters.
They then told me that my name was “so and so”. (I can’t remember now,
except it wasn’t my name) They explained that only Maniacs were allowed to hunt opening day in Maine. They had managed to get a friend that fit my
description to obtain a license for me. It worked for me. Opening day has always my best day.
I did not go where they had suggested. I chose an area that was where the
others would not be hunting. I explained that I would feel more comfortable there. It was close enough if I needed help, but away from their normal hunting
area so as not to interfere if they or I chose to move. It was also one of the few times I went up instead of downhill.
Once in the woods it was no different than NY. I found an excellent place to
sit. I was down wind from a wide view below me. I chose not to go below and check for deer signs. This way I would not leave my scent for a wondering buck. I
grabbed a snack and waited. I do not remember how long I waited but he was there.
He looked fairly big with a nice symmetrical rack. (Set of horns) He was
leisurely walking, no cares in the word. (Except me, and he didn’t know it) I had a .308 Remington bolt action with a 1˝-power scope. I aimed. I
fired. He fell to his knees. He got back up. I fired again, this time below the ear from behind. He went down again. I started towards him taking my
time. He would be dead before I got to him. Wrong. I was deciding how to finish him when another hunter arrived. He asked if I would like him to use his
service 45 to finish the job. I did. He did. I told him the name of the camp owner I was hunting with. He explained who he was, told me he had seen one of my
party, and while I was dressing my deer he would tell him where I was. I thanked him and started dressing the deer.
It was a large deer. I saved the heart and liver for whoever wanted. To this
day I have never seen a deer with a liver even half as large. Before I completed dressing the deer most of the guys were there. Once we started to carry the
deer I realized how big it was. Heavy too. It was a down hill carry and even the big guys got tired. We took turns carrying him.
When we arrived at camp another friend was there with bad news. The fellow
with the 45 had seen the NY plates on the Toyota. He was pissed that someone he assumed was from NY (and was) had shot the deer he was trailing on the first
day of deer season. He had said he was going to report us. We had work to do. We pulled both Chevy and Ford to the camp. My friend borrowed one of the two
(because it had Maine plates) to go and register the deer in his name. All deer must be registered, weighed, and checked for disease. I would pack our stuff
and get ready to leave that wonderful place. When he returned he told me it had weighed in at over 220 pounds dressed and was only two years old. It was
definitely a contender for the State Big Buck contest. (Good thing it didn’t win)
I had left a spot under the truck bed cover for the deer. It was soon in and
we were on our way. We were headed east, back toward his home. I didn’t understand. He told me we were headed for a butcher friend who would butcher the
deer and get rid of the remains. We found the butcher. He did the job. We returned to my friend’s house. We left meat for his family. We left meat for his
friends. We packed the remainder in a large cooler and still had meat left over. We found an additional cooler and now had room for ice. The horns were too
big however to fit inside and I did not wish to give them up.
We took back roads all of the way home to NY. We were never stopped, we saw
no checkpoints, and we arrived home safely. We split the meat and it was as tender as a small doe’s would have been. Those horns still hang in my boathouse
supporting waders, power cords, a weed-wacker, etc.
I was never asked to go back to Maine to hunt at that wonderful place. After all we went through, I wouldn’t have asked me either.
One more thing: That little Toyota could carry a large deer from Maine. It could even carry one of the ten largest deer taken that year.
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