Last Saturday was opening day of this year’s deer hunting season (Rifle) here in Georgia.

I was up well before daylight and seated in my chosen hunting spot when the sun broke over the mountain tops. A cold front had come though just the night before bringing the temperatures down into the 40s. It would have been a good day for it except for the wind.

We were getting a constant wind of about 20 mph. That meant that everything in the forest was moving. Trees were swaying and creaking. Branches had lives of their own, flailing around as if swatting at gnats. Within an hour it seemed to make no sense for me to be out there. What deer would want to be wandering around in this?

Now, deer priorities are different than ours. I wasn’t thinking that the deer would think it’s a nasty day or that they would be uncomfortable. Heck, I’ve seen them moving in rain downpours and heavy snowstorms. (Heavy for here at least.)

However, in heavy wind, everything is moving around. It’s hard for a deer to see  a predator stalking them at any distance. Also, deer are equipped with super noses. The slightest mistake in scent management can give a hunter away when a deer 75 yards distant gets just a tiny whiff of human scent. With a gentle breeze, the deer knows exactly what direction the threat is in. But with a tempest such as I was sitting in, that scent would be scattered all over the place. Deer don’t like to be scent-blind.

So, I figured most deer would be bedded down waiting for things to calm. I packed up and headed to the house with a haunting guilt inside telling me I should be holding my ground and toughing it out for at least 4 hours like a “real” hunter before calling it quits. After all, if a deer did happen to wander into my kill zone, I could only claim it if I was there to take the shot.

It’s a “do or die” guilt trip I think all hunters put themselves through on occasion: You can’t honestly say there were no deer out today if you weren’t out there to see for yourself. Be that as it may, I had other domestic responsibilities to attend to.

The next morning, I went to church, hit the grocery store on the way home, and spent the day doing some work down in the basement. I’d already missed my morning opportunity for a hunt. I was kind of tired and not really sure I wanted to sit in the woods that day. I figured I would take it easy that day. After all, the season was still young.

However, at 5pm, when I saw our neighbor’s grandson drive by in his truck, heading toward his hunting tower a few properties down the road, I said “No way am I staying in the house if that little so-and-so is going to be in the woods shooting at MY deer!” (Actually, my neighbor’s grandsons and I have a great relationship. We’ve helped each other track our kills on occasion.) That was the motivation I needed.

So, I quickly donned my hunting clothes, spritzed myself all over with cedar water, grabbed my rifle and headed down to my perch atop the bluff overlooking a feeding area 100 yards distant.

AT around 5:45pm, I heard familiar huffing and growling noises. I picked up my phone and texted Angela, “There’s a bear out here.” She promptly went out to the back porch to listen, and sent a text confirming she could hear it too.

It was about 6:15, and I was staring kind of aimlessly down at the feeding area when I faintly noticed a slight movement. That was all, just a movement. I strained to make out any shapes, but couldn’t. That’s how well these deer blend into the woods. I knew I wasn’t seeing a squirrel or a bird. Holding perfectly still, I waited until I saw it again. It happened, just a movement downward, and I knew a deer had put its head to the ground to munch. I gently raised my rifle and looked through the scope to spot a beautiful 8-point buck in my crosshairs. After waiting for him to position just right, I took the shot.

30 minutes later I was down at the last point I’d spotted the buck with my ATV, ready to track. I got off and started searching the ground for a blood trail. However, a quick scan of my surroundings revealed that the deer hadn’t made it 30 yards before falling.

It was downhill from where I was, and I first attempted to drag it up to the 4-wheeler. Within two grueling steps I abandoned that notion and began planning the ATV’s path down the hillside to the animal. After getting the antlers and head tied to the gear rack on the back of the vehicle, I made my way back to the house.

Once up on the driveway, I had to detach the deer and drag it to a suitable photo spot. Man, was this thing heavy! Then I had to drag it over to my deer hanger for processing. I knew I was going to get plenty of meat from this one! Man, dragging that thing was a chore!

One habit I’ve adopted is to weigh my deer before butchering them to get an idea of just how much meat I’m getting from each kill in proportion to actual body weight. Don’t ask me why: OCD, I suppose.

Anyway, I have a hanging scale that I attach between the deer hanger and the deer so I can hoist the deer up and get the weight. I attached the scale and hauled the deer up. Angela and I were both still panting from the excitement of my bringing home such a nice buck. It’s actually only my third since I started hunting them 5 years ago, and by far my best yet.

We get the deer fully off the ground and look at the scale: 63.5 pounds.

WHAT??

I struggled and stumbled and huffed and puffed over 63 and a half pounds??

Angela said, “I think you need a new scale. This one is wrong.”

I turned the thing off, lowered the deer, turned it back on, and hoisted again. 63.50

I told Angela, “I should have been able to sling that thing over my shoulder and WALK it up here at 63 pounds!

I was livid. Not at the scale, at myself. Have I let myself go this badly? Have I let my age overtake me this badly? I’m only 56! I can’t drag 63 and a half pounds without getting winded?

Angela kept saying, “It’s got to be the scale. The scale’s broken. You need a new one.”

I told Angela to take a picture of the scale so we would remember the weight once I was done with the butchering.

“I can’t understand it.” I kept saying. I even pointed out that bags of chicken feed are 50 pounds, and I heft those in and out of the truck just fine.

Well, I hoisted the deer back up without the scale and got busy skinning while Angela took up a rocking chair in the carport to watch me. I was still really bothered about the whole thing.

About an hour in, James Walsh called to chat with Angela on the phone. Eventually, she just had to start telling him about our “broken” scale. From over at the deer, I’m “shush”-ing her, whispering, “Don’t tell him that!”

I was really suffering from performance anxiety by now, not just because I couldn’t lift a 65-pound deer – but that I’d even bothered to SHOOT a 65-pound deer! He looked so much bigger!

Then, as they were noodling over the possibilities of what could be wrong with the scale, it hit me:

“Angie,” I said, “Pull up that photo of the scale and zoom in!”

We’d found it.

The scale is digital.

And it was set for kilograms.

65.5 kilograms is 140 pounds.

Needless to say, I got through the rest of the night with my masculinity intact.

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