It was fall of 1990 or 1991, and I was hunting with father & son neighbors. One of their farms had an abandoned yard on it with a two acre grove that was very thick and overgrown. They posted on one end, and I went to the other end to drive. About half way through I heard crashing and thrashing moving away from me and then a gunshot. There was lots of yelling back and forth on the other end ... "did you get it ... I don't know ... I think so ... I don't think so."
By the time I reached the end the deer was no where in sight. However, they said it had run southwest into one of my fields where I had left several six row wide strips of corn spaced across the field for just such a happening. They had seen the deer go into the first strip but could not tell if it went right through or not. As we drove around on the road to the end we came on a car that had seen the deer go through the frst strip and into the second one. However, they did not see it leave the second strip.
We decided the best action was to put father and son on one side (up wind), and I would walk the down wind side. Our hopes were that the deer would bolt my way. As we started out the son was about ten to fifteen yards ahead to my left, and the father was straight across from me. The last thing I said was "don't shoot me" thinking that when the deer bolted behind the son he would spin around and I would be supper.
We had walked almost a quarter mile when I hear rustling ahead. I got ready, looked at the father, and he had heard it to, but we could tell son had not. After another fifty feet or so the deer came out on my side behind the son, just like we had planned. The only problem was it was running toward me, and I didn't want to shoot and hit anyone. So, I dropped my gun, and grabbed the deer around the neck as it went by ... old football engrained I guess. After a couple spins we stopped and I grabbed for my knife. Just then it started to twist its head, so the knife flew, and I went for the antlers with that hand.
It was only about a large one and a half year or small two and a half year buck, so he wasn't too large. As I wrestled with him, going from my feet to kneeling and back, the father had grabbed my knife and was able to get a good cut in the neck. Within seconds that seemed like minutes, the deer was down and dead. I was blood from mid chest to my toes, and the corn stalks looked like we had plowed the field black where we tussled.
As we butchered the deer the son cut the rack off and split it between his dad and myself, so we could each show it off. There were a couple pictures of the aftermath, but they got lost somewhere along the line.
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