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Dads First Time OutBy Thomas “Fuzzy” AndersonPresident, Outback Outfitters, Inc.
After listening to excited stories of my hunts and meeting several club members, I brought my Father to the March 2003 meeting where he joined Phoenix Varmint Callers, Inc. (PVCI). Our first predator hunt together was scheduled for Saturday, March 15. This hunt ignited forgotten memories. As a young kid, Dad used to take my brother and me hunting every deer season. But my four years in the service and 20 year marriage had gotten in the way of us being together. We made our first stand at sunup…a beautiful place and the air was crisp. The ground was laced with yellow wildflowers and thick with greasewood and mesquite. It was a picture book stand. I was hoping something would come in. As you well know, all stands are great but the ones that produce are remembered. All the rest are quickly forgotten.
After three stands we drove down the dirt road and were forced to stop at a large deep sand wash. The local rancher had put up skull and crossbones signs saying 4-wheel mandatory for wash. (Guess he was tired of pulling stupid people out.) Needless to say, our two-wheel drive truck wouldn’t make it through so we parked and pulled a stand in the wash.
I had Dad sit upwind on the east side of the wash while I sat 30 yards downwind on the other side of the wash. He was watching one way, while I was watching the other. Both of us were backed into mesquite trees thick with debris from past flashfloods. I was calling, after 25 minutes of making the caller sing like a crimson cockatoo I had had enough. I blew on the call twice to quit the stand. At 76 years young Dad’s a might hard of hearing. Not hearing a reply, I pulled out a louder call, stood up and loudly tooted directly at him to quit the stand and saw him move. With that, I grabbed my stool and started walking towards him. After four steps I hear a loud BOOM! I went “Oh my gosh, he’s shooting at me!” Realizing I was ok, I thought he had an accidental discharge and started worrying. I continued walking towards his spot and saw him emerge from the tree shaking his right arm and looking across the wash. I mused that he got bored. Walking up to him he continued looking at the same spot, not saying a word and still shaking his right arm. Curious and 20 yards away from him, I climbed the side of the wash and saw a tail flicking up and down on the ground. I told myself, by gosh that he got himself a fox! Getting closer I suddenly realized he bagged a bobcat! I’m jumping up and down, hooting, hollering, doing the all important victory dance and giving him high fives, acting like a complete fool, while he’s giving me the biggest grin I’d ever seen in my life. I don’t know who was more excited, him or me, probably me. It was an incredible moment. He asked me why the big deal. I told him there are people in the club who’ve hunted for years and have yet to get a bobby and he did it on his first time out…WOW!
Here’s the real eye opener to this tale. It wasn’t until we got back to the truck he opened up and told he what happened, only after I peppered him with questions. Five minutes before I called to quit the stand, he saw a flash of brown moving fast through the bushes in my direction on top of the wash walls. He had no idea what it was and had no chance to shoot, but it turned out to be the cat.
The wind was to my back and I was looking the other way. The cat must have been peering at me through the huge pile of debris lodged in the tree. When I called to quit the stand and started walking up the wash, the cat realized I wasn’t an easy meal and retreated back the same way he came. But in his haste the cat stopped and stood in one spot about 30 yards away from Dad. This was just long enough for the ex-marine sharpshooter to zero the 12 gauge and produce a very successful hunt.
I had a cat less than five yards away from me, knocking on my backdoor for five minutes and didn’t know it! I asked Dad why he didn’t get him on the way in, teasing him that he always liked my brother better. He said it was moving to fast, sure Dad. He did say that those three inch, 12 gauge rounds kicked like a stud mule. He didn’t put the butt firmly against his shoulder and now sports a bruised shoulder and trigger finger from the recoil, I guess I forgot to tell him about that. Sorry Pop.
We pulled two more unsuccessful stands before deciding to go to the PVCI fur prep in search of help to skin the animal. The crew at the skinning party were as excited as we were. Thanks again to Eddie for the class on skinning. You’re the best. Talk about an eye opening, awesome time.
This was the first of many upcoming hunts I plan on taking my Father on. Being together again hunting with my Dad was an unbeatable experience that I’ll never forget. Thanks for the memories. I loved you then and I love you now. You’re my Dad!
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