A memorable end to 2023 hunting season

The horse sounded funny, or maybe it was the donkey.

Our hideaway spot was a camouflaged tent set with its back to the paddock fence. The equines were really interested in the new neighbors.

I heard it again, the wheeze, clear as day and thought it sounded like a deer wheeze but brushed it off. The direction was wrong and we had just got back into the blind from being out and making noise.

Another wheeze.

I craned my neck east and holy cow — there was a deer. “Ryal, there’s a big doe” I whispered with all my might. He quickly got behind the gun on the tripod and swung it to the right.

Hold dead on, I hissed. I expected more requests for certainty or reassurance, but nope: BOOM, and smoke filled the opening of the tent.

I am not a registered guide. Heck I’m not even an unregistered guide. I’m just an enthusiastic dad who’ll take his kids out anytime they ask. And if they don’t ask, I prod.

Parents, or the like, act as guides in the lives of young people. To support a youthful bwana many a dad also became the eager gun-bearer, wayfinder and pack animal.

For a while in 8th and 9th grade, I thought I wanted to be a big game guide out west. I sent away for the school info and everything. That, like my interest in becoming a professional triathlete, passed. But the thrill of helping anybody, but especially my kids, deepen their outdoor experiences has persisted.

Ryal and I were hunting the late muzzleloader season. We each had tags but with one gun between us, this outing was all about him. The late muzzy season spans the winter break from school.

For teachers or students it’s an ideal opportunity since two weeks during the autumn chasing elk in Montana is out of the picture for the classroom crowd.

This was the afternoon of the last day of 2023. I felt downright honored that he wanted to spend the time with me rather than typical teenager diversions.

We hadn’t been in the blind long. Our vigil was looking north on the borderline of a woodlot and picked cornfield. There was an inch or two of snow remaining, a blessing to help spot the brown-gray ghosts.

Our host told us to expect the deer to move east through the timber to the field, from left to right, and we positioned our rifle accordingly.

I reminded the boy that just because you squeezed the trigger, sometimes a muzzleloader doesn’t fire. It's one of the charms of the technology and proved through personal experience. It was early in the afternoon and I figured we had a couple of hours to wait.

With great prematurity, a doe appeared down the line. Trying to keep myself calm to keep him calm, I told him I saw a deer. We shuffled about, me futzing with my binoculars and trying to move back and him trying to find the deer through the scope.

Ryal has only eaten tag soup. Although he wanted a buck, I predicted correctly that he would take the shot.

I had used my nifty laser range finder earlier on landmarks. I called out the distance to Ryal and how much to hold over. Before I could plug my ears there was a roar and rush of smoke.

I was behind him and above just enough that I could still see. The deer leapt forward and then swapped ends and bounded back into the woods. Well, that happened fast.

Our host still was on the property and rushed over, surprised by the timing. We three walked the line. Ryal at the ready, Joe striding ahead and me still fumbling with the binos.

If I was the guide, then I just got demoted. Halfway or so to the goal, a lone doe sprinted out of the woods and ran athletically to the northeast. I figured that was the deer — sure looked healthy to me.

Regardless, we searched for any sign of mortality. Our search turned up only tracks. Shucks, a clean miss.

Before returning to the tent I lasered it. I was totally off from what I told Ryal. No wonder he missed, his round must have fallen well short. Now I had to surrender my unregistered guiding license.

Back at the blind I asked if he wanted to stick it out. Given the commotion any deer with sense would be long gone. But, there’s always a chance. He chose wisely and we resumed the watch.

When the smoke cleared the second time, I saw five deer running away. In a flash they were over the rise and gone. Which one was it I wondered. Ryal said he felt good about the shot, me too — hoping against hope.

This time I had the distance spot on. He re-loaded, we gathered our things and tried to take a moment to blunt our excitement.

As we walked to the spot I insisted we pause every 15-to-20 yards to take a look and catch our bearings. In the two minutes that felt like 10, we reached the area with daylight to spare.

With relief and pride I called Ryal over to the unmistakable evidence highlighted by the snow that he’d done it. Our excitement level went back to overdrive.

We followed the clear sign with pauses like before. Joe joined us again and assumed the chief tracker position as his long legs out strided me two to one. Over the crest and halfway done the hill was the prize. Field processing proved it was a perfect shot.

The hunt is only a part of the pleasure. Every forthcoming meal with the guest of honor is another reminder, a chance to retell the story, a time to build family lore.

Ryal’s deer was one among the 7,919 harvested during the late season. This above average doe yielded 50 pounds of deboned meat, according to the Edgewood Locker. Ryal’s was one of almost 4,000 deer carcasses they received. Katie Anderson of the locker said 50 pounds is the average for all deer.

The deer was done into steaks and grind. Evelyn Quecada from the Tipton Locker reported among their most popular options were processing venison into jalapeño and cheese sticks. But then she listed off a menu of other exotic sounding options. My mouth salivated and put ideas into my head for next year.

The late muzzleloader season has been a special offering in Iowa since 1984. No guide is required, no weeks-long sojourn into the mountains is necessary. If you can stomach the cold, then you may be able to stomach the memory all year.

Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion, teaches Social Studies with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board.