Farm Fresh Blog

Texas is well known for its fickle weather but Texans are quick to point out that our state has 4 seasons:

*Dove Season
*Bow-hunting Deer Season
*Rifle Deer Season

and *Football Season.

     This weekend was Opening Day of Bowhunting Season. For some hunters this is IT. What they train for. For other hunters Bow Season is like the post parade at the Kentucky Derby. It is the event leading up to the main event.

     We live in prime Texas hunting land. I'm not much of a hunter, but I have hunters in the family so I'm well aware of the seasonal changes. As far as I'm concerned, if there's already a butchered calf in my freezer, Bambi is safe from me. If the freezer is empty though, Bambi beware. All bets are off. But for the most part, Other Half and I prefer to watch the deer rather than shoot them. They are welcome neighbors. So much so, in fact, that hunters on neighboring ranches complain that the deer are hiding on our place instead of coming to their feeders. Probably true, but not my problem. This is my home. This is their home. Hunters are merely seasonal visitors.

     That said, some of the visiting hunters have become our friends, like Fred and Brian. These guys have a hunting camp along the mile long dirt road that is in essence, our main driveway because we are the only people who actually live here. Fred and Brian enjoy watching the wildlife too, and pretty much just hunt hogs. That's why what happened Friday night was so surprising.

     Friday night marked the beginning of the exodus. Hunters from the city flocked to the country. Beer and bows at the ready. Other Half and I were on our way back from town that evening when we drove past Fred's empty camp. To my knowledge, Fred isn't a bowhunter, so it didn't surprise me that he didn't come up this weekend. It wasn't dark yet, but was getting there fast. As we crunched down the road, the most unlikely sight came into focus.

     "Stop! Stop the truck! Back up."

     There.

     What. The. Hell?

     Standing in the middle of Fred's camp was a big buck. A perfect buck. He was standing broadside, but staring at us. Big as Dallas.

     We stared at him.

     He stared at us.

     The windows were down so the deer could clearly hear our whispered conversation.

     "What the hell?"

     "Look at him!"

     "Wait. He's not moving. Is he even real?"

     So thus began the discussion. Other Half honked the horn. The buck didn't move. Honked again. We called to him.

     "Hey buddy! You better hide. There are bowhunters just down the road."

     The buck didn't move.

     We sat in the truck for a good 3 minutes talking to a very realistic plastic shooting target. Oh my! We finally laughed at ourselves and drove off. What kind of goofy city slickers think a shooting target is a real deer? On the day before Bow Season opens? What idiot falls for that?

     We did. Color me embarrassed.  In our defense, we drive the road every day and never see shooting dummies at that camp. Oh well. Sometimes you just have to shake your head and accept that you're an idiot.

     The next morning we headed to town again. The sun was high in the sky.

    "Wait! Back up!"

     "Holy. Shit."

     The shooting dummy was gone.

     Apparently the only dummies on the road Friday night were the two dummies honking and talking to the big buck grazing in an empty hunting camp. The joke was on us, and the bowhunters down the road who wondered where the deer were hiding. As Other Half and I drove away from Fred's camp that morning, a beautiful little doe stepped into the dappled sunlight. She saw us staring at her and froze. Then she bounded back into the forest. We drove on to town. The hunters down the road reported that they didn't see any deer.