Patient son’s prized buck nothing to sneeze at

As the sun began to set on opening day of Nevada’s general deer season, I found myself up to my elbows in deer entrails. No, it wasn’t my deer, because when it came to drawing a tag, the hunting gods weren’t so good to me this year, but I was more than happy to do the unpleasant task of field dressing this particular deer. Normally I wouldn’t have done it.

What made this so unusual is that I am allergic to mule deer hair, or to something they get on their hair. Whenever I touch a deer, even if all I am doing is helping someone to get their deer back to camp, within minutes my eyes get red and puffy, my nose gets stuffed, and I sneeze constantly. It never fails. But on this occasion, that inevitable outcome didn’t bother me. I was willing to pay the price.

The deer was a nice three-point buck with antlers that stretch a couple of inches past its outstretched ears and are almost as tall as they are wide. Not a trophy by record-book standards but a nice buck nonetheless. It was the buck I had been looking forward to since my son, Dallin, was born almost 14 years ago.

About 30 minutes of legal shooting time remained when we spotted the buck sneaking down a steep, boulder-strewn slope. His destination was a small agricultural field that was full of does and younger, smaller bucks. The field was private property, so Dallin had to intercept the deer before it crossed the fence line.

As Dallin climbed onto a large rock, the only level spot in the area, the buck disappeared behind a rock outcropping. I could see Dallin’s frustration grow as he scanned the hillside above and then turned and looked at me with that where-did-the-deer-go look. After what seemed several minutes, I looked up to see the buck watching me and my daughter, Calli, who had joined me beside the truck. He had dropped off to the right side of the outcropping and was standing in a narrow cut at the bottom of a draw.

After pointing the buck out to Dallin, it was my turn to wait, just as it had been during the muzzleloader season a couple of weeks before. It was then that Dallin chose not to take a shot because the buck never offered a clear target.

“I guess you don’t have to get a deer to have a successful hunt,” Dallin said later that day as we traveled home without a deer for the freezer. I assured him then that the junior tag he carried in his pocket afforded him yet another opportunity. That would come on opening day of the general rifle season.

As I watched and waited for Dallin to take the shot, I couldn’t help but think back to some of my first hunting experiences. I wanted Dallin’s first deer to be as special as mine had been, even though this buck was much bigger than my first deer. Finally, the three-point moved clear of the cut and climbed slightly higher on the hillside.

Dallin pulled the .270 into his shoulder and looked through the scope.

“Wait, Dallin,” I barked as quietly as an excited dad can. “He’ll probably stop and look back at us. Then take him.”

Almost if I had directed the scene for a TV movie, the buck stopped and looked back where Calli and I stood with binoculars glued to our faces. Suddenly the buck lurched, and then dropped, and I heard the roar of the rifle. It was the same rifle I used to take my first buck south of the Ruby Mountains years ago. Dallin turned and, with a grin the size of a pickup truck grille, raised his hands high into the air.

By the time we reached the spot where the buck lay, my breathing sounded like an old-time steam engine. The three of us admired Dallin’s buck and took the photographs tradition demands. In my pocket was the Old Timer pocket knife I had bought when I was a year older than Dallin is now. The initials carved into the scabbard are “DN,” a perfect match. My plan was to give it to Dallin when he field dressed his first buck, but as I watched him reflecting on what it means to be a deer hunter, I decided to leave the knife in my pocket. The gift would be made later.

I donned the rubber gloves that long have been standard equipment on my hunting forays. They don’t stop the allergic reaction, but they help with the symptoms. As I began working on the deer, questions started coming from Calli and Dallin. “What are you doing now? Ooh! What’s that? What would happen if you accidentally cut that?”

It was then I realized that even with his first buck down, the learning process had just begun. What I had dreaded before had become another step in the teaching process, but the buck I was field dressing marked the official passing of the hunting heritage on to the next generation. What’s a pair of itchy, bloodshot eyes and a stuffy nose?

Doug Nielsen is an award-winning freelance writer and a conservation educator for the Nevada Department of Wildlife. He can be reached at doug@takinitoutside.com.