Larry Eckart
Well-known member
The Old Town 119 Penetrates the Swamp
Wednesday morning, December 7. Pearl Harbor Day. In remembrance. Never forget.
Wednesday morning, December 7, 2022 was warm, foggy, misty and perfect for deer hunting. The previous Sunday I had scouted one of the many swamps/marshes in the local game land. I found good sign but the perennial question: how to enter without sounding the alarm for all the sentinel bucks? The small creek draining this swamp was different than most. It was not filled with logs and downed trees. I walked the creek bank out to a place of entry and realized I had a secret weapon for a backdoor entry: my Old Town 119.
Several years ago, I switched from kayak crazy back to canoes. Personal preference. No need to start an argument about which is better. Ride what suits you. For me, canoes are easier to get in and get out of. Canoes carry more gear. And canoes are easier to throw up on my truck rack.
Light came late this morning. I waited until first light to paddle in. Nice. Watch every bank. Float hunting for ducks taught me that deer like to sit tight to creek banks. Not today.
I tied my canoe to a small tree, grabbed my turkey chair and walked quickly to my chosen spot. Turkey chairs are much more comfortable than stools, but how do you pack something in that only has one strap? Ideas? Stop thinking about engineering Larry and get your mind on deer.
This is a nice spot. Intimate. I like it. So do the deer.
At 7:30 am a large buck came trotting toward me. "Lord, this is a beautiful animal. Give me the grace to handle it properly." He came. I held still. He turned behind a tree. I raised my gun. He stopped. Looked at me. I sighted in. Ah! A small tree is directly in my sight line. I ease just slightly left. Bad move.
This buck was no juvenile. He knew his business of staying alive. He neither dropped his head nor stomped his feet to get a reaction. Decisive. He snorted loudly and took off. Gone.
Bleep! "You should have waited to move, Larry," says the Monday morning quarterback in my mind. "Buzz off MMQ!"
I thought that the alarm sounded by that buck probably ended the value of the spot. I was wrong.
15 minutes later I heard more steps coming through thick cover to my left. While the deer was still out of sight, I readied my muzzle loader. Another buck! Close in! 25 yards! Through cover, he could see something different. That ?different? would be me. He stopped. No shot possible. Bobbed his head, moved slightly right. Bobbed his head again. No shot possible. He moved slightly left and closer to me.
He was now only 20 yards away offering a frontal shot of his neck or chest. I read the various pros and cons of the front chest shot. I don't like the idea of the bullet going through the chest, through the lungs and into the stomach.
And I read the pros and cons of the neck shot. If you don't hit the spine, it is a nasty but often non-fatal wound. Thus, many experienced hunters advise you not to take it unless you are sure. Dead sure.
I took it. 20 yards, dead center on the thick neck, squeeze. The buck dropped in its tracks.
Redemption. Redemption for the mistakes and bad luck of the season thus far. That quick. Done.
I shook my head and laughed. "Thank you Lord". I waited a bit. Let's go look.
Four points on one side. Turn our boy over. Oh man, he got taken down by someone greater than himself. His nice right side rack was not matched on the left. The other antler was broken off a few inches above the head, leaving only one nobby point.
No matter. He's mine. Proud and satisfied. I gutted the deer and awkwardly dropped it into my 119. Oh, now comes the good part!
Paddling.
Paddling, not dragging. Paddling. Easy strokes. Paddling. No groaning to pull up a hill and straining over a log and cussin' through the saw brier. Paddling.
The Old Town 119 penetrated the swamp and brought home my deer. Paddling!
Wednesday morning, December 7. Pearl Harbor Day. In remembrance. Never forget.
Wednesday morning, December 7, 2022 was warm, foggy, misty and perfect for deer hunting. The previous Sunday I had scouted one of the many swamps/marshes in the local game land. I found good sign but the perennial question: how to enter without sounding the alarm for all the sentinel bucks? The small creek draining this swamp was different than most. It was not filled with logs and downed trees. I walked the creek bank out to a place of entry and realized I had a secret weapon for a backdoor entry: my Old Town 119.
Several years ago, I switched from kayak crazy back to canoes. Personal preference. No need to start an argument about which is better. Ride what suits you. For me, canoes are easier to get in and get out of. Canoes carry more gear. And canoes are easier to throw up on my truck rack.
Light came late this morning. I waited until first light to paddle in. Nice. Watch every bank. Float hunting for ducks taught me that deer like to sit tight to creek banks. Not today.
I tied my canoe to a small tree, grabbed my turkey chair and walked quickly to my chosen spot. Turkey chairs are much more comfortable than stools, but how do you pack something in that only has one strap? Ideas? Stop thinking about engineering Larry and get your mind on deer.
This is a nice spot. Intimate. I like it. So do the deer.
At 7:30 am a large buck came trotting toward me. "Lord, this is a beautiful animal. Give me the grace to handle it properly." He came. I held still. He turned behind a tree. I raised my gun. He stopped. Looked at me. I sighted in. Ah! A small tree is directly in my sight line. I ease just slightly left. Bad move.
This buck was no juvenile. He knew his business of staying alive. He neither dropped his head nor stomped his feet to get a reaction. Decisive. He snorted loudly and took off. Gone.
Bleep! "You should have waited to move, Larry," says the Monday morning quarterback in my mind. "Buzz off MMQ!"
I thought that the alarm sounded by that buck probably ended the value of the spot. I was wrong.
15 minutes later I heard more steps coming through thick cover to my left. While the deer was still out of sight, I readied my muzzle loader. Another buck! Close in! 25 yards! Through cover, he could see something different. That ?different? would be me. He stopped. No shot possible. Bobbed his head, moved slightly right. Bobbed his head again. No shot possible. He moved slightly left and closer to me.
He was now only 20 yards away offering a frontal shot of his neck or chest. I read the various pros and cons of the front chest shot. I don't like the idea of the bullet going through the chest, through the lungs and into the stomach.
And I read the pros and cons of the neck shot. If you don't hit the spine, it is a nasty but often non-fatal wound. Thus, many experienced hunters advise you not to take it unless you are sure. Dead sure.
I took it. 20 yards, dead center on the thick neck, squeeze. The buck dropped in its tracks.
Redemption. Redemption for the mistakes and bad luck of the season thus far. That quick. Done.
I shook my head and laughed. "Thank you Lord". I waited a bit. Let's go look.
Four points on one side. Turn our boy over. Oh man, he got taken down by someone greater than himself. His nice right side rack was not matched on the left. The other antler was broken off a few inches above the head, leaving only one nobby point.
No matter. He's mine. Proud and satisfied. I gutted the deer and awkwardly dropped it into my 119. Oh, now comes the good part!
Paddling.
Paddling, not dragging. Paddling. Easy strokes. Paddling. No groaning to pull up a hill and straining over a log and cussin' through the saw brier. Paddling.
The Old Town 119 penetrated the swamp and brought home my deer. Paddling!
Last edited:
