The Deer Hunter
Summer 2024
By Jon Wongrey
Photos by Jimmy Jacobs.
The sun rose a molten red as I drove enroute to Springfield, where big bucks toy with your senses in a land of whitetail adventure. These are hunting grounds to dream about, especially when you were a kid. But I was no longer a youngster and it wasn’t deer hunting that had called me to Georgia.
No, not this time. My Uncle Bill Waldhour had died.
Uncle Bill was a no-holds barred deer hunter – whitetails – Georgia whitetails! A tall, wide-set man with cardinal red hair, hands large and rough, and legs and arms choked with muscle, he was locked and cocked for all things. He could keep a good gait. It was common place for him to out-pace the hounds. He was a razzle-dazzle man full of himself.
REMEMBERING UNCLE BILL
I thought back to a tale of deer hunting Uncle Bill shared before a warm fire.
It was Uncle Bill’s first deer season after World War II, and with allegiance finished, he took to the swamp. Straightaway, the hounds struck fresh spoor in a dried creek bottom. His hounds, blue-ticks to the core, were well trained and willing to bear up to the test. The hounds – the best in all of Georgia – got down to business.
Slowly rubbing his large calloused hands together in front of the fireplace as the flames licked at fresh oak logs, he said, “The hounds got started for the river where sometimes a deer would cross on a shallow sandbar.”
But this man of the Georgia swamps knew bucks and their wise ways, and instinct told him to let the hounds go their way because the deer might give the hounds a wink and a nod and double back.
He cracked open his double barreled 12-gauge, dropped one 00 buckshot in the right modified tube and another in the left full-choked barrel, snapped the barrels shut, made sure the safety was on and took off on a run.
He came waded across a shallow creek and once again picked up the pace until he came to an old and very large uprooted live oak. Among the giant tentacle twisted, snake-like roots, he positioned himself.
The hounds were in full voice, deep-throated, their bass notes echoing throughout the swamp.
The buck appeared much like an apparition. It was as handsome a buck as Uncle Bill had ever seen. “He had a wide-set rack, an’ I counted 10 points. His brow tines pointed skyward a good five inches,” Uncle Bill said. He then calculated the distance. “It was a good 60 yards if it was a foot.”
When the shotgun’s butt was just so in the valley of his right shoulder and his unshaven cheek was resting against the walnut stock, the buck spooked, whirled and ran.
The scarlet curly-haired “no-holds barred” Georgia deer hunter fired the full-choke barrel sending a load of 00 buckshot ripping through the swamp. The buck stumbled and fell into a heap on his left side.
“I didn’t bother to reload. I just knew the game was up,” Uncle Bill said and rolled another log on the fire.
He had not walked 10 yards when the craggy buck jumped up, shook himself and made for the river with his white tail flagging Bill to “have a good day.”
Thinking he’d find a spot of blood, Uncle Bill tried to track the buck, but without seeing the first droplet.
Not satisfied he had just plain missed the buck, Bill went back and scoured the ground. He found a 3-inch piece of antler, that he figured to be a piece of either the right or left brow tine, placed it in his right coat pocket and left for home.
Two weeks lapsed before Uncle Bill returned to his beloved Geogia swamps. The hounds again struck fresh spoor at the exact same point as two weeks ago.
Again, Uncle Bill headed for the downed oak tree with its twisted roots to settle in for the wait, for he had a hunch. Patience was his virtue. The apparition came once again from the dank swamp, almost as if it was swamp gas. Uncle said he rubbed his eyes, reached into his left hunting coat pocket and slowly removed his glasses, fitted them to his head and his breath most left him for there stood the buck, not 40 steps away.
A red-headed woodpecker tattooed a worm-infested tree. A breeze with a chill began to sway banners of Spanish moss. The buck lifted his right hoof and began to strike the damp ground.
This buck may have escaped the valley of the shadow of death once but not again. Lazarus he wasn’t.
Uncle Bill’s thick right index finger gently pulled the right trigger for the right barrel’s modified choke. Upon the shot, the big buck went skyward. Uncle Bill fired the full-choked left barrel. The deer spun to the left, went down, jumped up and began running and stumbling, before crashing into a thicket.
“I waited maybe 20 minutes and began my walk, a slow walk.” he paused. “With my shotgun at the ready, I was taking no chances. The size of that deer was massive – guessed him at 250 pounds. if he was an ounce. Sure enough, 3-inches of the right brow tine was missing.’ The piece I had in my pocket was a perfect fit. I had to go back to Springfield and get two men to get that buck out of the swamp. Had to gut him, tie him to a pole and walk out. No four-wheelers back then!”
The fire was now but glowing embers. “Time for bed,” Uncle Bill said.
Three times I had to pull off the road to catch my breath, for I was remembering Uncle Bill, the deer hunter.
Jon Wongrey is an award-winning outdoor writer with an extensive background in newspaperss and magazines, as well as having published more than a dozen books. He makes his home in Sumter, South Carolina and is a member of the Georgia Outdoor Writers Association. He can be contacted at jonwongrey@yahoo.com