The Night of the
Beaver!
By
Carl Wilson, Field Editor
As
a way of introduction, I would like to give y'all a bit of history
about myself. Plus, a story that should give each of you an idea
of how dedicated our Editor and I are about the clean, ethical
harvest of a nighttime marauder. With two rifles, at night, with a
spotlight, in a truck, with six people, etc... I don't want
to give away too much of the story right now!
First, I was born and raised in Texas and have lived here my
entire life. I started small game and bird hunting when I was
sixteen. I began hunting bigger game (deer, turkey, and hogs) in
my early twenty's and have been chasing all kinds of game ever
since. I have hunted mostly on private land (as most Texans!) and
have not yet tried a high-fence lease or hunt. I have had the
opportunity to hunt in Virginia, West Virginia, Pennsylvania,
Iowa, and Canada. Even though I didn't always harvest my intended
game, each and every hunt was a success!
I have been married
for nearly eleven years to the most tolerant, patient, and
understanding lady in the world! She may only be exceeded by our
Editor's wife for the above qualities!!! We have two big
ole' healthy boys and (count 'em!) three cats. I hope that doesn't
prejudice too many of y'all against me? I will admit it now, I am
a cat person. I can hear the groans and boo's from here! I
just love those little, furry acrobats! I really try to love dogs
too. I just can't get by all that slobbering. panting, and the
licking of "stuff"!
Oh
well, enough about me. We can have a pros and cons discussion
about dogs and cats another time. I'm not even gonna get into my
preference for both catsup and mayo on a hamburger right now...
It's story time now! This is a tale of your Editor and I, along
with some others, who were trying to rid the world of varmints. In
the Texas counties we hunt in, it is legal to hunt for varmints at
night with spotlights. So, that's what we were doing. Only the
names will be changed to protect the innocent!
Our
Editor, my wife and myself, our friend who we will call
Herman, his son, Eddie, and Eddie's grand-daddy, Gramps. Gramps
was driving the lease truck. A vintage model, pre-1980 Ford
pickup, badly in need of everything! I was riding shotgun,
manning the spotlight. Our Editor, my wife, Herman, and Eddie were
riding in the bed, enjoying the stars, fresh air, and hanging on
for dear life!
Gramps does enjoy the occasional drink and his cigars! The
cab was a noxious mixture of liquor smells, cigar fumes, truck
exhaust, and various leaking engine fluids. Hanging on for dear
life in the pickup bed did almost seem like a better option.
Our
"shooters" were armed with a .22 rifle for the smaller
vermin and my sweet-shooting Sako .270 rifle for the more
determined and larger of prey. We had been cruis'in around for
awhile, when my "prairie wolf-like vision" spotted
movement near the edge of a large pond. Directing the million
candles of spotlight power towards the beast, I instantly
recognized the shape of a ferocious forest beaver! These denizens
of both water and land are a scourge to all wildlife! My keen
sense of wildlife protection leapt to the forefront!
I
shouted the command, "STOP, STOP, it's a beaver!". I
should have been more careful in choosing my words. Gramps
instantly applied what little brakes that were left in the truck.
Thank goodness we were only traveling about 8 MPH and our weapons
were unloaded. The result was five people eating the dashboard and
rear of the truck cab!.
After much shouting, regaining of balances, removing metal and
chunks of upholstery from our teeth, and the reloading of weapons, I
was able to refocus the spotlight on our intended prey. Our Editor
had maintained control of the .22 and began to unleash a barrage
of fire upon the now, shell-shocked beaver.
I
have always been one to give credit where credit is due. Our
Editor squeezed off around 8 rounds in about 4 seconds
towards the escaping beaver. Even with it being dark,
in the back of a pickup, at about 23 yards, and after smacking
into the pickup cab just seconds earlier, our Editor probably
scored 6 direct hits! That's 75%. Not bad, eh? But
remember, those who can - do, and those who can't - edit!
The
devilish beaver had begun it's death dance! Most of us were
content with a clean and safe kill, and we began to relax. All
except Herman. KABOOM!!! In the sudden explosion that
only a .270 can provide when fired in the very near proximity of
my right ear, Herman unleashed his own barrage!
Again, giving credit where credit is due, Herman did score a
direct hit and silenced all movement from the beaver. Although, at
some cost. Gramps and I both believed that the gas tank must have
exploded. We had been deceived by the gun barrel flame and
resulting blast concussion! Gramps leapt from the truck. Of
course, it was still running and in gear! We began a slow roll
downhill towards our watery grave! I was able to hear the shouts
of panic - through my left ear - from the rear of the truck. I
was, at that time, cowering in the floor board hugging my beloved
spotlight wondering why I wasn't engulfed in flames from the
imagined gas tank explosion. Finally, after much shouting and
name-calling, I was able to let go of the spotlight and apply the
brakes - just in time!
After
gathering our wits and yelling at Herman for some time, we
inspected our trophy. A 36 pound forest beaver! Our first
"team harvest"! It was indeed a special night...
There was, of course, the usual heated discussion back at camp on
whether or not the multiple .22 hits or the single .270 shot had
finished the ridiculously vicious beaver. All I know, is that once
my powder burns are healed and my right ear hearing has returned,
I will stay in camp and cook supper next time!
Sometimes
"hearing" the story, is better than
"experiencing" it!
Until next time,
Carl "Da Guru" Wilson
Field Editor
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