Grasshopper
New Member
First, a confession: I have never shot a big game animal with a centerfire rifle. Raised in shotgun-only country, and shot muzzleloaders a bunch, but mostly I love the bow. But when I got an invite to hunt in Nebraska for their firearms season, I knew I'd have to shoot a rifle. "What the heck?" I thought. "Even an old dog like me can learn it. Right?"
Well, maybe. My range-time proved I better wiggle as close as I could /forum/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/shocked.gif
So on the second day I'm watching this beautiful flat just off a cornfield at dawn. Cold, frosty morning. Suddenly I hear antlers clacking. It has to be bucks...or another guy? I display my orange proudly and boldly and start sneaking. 200 yards later I see the fight! Two bucks tearing into each other! I slip toward them til the cover runs out, then watch the show through binocs. Finally one breaks free and gets run off the field.
Show time! I break out the grunt call and let the winner hear me. He looks, but won't commit. A snort-wheeze gets his attention. He stares a minute. Looks away. I give him a big growl on the tube. That does it! Even better, the loser of the fight trots back onto the field, too...coming fast at his opponent. They stare at each other, so I grunt loud again to remind them where they need to go.
The race is on! They look gorgeous coming in, necks swollen, hair bristled as they stiff-leg it through the frost-covered corn.
I get the .270 on the shooting sticks, and I'm shaking. After calculating windage, trajectory and the Gross National Product of several Third World Countries, I decide to trust my optics and hold tight to the shoulder of the losing buck as he turns broadside...
I make the 35-yard shot!
Well, maybe. My range-time proved I better wiggle as close as I could /forum/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/shocked.gif
So on the second day I'm watching this beautiful flat just off a cornfield at dawn. Cold, frosty morning. Suddenly I hear antlers clacking. It has to be bucks...or another guy? I display my orange proudly and boldly and start sneaking. 200 yards later I see the fight! Two bucks tearing into each other! I slip toward them til the cover runs out, then watch the show through binocs. Finally one breaks free and gets run off the field.
Show time! I break out the grunt call and let the winner hear me. He looks, but won't commit. A snort-wheeze gets his attention. He stares a minute. Looks away. I give him a big growl on the tube. That does it! Even better, the loser of the fight trots back onto the field, too...coming fast at his opponent. They stare at each other, so I grunt loud again to remind them where they need to go.
The race is on! They look gorgeous coming in, necks swollen, hair bristled as they stiff-leg it through the frost-covered corn.
I get the .270 on the shooting sticks, and I'm shaking. After calculating windage, trajectory and the Gross National Product of several Third World Countries, I decide to trust my optics and hold tight to the shoulder of the losing buck as he turns broadside...
I make the 35-yard shot!
