When I was a teenager, obviously many years ago, I had a memorable deer hunt in the spring creek area.
Since I worked nights at the Rocket drive-in theater, I slept in and missed my ride up in the into the pines. I had peddled my bicycle to get to our arranged point of demarcation and they were gone. Anxious to hunt , I threw my rifle over my shoulder and started pumping up the hill. Many minutes later, I came across some Texans have in their morning coffee at their camp. They stared in disbelief as I peddled by.
I’m sure they looked at each other and said “what the hell?”
When I finally got up to the flat, oak brush and aspen country, I realized that I could cover a lot of country very quietly on that dirt road. As I moved through a grove of aspen trees, I noticed a small buck about 50 yards away. I laid down my bike and snuck up to take a shot. After game of hide and seek I finally got my shot and took it. He dropped like a rock.
I rushed up to him and saw I had killed a small forked horn mule deer. I reached for my knife to slit his throat and it was gone. I backtracked looked around and it was still gone.
I went back and got the bike and came upon a plan. I would tie a hoof on each side of the handlebars and slip under the buck, lifting his weight with my back. I lifted the deer up on some old brush, moved the bike into position . I tied the hooves to the handlebars and slipped my leg over the bike, lifted the weight onto my shoulders with the head dangling in front of me.
I lifted to balance the bike only for the bike, the hunter, and the deer to fall to the ground on the other side.
I tiptoed the second attempt into forward movement.My head was craned around the drooping Deer’s head and I could barely see.
Then the unexpected happened, one of the buck’s ears flicked a bit. Was it the wind or.
The next thing I knew, the Deer’s head came straight up and he commenced to watch the dirt road along with me. I must have hit the buck in the horn or something. Both of us were quite nervous at this time. His back hoofs that had been quietly drug behind up to this point, began a running motion hitting the pedals about every other time.
To my knowledge this buck had never been on a bicycle before, so the increasing speed seem to be an issue for both of us. Remember the Texans, they were just getting into their rigs when here we came , hellbent for leather. They frozen in place as they watched us disappear down the hill. I think I heard one of them say , “what the hell?”
As we approached the bridge across the dry canal, our speed was now out of control, his hooves turned us one way and my hands just turned us another.
When I awoke the buck was gone, the bike was a wreck, and my gun barrel will stuck about 2 foot into the dirt.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it…