Drop-tine (Part 2)

Grandpa Lowell picked me up at 6:30 the morning before Thanksgiving 1990. The inside of his gray 85 GMC was the temperature of Borneo Rainforest when I climbed in.

“Morning Grandpa,” I managed while taking off my stocking hat and unzipping my down vest.

“MORNIN!” he bellowed back over the roar of the panel heater and the cracking of WCCO AM radio.  “Good game last night…23 points isn’t bad against Elk Mound…Shoulda had 26 but you missed those free throws.”

He winked at me and I could tell he was proud.  Grandpa was always talking about the accomplishments of his grandkids.  It was my turn now, but soon he would be just as happy to share things about Josh, Sam, Molly, or Tyler. 

“The boys are trying to cut Ol’ Droptines’ tracks…We’re supposed to meet them at Big Coulee Road by 6:45…  I am sure they have something up their sleeves.”   It would take the full 15 minutes to get from our house to the rendezvous spot, as it had been more than five years since Grandpa’s truck had reached more than 42 mph.

We arrived at Big Coulee Road to find the boys standing outside the trucks.  I could tell by the way Dad and my uncles were talking and pointing with excitement, that someone had seen something.  Grandpa rolled down the window and turned Sid Hartman of WCCO down. 

“Drop-tine,” Uncle Brian said smiling.  “Dan seen him heading out of Chilson’s and he’s now in the upper end of Brunner Coulee!”

“You sure?” 

Brian answered, “It’s him.  Dan said he’s 20 inches wide and there is no way another buck that size has a limp like that.”

Like two playground quarterbacks, Dad and Uncle Kurt began drawing stick scribbles in the snow to get positions for the members of our party.  Brunner Coulee was a place we hunted often, and the whitetail escape routes would be manned.

Kurt laid out the game plan;  “Okay, we can’t wait for the others…someone else might get in there after him.  Brent, Troy, you jump in with Grandpa.  Cover the two fence lines just past Fox Rock.  Someone get on the bottom of the ridge where that prickly ash meets the scrub oaks.  Last time he was in here, that’s where he snuck out!”

Dad chimed in, “Kurt, Brian and I will make the push.  I know we are going with the wind, so be ready for him try and slip back through the drivers.  We’ll give the standers ten minutes to get set up.”

Brent headed to the bottom stand while Grandpa manned the fence line close to the field road.  A survivor of three strokes, poor circulation and struggling to walk,  Grandpa usually ‘hunted’ from inside the pick- up. Today though, I watched as he got out a small green chair and plopped down while holding his scoped 870 over his lap.  I was the last line of defense, so to speak, covering a hardwood ridge about 200 yards to the north of Fox Rock.  From my elevated position, I could see Grandpa and Uncle Brent.  If Drop-tine were in this drive, I would at least get to see him.

Ten minutes after the drive started, I heard Uncle Kurt’s 870 bark from the valley near the start of the drive.  In those days, a single shot from an Ingli driver meant merely there was deer coming the stander’s way.  Four minutes  later Uncle Brian rapped off two quick shots.  I thought I could faintly make out  “Drop-tine heading out the top” from his muffled voice. I kicked a few leaves away from the base of the scrub oak I was next to and readied my shotgun.  I didn’t want to be caught off guard if the giant whitetail headed my way.

Turns out, Kurt jumped the buck in a gnarl of blow downs crossing the first ravine of the drive. Drop-tine didn’t seem to be in a hurry to bust out of the top of Brunner Coulee.  He worked his way up, then back, staying just ahead of the drivers.  When Brian got off the shots at him, the monster quickened his pace and headed to the topside of the ridge. The plan drawn on the snow was coming together, as the legendary buck was now in a space only 400 yards in diameter, and six Ingli’s seemed to have the escape routes covered.  On instincts, Dad figured Drop-tine might sneak out before reaching Grandpa’s fence line.  I saw him ‘hoofing it’ for Fox Rock.  From the perch, Dad could easily cover the hillside that Brent couldn’t reach from his position at the scrub oak stand.

Two minutes after Dad reached Fox Rock, I saw ‘Drop-tine’ coming his way.  The monster was picking his way through the briars and stepping over logs.  He would go a few steps, and check his back trail, and the steadily approaching drivers.  When Dad heard a twig snap, I saw him carefully raise his 1187 to the shoulder.  If the buck would cross one last ravine, Dad would have him a mere 15 yards below the big rock. Drop-tine limped across the ravine, then, turned sharply to the north, with intentions on cutting out the top towards Grandpa’s position on the field road fence. 

My heart was pounding as the story unfolded in front of me.  We were finally going to get the most elusive buck known to Western Wisconsin!  With the buck’s new course, Dad swung around, and was steadied to take the shot when the legend stopped in a clearing at just thirty paces.  I said under my breath “Shoot Dad...Get him... it’s Drop-tine...He’s ours...”

I waited, but the shot never came!  I watched as Dad slowly lowered his gun.  Drop-tine continued on his new path, lumbering towards Grandpa Lowell.  I then heard my own father’s voice...with high-pitched excitement, “Here he comes Dad!” 

Even though Grandpa Lowell didn’t hear so well, he had seen the monster buck jump the fence past Dad and Fox Rock. When ‘Drop-tine’ cleared the last rise before Grandpa’s green chair, he was about 40 yards away. He started to veer slightly to the east as Grandpa rose from the chair and shouldered his shotgun in the same motion. The big buck was more lumbering than running.  Broadside and passing at 15 yards, he slouched as Grandpa’s 870 roared.  Two more bounds and the legendary buck fell motionless a few feet from the field road.

 Dad was the first person to reach Grandpa and the downed deer.  By the time I  reached their location,  I heard Grandpa giving my Dad a good old tongue-lashing.    “What in the hell are you doing not shooting at that deer?  Why, if he would have doubled back like he’s done for five years we would have never seen him again!”

Dad was grinning ear to ear, taking in all of Grandpa’s rumblings.  “Well, I guess I just thought you’d maybe get a shot at him.”

Grandpa responded, “You  GUESSED!...Maybe get a shot!...  Oh boy…that’s a doozy…if that buck woulda got away, or I would have missed I bet your brothers woulda had a piece of your hide! … To think, all these years and you decide to let the Drop-tine Buck run free…  If you think you’re so damn smart, get this thing gutted out and dragged to my pick-up…we got some stories to tell the boys in town.”

‘Drop-tine’ was clearly not the buck he previously was, but was still a trophy.  His inside spread was just shy of 20 inches.  He had 12 points and heavy main beams, although his tell tale drop tine was broken off below the G2. The buck would score a very respectable 142 inches, Grandpas largest deer in more than 50 years of hunting.

I sat back and watched my Dad and uncles as they took their time field dressing and dragging the animal out to Grandpa’s truck.  There was true elation in the air. Stories were swapped, traded and certainly exaggerated a bit, as only true hunters…and brothers know how.  All of us knew with Grandpa’s health, this would likely be his last year of hunting. 

Later that day, word had spread through the county that Lowell Ingli had gotten the ‘Drop-tine’ buck. Huge crowds would gather around the old gray GMC, outside of Greg’s Corner Bar, as Grandpa retold the story over and over.  Grandpa was sure to point out to every one, “That crazy damn of son of mine, Greg, could have shot him, but he took the chance and let him run to some lucky old man!…hee hee…now how do ya like that?”

“Drop-tine” is proudly displayed over this computer as I type now.  His name still comes up at coffee shops, watering holes, and church events from time to time. 

‘Drop-tine’ is a constant reminder of all the things that are special about hunting with family and friends Western Wisconsin. The tradition of a November deer camp means many things to many people. Hopefully the preceding story brings back some memories for you.

-TGI