Hunting and fishing had been a tradition among my ancestors. That included the families of both Mom and Dad — the Letsons, the Waldrips, and particularly, Dad’s maternal ancestors, the Wootens. The Wootens were hunter/gatherers for many generations past. Most of my contemporary kin pursued fur and fin at every opportunity also. So I had plenty of both nurture and nature in that regard. I had begun to hunt with Dad while we still lived in Memphis, and on one occasion while we were at Horn Lake.

No deer populations were within fifty miles of Horn Lake. None had survived the late 18th and early 19th century die-off due to over-hunting and over-timbering of that area. There was a small population of them seeded and nurtured in Holly Springs National Forest, some 75 miles to the east in the three counties that made up that Federal enclave.
That winter I was twelve years old. Wildlife authorities determined that the National Forest deer population had expanded to the point that a hunting season would be appropriate. One buck with at least four inch antlers would be legal for each licensed hunter to harvest..
Nothing then, would do for Dad but to begin extensive planning for a three day deer hunting trip. The hunting party would include Dad and me, as Tommy and Glen were deemed too young for the trip. After gathering maps, buying buckshot and rifled slugs (special deer hunting ammunition) for our shotguns, the warmest clothing we had (bluejeans, flannel shirts and light jacket for me), some red headgear and much anticipation, we packed up the Mercury station wagon and headed for the deer woods..
Dad had never hunted deer. This would be a new opportunity for him –– and me. I think he regarded the trip as being as much for my benefit as for his..
We arrived at the well-marked (on our map) back road the night before the season opened and proceeded to look for a suitable camp site. As we headed deeper into the back country, we found many of them. They were on each side of the road, flat spots with ample tent space with rock pits for camp fires and plenty of flat spots to park cars. We probably drove for a mile and a half looking for the perfect place to spend the next three nights.
There was only one problem. Every one of these great spots had from one to four vehicles already parked in them. Camp fires were burning and four to a dozen hunters with red hats and coats were sitting about them on logs and stumps or portable stools and such. Some were cleaning firearms and readying for the big morning coming up..
Finally we found a flat spot at a fork in the road where no one else had yet squatted. Dad quickly parked and we went about setting up camp. We gathered wood by flashlight and Dad built a fire, heated Vienna sausage or some such quick food for dinner and put our beds together in back of the station wagon..
After a bit, Dad said, “Let’s visit that last camp we passed.” We walked back a hundred yards or so to where several men were camp busy. Dad introduced us and they made room. We talked a while, or rather Dad chatted with them. Most of the conversation was about deer hunting, of course. But the main topic was how the deer population in these woods was going to be dwarfed by the hunter population in these woods. It seems that hunters had come from every corner of Mississippi and even from other states to try to slay one of these newly available bucks.
Much was made of the danger that so many hunters posed to each other. By the time the evening was used up and it was time to go “home” to our beds, the parting advice from a couple of the men was, “I wouldn’t let the boy go out there — just too dangerous.”
I should have anticipated Dad’s reply, even through my dismay at the prospect of having to sit in the car all day, “Well, he’s come a long way to hunt. He’s coming into the woods with me.” I did go into the woods with Dad after our breakfast sandwiches Mom had packed for us. He parked me where he thought I might have a good vantage point and went a bit farther to wait out deer activity that would bring a buck past either of us.
After I had been in my spot for a half hour I was frozen to the stump where I sat. What with the almost summer-weight clothes I was wearing and the 20 degree weather of that bright, clear and frosty morning, I don’t think I have ever
suffered more from the cold. I was shaking so badly I could not have aimed and fired at anything. Godzilla could have walked up on me with impunity. I guess Dad was cold too. After about 45 minutes he came back to get me and we began “sneaking” along the edge of cover, hoping to see something interesting, either tracks or deer.
Actually, a better approach than what we were attempting might have been to wait patiently (in the warmest spot we could find) for hunter activity to send a buck running past us. That’s what the deer were doing. If they weren’t running for their life they were hiding in the thickest cover they could find.
Later in the morning, after we had both thawed a bit from the sun’s warmth, Dad parked me at the edge of a broad gulley or “wash” as it’s called in some areas. Vegetation had begun to grow in it, but plenty of soft red dirt still showed on its flat bottom. I sat for a short time while Dad made a loop, planning to drive the brush to move a deer toward me.
I don’t know if he flushed the deer or if someone else did, but after a few minutes, a trophy buck came loping across the gully, like some large toy rocking-horse. It presented a broadside shot to me. I raised my gun and followed it from where it entered the open area to where it exited. I continued aiming at the empty exit point for a while, not knowing if I had actually seen a deer, or if it was a figment of my imagination. “Oh, my Gosh, that was a buck!”
When Dad came back, I excitedly explained my incredible case of “buck fever.” He grimaced and shook his head some, but didn’t say anything as we searched for tracks. Yes, there they were, fresh and large. So it had not been a mirage! Later, after the sting subsided from my show of ineptitude, we both (and everyone else to whom we told the story) laughed about it — this despite my sheepishness over the whole thing.
We may as well have loaded up the wagon and headed for home at that point. We didn’t see another deer during the three days we were there, except for a few dead ones hanging in the camps we passed when we eventually did leave.
I guess the point of this story is that Dad and I were pretty close — and that sparse treasure (deer in this case) is bound to be swarmed by an oversupply of eager treasure hunters. But deer is a renewable resource, as well as a prolific and persistent lot. Their population in that National Forest not only was able to evade hunters to a large degree, they grew and expanded their range incredibly.
There was a reported sighting of five deer at Arkabutla Dam, some thirty miles south of Memphis ( five miles south of our Bluebird Farm), in about 1954. Fifty and sixty years later, they are a plentiful quarry for deer hunters all over the south. They are also a nuisance for other humans, decimating flower and vegetable gardens and leaving vehicles with mangled sheet metal fenders and grills, as insurance claim data clearly shows. I was able to harvest many of them in Virginia. But that is a story for another time.