White Tail gang passed the buck
By Art Jones

            October 31 was always a busy day for the Rapid City contingent of the White Tail Peak deer hunting gang. That’s when we planned and purchased the necessary food and supplies to feed eight men three big meals a day for a solid week in the forests of the northern Black Hills.

            The gang included our huntmaster, Lloyd “Der Baron” Steckelberg, Bill “Doc” Ellefson, Jim “Speedy” Williams, Earl “Mitchell” Sanford who lived in Mitchell, SD, George “Rev” Bell, Willis “Willy” Garland, Alan “Davy” Crockett and me, Art “Baldy” Jones.

            We met at our favorite downtown restaurant for lunch and had an enjoyable time catching up on the past 12 months before heading for our hunting cabin about 30 miles from Rapid City.

            Once at the cabin, we unloaded our vehicles, then used the last few minutes of bright daylight for sighting in our rifles. As we cooked and ate dinner that first night we shared memories of past hunts and the humorous events that warmed our hearts.

            To tell this tale, it’s necessary to describe White Tail Peak. The top of this mountain in the northern Black Hills is nearly 7,000 feet above sea level and eons of geologic activity have left a horseshoe-shaped layer of limestone visible to anyone who reaches the summit. Actually, it was configured as if the horseshoe was a “low leaner.”

            Each one of us had his own special spot around the rim of White Tail where we positioned ourselves each morning of the hunting season.

Speedy’s stand was a small rock outcrop where he could relax, watch across the head of the canyon and rest his rifle for a good shot at any buck coming down from the top. We started calling it “Speedy’s Rock,” but it soon became “Speedy’s Rocking Chair” and eventually just “The Rocking Chair.”

One summer day Doc and Der Baron stopped at a yard sale. Off in the corner was an old, dilapidated rocking chair they bought for $6. With the use of a 4x4 vehicle and two muscular helpers, the old chair was hauled up the 6,982-foot elevation and placed at Speedy’s special spot. His reaction on opening day began another legend.

Poor Doc hadn’t even glimpsed a live buck for five years. The rest of us kept advising him to check his rifle to make sure rust hadn’t rendered it inoperable.

After three or four hours in our favorite spots around the top of White Tail, we gathered for a coffee break while we planned the rest of our day. We decided to make the drive at a spot we called Turkey Ridge, where the stand was a meadow above a steep slope covered with broken rock and a few scraggly pine trees.

Huntmaster Der Baron decided that three men would be the blockers positioned atop Turkey Ridge. The rest of us would spread out at the bottom of the hill and advance upward, more or less in a line. This, in theory, would spook any deer in the area up to the waiting guns of the blockers.

We allowed our blockers 30 minutes to position themselves on the ridge, then began our advance. Only minutes after we started our sweep we heard a shot to the extreme right. We all scrambled over to Doc’s area.

“I just knew it was a buck, but it was standing behind dead branches sticking out of that little pine tree over there,” he said. “I tried for a neck shot and that damned doe moved at the moment I shot. Thank God she did or I would have shot an illegal deer.”

            We commiserated (but not too sincerely) with our unfortunate companion before resuming our drive up the ridge.

            I was a little ahead of the others, about 25 yards from the crest, when I looked up from the treacherous footing and found myself staring right into the eyes of a very large deer with a wonderful rack. There was only time to shoot from the hip as I released the safety, pointed the rifle and fired, all in one motion.

            The buck’s head disappeared and I scrambled up the last few feet of the climb. It took me a moment to spot the deer lying flat on the ground, his beautiful rack nearly touching a large pine tree.

            I expected to find a hole in the skull, but there were no bullet holes or blood anywhere on the carcass. Then, when closer examination revealed a good-sized nick at the base of one antler, I realized the buck had just been knocked out.

Many of us go through life without ever experiencing the thrill of doing exactly the right thing at the right time, but this time inspiration hit me in a flash. I threw my nylon drag rope around the base of the antlers and took a couple of half-hitches around the tree.

            Two things happened simultaneously. The deer came to and began struggling to its feet and the rest of our party arrived on the scene.

            “Doc, I had to chase this one down and tie it up for you,” I said. “Now go kill your first buck in years.”

            Knife drawn, Doc approached his tethered prey. He stood in front of the quivering beast for a moment of somber contemplation; then, with a deep sign of resignation, he reached over the buck’s head and cut the rope.

Somewhere that fall a hunter might have shot a buck with a frayed nylon rope around one antler, which we all agreed would make a good tale for another time. But deep down we hoped that come spring, a salt-hungry porcupine would snack on the antlers the buck had shed with a rope attached.