Parkhurst: Good things come in threes

In the early 1950s, there were not many deer in the state of Missouri. Birthing herds were established in the state parks but soon problems arose with adjacent areas and landowners were complaining about crop damage.

Such was the case at Knob Noster State Park, so a three-day, any-deer season was scheduled for November 1953. Not in the park itself, but land surrounding the border. Each landowner was allowed just a certain number of hunters. Obviously this was for safety reasons; however, it also kept hoards of hunters from trespassing on the land.

Armed with three permits and the “permission to hunt” form, we drove to Montserrat, just west of Knob Noster, to see a man named Hunter. Mr. Hunter had operated a saw mill just south of the park and Dad had purchased lumber from him in the past. Walking up to the door, Dad greeted Mr. Hunter with a fifth of whiskey and told him what we wanted to do.

Mr. Hunter told us he was only allowed to have five hunters and two spots were already spoken for by two former employees of the mill. He signed our permit for three hunters and we were on our way.

Our party would consist of my grandfather, RC; his son, Bob (my dad); and me. We left Sedalia at 3 a.m. on opening day in the company’s yellow 1951 Chevrolet Pickup. Grandpa and I were shooting shotgun slugs; Dad was shooting a Marlin 30-30 lever action. At 14 years old, I was really excited to get this opportunity.

Finally we got out of the truck and headed out in the pitch dark. Around 9:30 a.m., Grandpa got cold and decided to go back to the truck. As he was walking across a grassy field, a doe ran just 30 yards in front of him. His slug hit its mark just behind the shoulder and she crumpled to the ground — first day, one deer.

The next day, Dad purchased another permit and gave it to Truman Huff, a welder in the plant. Same plan on day two. Again I didn’t see any deer but Dad took home a nine-pointer and Truman a spike buck.

The third and final day, Dad let me use his 30-30 and Truman drove us back up to the old saw mill so I could hunt — he stayed in the truck and waited for me. Since I had not seen any deer the previous two days, I decided to take a bold step. I went north and over into another tract of land — in other words, trespassing!

Moving along an old logging road, I found the perfect spot just 100 yards into the woods. Two draws came together forming the perfect funnel and there was a game trail. Taking up position under a black oak tree, I settled in for the long wait. It began to snow, light at first then big fluffy flakes started floating down. Soon it had me all covered up in a mound at the base of the tree. If a deer did come by how was I supposed to see it!

Then as if in a dream — there was a deer. He was looking straight at me, ears cocked, weaving his head from side to side. Slowly easing my gun up between my knees, I wanted him to turn sideways to get a better shot — then BOOM!

My gun went off and the deer went straight up and fell over backwards. Did I hit him or was he just startled? The deer got up and started to move off. I wildly fired again and blew his left front leg off; he went down again. The next shot was in the neck just below the head and that finally did it — my first deer.

Now my dilemma set in: How was I going to get out of here without being caught? After gutting the deer and packing the cavity with snow, I again took up the position under the oak tree and waited. After two hours with no one coming to investigate the shots, I moved south through the woods. I cut a long stick and, inserting it through the hind legs, started the more than a mile trek back to the truck.

While loading up the deer in the back of the pickup, I was taken back because all the hair was gone off both sides. Evidently, dragging the deer backwards wore off all the hair on the body. At the checking station, a number of men were around a bonfire drinking. Several of them joked about my deer saying things like, “What is that a goat?” and “What’d he shoot that with a machine gun?”

I was terribly embarrassed. Finally the conversation agent came over and said, “Pay no attention to them, they’re just jealous — nice deer, son.”

Postscript: The Associated Press picked up the story printed in The Sedalia Democrat and two days later an associate from Colorado called Dad and said he read the story, “Three Generations — Three Deer in Missouri,” in the Denver Post.