By Scott Bestul
Well, I missed my normal Tuesday morning blog post because I’ve been kidnapped by the mafia. As in the Norwegian mafia. This is the nickname I’ve bestowed on my father and uncle, both kind and gentle souls for much of the year, but certified hit men for about two weeks of the spring turkey season. The three of us have a simple agreement: I get them on good turkey ground and yelp at resident gobblers; they kill any bearded infidels that appear. They’re much more effective at their jobs than I am at mine, but I am family so they give me a pass.
Anyway, Uncle Al wrote the first death certificate Monday morning, but I will wait to post his harvest photo until dad finishes his contract, then I will post them together. In the meantime, I am doing my best to keep up with these 70-something ridge runners in their quest to race down any gobble heard in the hill country of southeastern Minnesota. Most outdoorsmen reserve their retirement for idle pastimes like bass fishing or sitting in tower blinds. The Mafioso has devoted itself to physical conditioning of a caliber that would make Jack LaLane weep. I’d wisecrack about them making run-n-gun turkey hunting a sort of geriatric Olympic event, but I’m afraid they’d knee-cap me.
But I digress. This is a deer hunting blog, and I need to write about deer. So here is a photo of what a scoring buddy calls a “Medusa” buck. Freaky non-typicals like these are not even taken for entry in Boone & Crockett, because they never shed their velvet and apparently keep growing antlers year-round. And, it should be noted, they are usually missing at least one testicle. Given my current state of sleep and oxygen deprivation, I’m not even going to comment on that physical affliction. There has to be a joke in there somewhere, but it’s not in me right now. I gotta get rested up for tomorrow…