In the middle of the Depression, a billy goat went wild and was eventually spotted in the sharp ravine that splits the bluff along the Barker Hole on the White River. Locals called this ravine by a derogatory name for blacks followed by the word Holler because a runaway slave was captured there prior to the Civil War. The owner of the goat told my Granddad that he could have the goat if he could catch it. Since Granddad Wyatt had lived in Colorado and was familiar with deer hunting, he was confident he could get the goat. He, my Dad, Dale, and Dewie got up before daylight the next morning and took a Winchester Model 62, pump action .22 rifle to the ravine. He showed the boys how to pick out the trail frequented by the goat and find a suitable rock to provide cover and a rest for the rifle. “Boys, this is as close to deer hunting as you will ever experience in Missouri” since there were no longer deer in this part of the country. “Now, we have to sit very still and wait for the goat”. Soon, the unsuspecting goat came down the trail. It was no match for Granddad Wyatt, who was a crack shot. Unbeknownst to Granddad Wyatt, that one hunting trip and a tasty feast of cooked goat meat instilled a lifelong love of deer hunting in my Dad. When deer were restored in the Missouri Ozarks in the 1950s, Dad became an avid deer hunter even though opening day fell uncomfortably close to his and Mom’s wedding anniversary of November 14th.
Eventually, Dad stopped hunting in the National Forest with the group on Frisco Hills and began hunting our farm with me, my brother Steve, Uncle Dale, Dale’s son Art, and Dad’s nephew Basil. Dad became an expert, but unconventional, hunter. He got up late (deer don’t like to move until the frost melts), didn’t stay in the stand long (if they haven’t moved by now, why wait), took a long afternoon nap (deer have to sleep too), and always seemed to bag a nice buck (always shoot the first one that comes along). He described deer hunting as “hours of boredom followed by seconds of pure exhilaration”. He had an uncanny knack of sitting absolutely motionless on an uncomfortable limb in a walnut tree for hours. He always had a humorous story about his deer. When asked by the game warden, “Why does this deer have berries in its mouth?”, Dad told him, “Because I fell asleep and didn’t see the deer until it had already put its head in my berry bucket”, which would have been totally illegal in Missouri . . . if any part of the story had been true.
In November 1992, Dad and I were hunting together – he was in his favorite walnut tree in the new ground and I was on a rudimentary stand on the high-line right of way in the meadow. It was a crisp Sunday afternoon in November. Dad insisted that we finish the football game on television before leaving. I was frantic, it was already 3:30 and Dad seemed to just mosey along. I rushed to climb the hill and get on my stand, but before I could climb the tree I caught movement in the cedars coming toward me. It was a large deer, alone, antlers, lots of antlers, my heart was pounding, my glasses were fogging up from the perspiration of rushing to the stand, the adrenaline was causing my hands to shake, but the deer kept coming toward me. I raised my gun, the deer bolted, somehow I managed to get off a good shot despite the fogged glasses and shaky hands. It was a 10-point buck, the largest I had ever bagged and one of the best from our farm. I waited several minutes for Dad, but when he didn’t show, I dragged the deer over the hill to the house and Mom. She wanted to be happy for me, but really didn’t care for venison and preferred to see the deer alive beside the road instead of dead in the back of the pickup. We took some pictures, loaded the deer into the truck and drove past Bill and Beulah Halters to show it to them, more pictures, then to the Conservation Check Station at Kissee Mills Junction.
When we arrived back at the house, Dad came out to meet us and said, “Did you get it? I jumped two nice bucks coming to my stand. One went your way. I thought you might see it. I heard you shoot.” (He was as giddy as a school girl about the prospects of me getting a nice buck. It was unusual to see Dad that excited.) “The other buck stopped just out of sight. I suspected it might come back if I didn’t make a lot of noise. I climbed my tree and waited. It came back shortly after I heard you leave in the truck. I didn’t think you would hear me shoot.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but that deer hunt in November of 1992 would prove to be our best hunt ever and one of the last with my Dad. Regretfully, my camera was stolen before I had an opportunity to develop the film, so a grainy photo from the Taney County newspaper is my only record of that memorable day.
As the years passed, Mom and Dad spent many evenings driving the backroads of Taney County breathing in the scenery and counting deer. Like most things around our house, it wasn’t really a contest, but Mom always kept score and Dad would often continue driving well past dusk trying to spot one more deer to tie or take the lead. After Dad’s illness kept him from driving, Mom would wait anxiously for me, Steve, or Scott to take them on a deer drive during the evening hours and would write down the number of deer spotted and the date on the chalk board in the kitchen. The evening before Mom was hospitalized and passed in June 2013, Steve took her on her last deer drive. She saw several deer and was very pleased to record the number on the blackboard.
Bradley Roberts Wyatt 