One thing I’ve come to appreciate are the superstitions almost all hunters have. We’re all either barely out of the cave or have come to recognize that in many cases the supernatural not only exists, but can have a marked effect on the outcome of your hunt. Scoff if you will, but I’ve been around long enough to know some things are not just the outcome of chance.
It may be a favorite hat, a lucky rifle, shotgun or pistol, to someone else the magic of a specific weight bullet, a lucky knife, wearing a passed loved one’s hunting license or even a piece of clothing, rabbit foot and so on. Just as in sports, some hunters wouldn’t think of going afield without their good luck charm or ritual, whatever it may be.
I specifically remember one deer season when everything that could go wrong did. My excellent deer stand was four years old and the other hunters in the area figured out where I was and cut off the deer before they got to me. Nothing like hearing a shot 150 yards away right on the main trail you’re watching. Curses, find your own stand buddy.
After a while I learned you could only stay in one spot about three years. Then just find another stand. In a year or two you could return to the original. Finally, I found alternating between three stands worked best.
This year two bucks were taken just out of my sight on the converging trails. Other hunters had my location pegged. The following week and a half I simply couldn’t get a shot; something always went astray. The last day of buck my chances of success were looking pretty bleak. Then I remembered Pop Hayes’ old hunting license. Immediately after Pop passed I always made a point of carrying something of his hunting with me and I’d shot a buck every year. This year I’d forgotten to do so. Hmm, was this just coincidence? Today there was no way Pop would be left behind. I found his old license, slipped it behind mine and felt better instantaneously.
The next morning I was watching a power line at daybreak. A group of deer feed into sight. In those days of plentiful deer the odds were they’d be all does. They were about 200 yards away and I had the safety off, the sling on and was very steady in the kneeling position. Just then the rising sun hit the far side of the valley silhouetting the deer against the gleaming, golden-hued snow. The last deer stopped, raised its head and looked at me. It was a big spike, the tall horns standing out clearly against the glow of the sparkling snow. One shot and down he went.
Thanks Pop, I prayed, can’t believe I forgot to honor and remember you by carrying one of your possessions. It won’t happen again.
I gave my dad a rabbit’s foot when I was about eight years old to bring him luck. You know, a white one with a metal top and a key chain attached. Dad did very well carrying it, but never believed it possessed any special properties until he suddenly hit a dry spell. You see, Mom had washed his hunting vest and forgotten to put the rabbits foot back in it.
Dad hunted four days after work and never shot a single rabbit, squirrel or grouse. He was frustrated and easily seen to be jinxed. Then, I discovered the rabbits foot lying by the washer and excitedly gave it back to him as he left the house. He shot a grouse, two rabbits and a squirrel that night. Coincidence? You tell me. Anyway, Dad made sure he had his lucky rabbit’s foot ever after. I thought I was the finest son around, no doubt about it.
Then someone told Mom their luck came from a big, large bellied Buddha. It wasn’t long before a Buddha about 10-inches high, brown in color and smiling as only Buddha’s can sat on the buffet. The secret it appeared was to rub that big old belly before you went afield. Mom was confident doing so would greatly increase our odds of success.  So to humor her we did.
I know it sounds silly, but we’d rub or, if feeling our oats, kiss that big old belly before venturing forth and our luck soared. I shot a huge gobbler that fall, Dad a big 8-point, we limited out on squirrels and knocked off rabbits in the goldenrod fields. Any misfortune always appeared linked to forgetting to rub that big, bulging belly. Crazy, I know, but we became believers. Buddha made sure of that.
While in my teens I usually hunted with a heavy, old 30-40 Krag. It was too big for me and if I couldn’t connect with a deer, Pop would wink at me, grab the Krag himself and give me his 722 Remington .244.
Well, the deer might just as well surrender and come in waving white flags; their fate was sealed. That was an extremely lucky rifle for me. Time after time I connected. Some of the shots were remarkable. I didn’t seem able to miss with it.
So hunters and all sportsmen, here’s to the unexplainable. Thank goodness for our lucky charms, whatever they may be, and the success they bring.