Lake Of The Ozarks, Missouri. This huge lake is known nationally for its great bass fishing, stretching some 92 miles, creating a mind boggling 1,150 miles of shoreline. Countless small creeks enter this long, twisting, many armed lake creating countless fishing opportunities.
The area’s also known, though not so well, for its great deer hunting. The forests here consist largely of oak mixed with maple, cedar and hickory. Steep, rocky ravines cut up the country side giving it a rugged, even jagged appearance. Large and small rock outcroppings rear their bald domes skyward, giving many areas an almost New England flavor.
Geologically, the rock is largely limestone. Caves and caverns are common, carved out over the millennia as the restless water constantly dissolves and enlarge cracks in the soft limestone. The mineral rich rocks also provide the nourishment necessary for developing large antlers and that’s a good thing.
The first week of November found Jim Zirkle, Terry and Quentin Claypool, Al Lingenfelter and Tom and Brent Welch plus myself headed for Missouri. With the rut heating up, we were hopeful some big bucks would be on the prowl.
It’s a long drive from Bradford to Lake of the Ozarks, 15 hours on a good day, but there was significant road construction on I-70 in Indiana. We’d heard some horror stories of long, long delays and reluctantly decided to drop down on Route 40 to avoid the congestion. It turned out to be a good choice, slow but sure, but unexpectedly, 18-wheel trucks began pouring onto the two-lane from every crossroad. A major accident on I-70 had closed the four-lane temporarily. This made our slow but sure road even slower. Agghh!
Going from 70 miles per hour to 35 or 40 plus small towns, trucks and stoplights is maddening. Eventually, we returned to I-70 once past Indianapolis and our frustrations lessened considerably. A motel once we’re past St. Louis, a late dinner and up at 6 o’clock the next morning.
Friday around 11 a.m., we reached our destination, checked in and hauled all our equipment to our rooms. I had a gadget bag filled with every deer hunting apparatus possible, a big cooler, a smaller cooler and a large tote crammed with clothes and packs. All of us were similarly loaded down. Deer hunting away from home is a logistical operation!
Dinner that night was great, barbequed pork chops. Afterwards, we eagerly awaited the computer drawing for our stands. I was fervently hoping the computer gods would pick me a great stand and it did! The rest of the group were all satisfied as well. I’d be hunting the Paris Farm, Quentin had drawn stand S-19.
Quentin Claypool was fortunate to be hunting with us. A last-minute cancelation allowed him to join us and he was eagerly trying to soak the hunts agenda in. Luckily, we were able to guide him along. Quentin would be using a borrowed rifle as well, Bud Zetler’s old Remington 760 in 30-06. Over the years, that rifle had piled up a ton of deer. Was it still lucky?
Up at 3 a.m. Saturday morning, breakfast and out to the vans. Quentin’s left at 4:40. Soon his guide dropped him off at a trail. It was pitch black and raining. Follow the markers half a mile up hill, he was told, cross a saddle and your stand will be on the edge of a small valley. Good luck.
As he walked, lightning flashes lit the western sky. Reaching the stand, he settled in. Slowly it grew lighter. Almost immediately, Quentin saw a nice 8-point about 16-inches wide. He could have spit on the buck as it walked underneath him. Nice for Pennsylvania, but not Missouri. Then the thunderstorm hit, heavy rain, lightning and wind. This continued till 11, then cleared. A small 3-point showed, hit the scent trail and went in the opposite direction. Silly buck.
Nothing more until 3:15, then a doe appeared in the oak brush, a glimpse of a black nose and antlers, a second doe 40 yards to the right of the first. Quentin frantically scanned the brush, where had the buck gone? How big was he? Then he gulped, heart racing for a buck with impressive antlers appeared in the brush angling at him 70 yards away. Too thick to risk a shot, let him come.
Struggling to remain calm, he stared at the big beam and long points. What a buck! Suddenly, the buck slammed on the brakes, head high, nostrils flared and stomped his foot. He was on high alert, 50 yards away and ready to bolt. It was now or never.
He raised the rifle, held on the front of the shoulder since the buck was angled at him and exerting all his will power, managed to squeeze the trigger.
The blast shattered the silence, the buck flinched, ran 10 yards and piled up. Yes!
Hands shaking, Quentin quickly climbed out of the stand and ran to the deer. What a buck! The beautiful 10-point was high, heavy and wide, a real trophy. Fortune had truly smiled upon him.
His magnificent buck earned him a free hunt, some spending money and as he jokingly put it: “The admiration of his peers and the envy of those less fortunate.”
Congratulations Quentin, what an adventure.
