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blizzard warnings - 13:52 , 03 October 2013

heelerless - 21:32 , 18 August 2013

Red Coat Inn in Fort McLeod - 11:38 , 23 June 2013

rushing into the waters - 09:53 , 21 June 2013

choosing a spot - 17:43 , 27 April 2013

05 December 2009 - 23:32

river rescue

The call came around quarter to two. I first knew of it as I heard the jingling of the wife's sleigh bell necklace. I turned to see her peeking out of the East Ballroom, wearing her elf hat and handing out her phone.

"She says she's 'Joe'," the wife announces, with some skepticism.

Now, I was expecting a phone call, from eldest son or daughter-in-law (Forget anything nice I ever said about Toyota's great warranty... apparently they only honor their warranties in California. No, really. Stay away from buying Toyota hybrids if you don't live in that state...), but not on the wife's phone.

I take the phone and say hello. It's "Jo," not "Joe."

"I've got a problem," she announces, "and you know where B__ is."

Yep. B__ is in a helicopter, flying our deer surveys. I called Jo, our dispatcher a couple hours ago to see how his survey was going, and if he would still need me on standby.

Which is how I managed to end up being free to spend Saturday as the 75-cent gatekeeper at this charity bazaar, merrily greeting Christmas shoppers.

"We've got a deer that fell through the ice in the river," Jo starts...

Ohhhh, crap. I've only had to handle one other "deer through the ice" situation before. We managed to save the deer, at considerable risk to human life. It was only afterwards that it sank in... "That was an incredibly stupid thing to do."

I steal the wife's SUV, and drive home. A quick change into uniform, winter clothes and boots, and I'm headed north. A multitude of scenarios flying through my brain.

The deer was right where the coyote hunters said it was.

They say it has been there for at least an hour and a half, now. It's not moving any more.

We sneak down to the river's edge, and the buck rears his head in another futile attempt to climb out of the frigid, racing water. Ice has formed on his antlers and ear. The ice around his pitfall is piled like a snowcone from his struggles.

The first three to four meters of our shoreline is open water with just a skim of ice. You could break it with a Q-tip. Beyond is a mixture of slush and ice plates. A week ago this river was open water, and the sub-zero temperatures that started on Tuesday are just starting to harden the surface. The center of the river is flowing, the icy covering just a jam of slush.

The buck is closest to the other shore, but there is no easy way to get there. The nearest bridge is 15 miles upriver, and there are no roads from the bridge to that side of the river bank. Only rough Jeep trails, which are likely to be drifted shut.

Even if you could get there, there is just as much open water on that shore.

There is no way to get to this deer. And he's way too far from firm ice to lasso, the trick we used on a young doe so many years ago.

And, most likely, his hind legs are already frozen and dead.

I turn to the tallest coyote hunter.

The best I can do for him is make the ending quick.

"Well, that's kinda what we thought," he answers. Apparently it was a lot more obvious to them, a lot quicker.

We climb back up to the highway, and I retrieve the rifle. "You want to borrow our shooting sticks?" the shorter one asks. Using a pair of sticks to steady the end of your rifle is a trick introduced to this country by buffalo hunters a century and a half ago, and many still use them. I never have.

No, I answer.

And then, forced to face the possibility of failure in this freezing cold, I add... unless the I miss with the first two shots.

Once the decision is made, it is best if it is done quickly. I hustle back to the river's edge and drop to one knee. The buck kindly rears his head once again up off the icy surface, giving me perfect broadside. I center the crosshairs on the back of the neck a little below the head. At this close range, the bullet should hit an inch or two higher, destroying the back of the skull.

And the brain of a beautiful little four-point buck. I squeeze the trigger.

And barely hear the gunshot.

And the buck is unmoving on the ice. Not a twitch, not a single kick. Not even a blink.

It is over.

The coyote hunters leave first, off to salvage what recreation they can from the last few hours of the day. I stay and watch, making absolutely sure there is no movement on the ice. As I slide the rifle back into its case, another truck pulls up.

"I'm glad somebody finally got here," the young driver announces. They'd tried to call someone four hours ago, when they first spotted the buck in the ice. His young female companion is constantly craning her neck over their seat, looking down at the brown lump in the ice. She, like me, wanted absolute assurance the buck was no longer suffering.

A pair of sundogs lit the way home.

I made it back to the bazaar five minutes after it closed. Just in time to empty the trash cans. Which was just as well.

I was no longer feeling merry.

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