Uncle Joe teaches me to poach a deer

by Gary Torres
My Cave My View
Most people called my dad Uncle Joe; even those not related.  I was a young boy, about nine years old, when my dad and my uncle Cosme took me hunting up on the mountain. 
The only problem was it was not hunting season.  Some people would probably call that poaching, but in my dad’s way of thinking, he wasn’t poaching unless it was nighttime, and you used a spotlight. 
We drove up the mountain, and I remember my dad taking our small caliber rifle, a 0.22 Remington with open “buck horn sights”.  My dad loved a gun with “buck horn sites.”  Many of the best hunting stories included his trusty old 0.33 Winchester with “buck horn sites”.
Today was different, we were hunting but we weren’t in hunter orange, and it seemed like we were not trying to draw attention to ourselves as we drove out of town. 
Now that I am little older, I suspect that the small caliber gun was more about stealth and not about the “buck horn sites”.  But I was new to this, so I will let it stand. 
We used the 0.22 rifle for rabbits all the time, so I was familiar with the gun.  I coveted the times when my dad let me shoot the rabbit. 
Uncle Joe had assured me a well-placed bullet to the head of small deer with our gun would have plenty of knockdown power.  He seemed to be talking with the confidence of experience.
Up to this point, I had no idea what we were doing, but I was never one to pass up a chance to go up the mountains, even if I was often suffocated with secondhand smoke from my dad. 
He would always roll the window down just enough to give me hope that I could live for another five minutes.  He would cuss the cigarettes as if they were an entity that possessed a stand-alone identity. 
“These damn things are gonna kill me some day.  I don’t even like them and I don’t smoke nearly as many as Uncle Gus.” 
By saying this and cursing the cigarettes, I think it made him feel like he was doing everything possible to take care of his health.  His prophecy of dying from those “damn things” eventually came true.
We drove further up the mountain.  Near North Creek we saw a nice little buck.  We stopped and looked both ways along the road.  I was pretty sure they wanted to shoot a buck, but if we hadn’t found a buck, well then, venison is venison.  It was only a spike, but as every hunter that shoots a small deer claims, “you can’t eat the horns.”
My dad pulled the truck to the side of the road and slowly came to a stop.  Cosme looked at my dad, flicked his eyes in the direction of the deer. 
Without saying a word, permission had been granted with the slightest nod of my dad’s head.  Cosme rolled the passenger window down, aimed the gun and shot.  The deer dropped where it stood.  I was a little surprised because up to that point no one had mentioned that we were poaching. 
Suddenly I feared for my life.  I had heard my mom and dad arguing; besides his drinking, poaching was right up there on the top of the list that made my mother furious. 
Many heated arguments about poaching ended with a “You’re going to get caught.  Then what?” 
Of course, we needed the meat, but my mother was a rule follower. She worried about everything and of course it was one more thing she would have to pray to God for.  
Being Catholic is tough.  It was full time work for her to confess her families’ sins, plead that we would not get caught, and that we would not all go to hell or jail. 
I didn’t think going to jail at age nine would do anything to help me with my future plans; which was at the time to play professional football.
The deer dropped like a rock and Uncle Joe and Cosme told me to stay in the truck and to tell anyone that stopped and started asking questions that my dad had just went up into the trees to go to the bathroom and that I was just fine, and he would be back shortly. 
I am not sure what lesson was the most valuable that day; teaching me how to poach or teaching me to tell a little white lie without flinching.  I eventually mastered the second part and became an award-winning newspaper writer. 
As Mark Twain said, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”  Of course, with all the fake news these days, my talents pale in comparison to the internet.
Before long, my dad and Cosme were back, and we were driving down the road with a deer covered by a tarp, covered with junk made to look natural. 
We road down the road as happily as two poachers and an apprentice could be.  We pulled all the way into the garage and closed the garage door so we could hang the deer up and skin it. 
I wasn’t sure how this was going to end, but I didn’t see any way that it would be good for me.  Sometimes, as my dear mother would lecture me, and make the sign of the cross.  
I believe my mother thought I was the designated adult of the poaching trio and was supposed to keep these two out of trouble.
There was one other time that I should probably disclose at this time since we are on the topic of poaching deer. 
My dad was a contractor at times building fences for the Forest Service and BLM. 
One summer we were building a long section of fence for the Forest Service up on the Blue Mountains near Foy Lake.
Our practice was to camp up the mountain and only come to town when necessary.  Sometimes, we would make a run to town to get more fencing materials from the USFS ware yard. 
It isn’t done anymore, but back then the Forest Service would load up a truck with fencing materials and then my dad would drive it up the mountain and bring it back later.  This would never be allowed in today’s world of red tape and overzealous attorneys. 
My dad loved having a Forest Service truck to drivee figured with an official government truck nobody would ever stop us or question us and the truck was new, full of gas, and had good tires on. 
We never owned a new vehicle that I know of, we were always running on a fume and a prayer, and the best tires we ever had were retreads. 
He would drive with his arm resting on the door window because he had to keep the window rolled down when he smoked.  That that was a small price to pay to enjoy his working for the “guvment”.
Feeding a family of nine kids and half a dozen strays was full time work so Grandpa Joe, by necessity had to be opportunistic. As fate would have it, a small two-point deer was near our camp and so my dad decided that the “Lord provides so who am I to question His ways?” 
My dad poached the deer while we were fencing for the Forest Service and he loaded the deer into the back of the USFS truck and then covered the deer with a load of wood and started down the mountain confident that no one would stop or question an official USFS truck.
On our way down the mountain, we ran into the State Game Warden so of course we stopped to visit with him since he was always checking in on us up at our camp. 
I don’t know if his frequent visits were because he enjoyed our company and eating a few tortillas and beans whenever he stopped, or if he was just checking on us, since I am sure my father’s poaching reputation was well known.
We talked.  “Joe, it looks like you are starting to haul wood for the winter?”  It was a question more than a statement.   
My dad responded without making eye contact, “You know the winters are long and the wood is right near our camp. Seemed like a good time to start.” 
The Game Warden walked around the truck and back to the driver’s window, where my dad was sitting looking as innocent as a dog with chicken feathers in his mouth. 
The Warden looked at my dad and said, “Joe it looks like your load of wood is going to bleed to death.  I suggest you hurry and get it home.” 
He walked away and my dad didn’t need to be told twice.  He high tailed it down the mountain with his bleeding load of wood and pulled into the garage and closed the door. 
We washed out the truck and returned it to the USFS later that day.