From the Center

FAIR CHASE

SUMMER 2000

FROM THE CENTER

Jack Ward Thomas

JUST WHAT IS A TROPHY

In the modern era, mention of the “Boone and Crockett Club” is commonly associated in the public’s mind with evaluation of and keeping records on the best trophy heads of North American big game animals. The techniques developed by the Club for the evaluation of those trophies have become the standard for those interested in such matters. Club members of all classes are justly proud of the records program.

The Club’s intent in the institution of its records program was twofold: the examination in trends in trophy quality over a long enough period to judge if hunting was causing any adverse effects on animal genetics as reflected through horns and antlers, and to pay honor to the animals involved. The program was and is not intended to serve as a means of fostering competition between hunters. To the extent that such competition occurs or is stimulated by a place in the records book, it is a perversion of the intent for the records program.

I want to make it clear in the beginning that I am a supporter and proponent of the Club’s records program. But, I want to explore, herein, some other aspects of the concept of hunting trophies.

When I am identified to strangers as “the Boone and Crockett Professor,” ensuing discussions frequently tack to the subject of “trophies.” That, naturally enough, has stimulated exchanges and extensive ruminations on my part concerning the matter of trophies — what they should be and what they should not be. The rest of this column is devoted to a summarized version of those wide-ranging explorations. These thoughts and reflections are, by the way, strictly my own and are in no way related to any position of the Boone and Crockett Club.

To my mind, hunting trophies is not limited to magnificent mounted heads hanging on a den or museum wall. A trophy is a tangible reminder of an achievement or experience that deserves preservation and, perhaps, display. In my life as a wildlife biologist and dedicated hunter, I have had more opportunities than most to take trophy animals within my estimation of fair chase. Yet, in comparison to opportunity, I have taken relatively few. And, all that I have taken have, by now, been given away to institutions and individuals for one purpose or another.

I have, tucked away in a drawer, photographs that I cherish and consider as trophies that were taken on hunts in various parts of the world. These may include the animal(s) that were taken. But, these photos are more cherished because of the images of companions in the photos, many now departed. These photographs are the means that provide for a resurrection of rare and beautiful moments from the depths of memory.

My dictionary tells me that one definition of a trophy is a tangible reminder of a victory won in competition. One thing that a hunter’s trophy should not represent is a “victory” over the animal pursued nor over other hunters. In my opinion, hunting in its most keenly developed form is a contest that takes place solely within the hunter’s mind. For, only therein, are all things laid bare for the individual who has the maturity and nerve to see, feel, and contemplate what is going on in the hunting experience — motivation, knowledge, ethics, skill, feelings, traditions, and instincts. In my own mind I now wonder whether the hunter and the prey are two different entities or are one being entwined forever from an evolutionary past of millions of years.

Perhaps, only a few hunters are introspective and daring enough to dig so deeply into themselves. And, there are probably even fewer erudite enough and with the willingness to talk about what they feel and discover on such inward journeys. But, those who do can share with others some greater depth of cognition of the hunting mystique that can result from such inward journeys.

These journeys, I have found, are best undertaken while resting in the sun on a mountainside during crisp fall weather interrupted only by gray jays begging for scraps and an occasional elk’s bugle — or, perhaps, snuggled into a sleeping bag watching the campfire die into embers and then into darkness. To each his own.

So, in the end, the true trophy hangs not on the wall but resides in the heart and mind. And, where trophies do adorn the wall, they should be admired for themselves and what they represent of their wild homes that are habitat for both them and the hunter. For it is there that the hunter always returns in reverie — there where the hunter’s true trophy of the experience in the pursuit of the animal resides in memory.

Such truly magnificent trophies can, and do, exist even when there has been no kill. A trophy can exist even when the animal taken does not meet the common definition of a trophy in terms of size and symmetry of horns and antlers and such. I spent much of my early career as a wildlife biologist working with whitetail deer in Texas. For over a decade, I pursued and killed a number of bucks adorned with antlers that were worthy to be called trophies by any definition. Over the years, the antlers accumulated in my garage as my wife objected to animal parts hanging in her house, and I could not afford the services of a taxidermist. These antlers were, ultimately, given away to the local Chamber of Commerce when I moved on to a new job and a new life with the U. S. Forest Service in West Virginia.

I kept only one set of antlers from those days — a carefully cleaned and bleached piece of skull with spike antlers about six inches long attached. This trophy was taken by a one-time hunting companion I barely knew, who was some 12-years old at the time of the hunt. The occasion of the taking of the trophy was the “orphan’s doe hunt” in Mason County, Texas, in about 1960. The hunt was organized by a gruff but most compassionate man, Game Warden Gene Ashby, with the twofold purpose of encouraging landowners to begin to harvest antlerless deer and to give some young men without parents a chance to experience hunting.

By the luck of the draw, a young man named Benny (I cannot now remember his last name) was placed in my charge. The first afternoon of our acquaintance was spent on shooting lessons. Within an hour or so, Benny, using my old Savage 250-3000, could, using a rest, consistently knock cans off a log at 50 yards.

We arrived at my home and sat down to chicken and dumplings. Benny could not help but be aware that my young sons were most envious of his tomorrow and puffed up just a bit. As good hunters do, we cleaned the rifle before we went to bed and placed it in the corner near Benny’s bed ready for the morrow.

He was awake, ready and eager to go the next morning at 4:00 a.m. when I opened the bedroom door to tell him it was time to “rise and shine.” He was lying wide awake and fully dressed, on top of the covers cradling the Savage in his arms with a broad smile firmly and fully in place.

We were in our assigned hunting area under mesquite and liveoak trees at the edge of an old field when the sky in the east began to glow red with impending sunrise and we could make out the deer in the field from the fading shadows. I carefully studied the deer through my binoculars to assure that the adult doe was not, in reality, a spike buck and was close enough to provide Benny a good shot.

After a bit of waiting for legal shooting time, Benny had the right deer in mind and at acceptable range. The deer was facing us head-on and Benny waited and waited for the deer to turn broadside. Just as the deer turned, it was clear to me that the slender young man was afflicted by the onset of a serious bout of what Texas hunters call “buck agar.” He was shaking and gasping for breath. When I put my arm around his shoulders, I could feel his heart pounding. I whispered softly and quietly into his ear until the shaking stopped — more or less.

He steadied down to shoot, lifted his head and jerked the trigger, and missed clean. The doe didn’t move but raised her head to stare toward the direction of the rifle’s report. He repeated the process — including the miss. As the deer bounded away after the second shot, Benny began to tremble and cry. He was, I think, both mortified by his failure and bitterly disappointed.

After a bit of time to regain composure and a little discussion about squeezing the trigger and assurance that everyone, even me, misses now and again, he had calmed down. We chewed on some venison jerky to recharge our energy and entreat assistance from the lord of the hunt and, then, were off working our way through the woods from one stand to another. We saw numerous deer as the day went on. Some snorted and bounded away with their white tails up and waving us a goodbye. Some were feeding and did not initially see nor wind us, but none were close enough for Benny’s level of marksmanship considering his somewhat deflated ego and diminished confidence.

Finally, in the gloaming between sundown and full dark, as we were working our way back toward the truck, we came upon a deer standing broadside to us at less than 40 yards. Both the light and the wind were at our backs. The deer was feeding totally unaware of our presence.

There was less than five minutes of legal shooting time left and the light was fast giving way to darkness. It was now or never if Benny was to go home a blooded young hunter. I glassed the deer and, to my dismay, saw that it was a yearling buck with spike antlers barely longer than its ears.

Our agreement with our landowner host (who ran a commercial hunting operation) was that we could only take an antlerless deer. But, clearly, this was Benny’s last chance and he had worked so hard and wanted so much not to disappoint himself — and me. I really had no choice. I figured that I would convince the landowner of the “necessity” for my call to shoot the spike. Or, I would pay him the full price for a buck ($100) - not an insignificant sum nor an easy decision for a young biologist with a wife and two boys at home and making $350 a month. I never had any real doubt as it seemed clearly the right thing, the only thing, to do.

I had no more whispered “shoot” than I heard the crack of the rifle. The deer spun and ducked out of sight into the beeweed and mesquite cover. Benny began to shake and stutter with an edge of overwhelming frustration evident in his voice. Watching through the binoculars, I thought, judging from the deer’s reaction, that the bullet had struck him low in the chest. By the time we reached the spot where the young buck was standing when the shot rang out, it was nearing full dark. I dug a flashlight out of my hunting pack and we began to search the ground. There, in the tracks left by the scrambling deer, glistened bright droplets of arterial blood. We followed and some 65 yards along the blood trail lay Benny’s deer.

I handed Benny the flashlight and stood motionless and watched as he covered the last ten yards to the young buck. He circled the deer several times. Then he sat down next to the sleek young buck and stroked its coat. It was a private moment and I had the good sense to respect that.

Finally, I stepped forward, kneeled next to Benny, put my arm around his shoulder, and told him that I knew what he was thinking — “you can’t decide whether you are sad or glad about what just happened.” He looked at me and nodded. His expression asked the question “How did you know?”

I answered the unspoken question by saying, “because that is the way I always feel. Most of them don’t talk about it. But, I think most hunters feel that way. And, maybe, if you don’t feel like that you shouldn’t hunt.” I don’t know how much he understood of what I said. Yet, I believe he felt the words.

Then I told Benny that we needed to field dress the buck and drag it to the nearby ranch road. We talked little as we worked on the buck and the two of us dragged him to the roadside. I announced that we would have to walk a mile or so to get my game department truck. He, clearly, wanted to stay with his deer, and he did just that. As I left, he crouched next to the deer and, again, began stroking its coat.

By the time I got back with the truck, Benny was through with reflection and awe and jabbered with excitement as we loaded the buck in the truck and he continued all the way back to the ranch house. When I told the rancher the story and offered to pay up for my decision, he looked first at Benny whose face was one big grin and, then, back at me. A big smile creased his leathery face as he said, “Boys, this one is on the house.”

As we shook hands and said our good-byes, he used both of his large callused hands to shake Benny’s hand. Then, he turned quickly and walked away. He ran the backs of his hands over his eyes as he went — a bit of dust no doubt.

The next morning, before delivering Benny to the rendezvous point to meet the bus that would take the young men back to the city, we skinned away the hide around the spike antlers. I sawed off the face of the skull with antlers intact and screwed it onto a pine board so that the trophy might be hung on his wall. The last time I saw him he was climbing the steps of the bus clutching the board and antlers.

We exchanged letters a few times over the next six years. Then, one June, I received a package and a letter in the mail. In the box were the board and the antlers. The letter told me that Ben had graduated from high school and was off to the Army.

He asked me to keep his trophy safe. I wrote back and said that I would do just that. I never heard from Ben again. But, I still have our trophy — Ben’s and mine — somewhere in my barn, somewhere in the unpacked boxes from my moves since then.

It has been 40 some years since my hunt with Benny. And, that is but one hunt out of many of which I carry the trophy of memory in my heart and mind. Yet, looking back, I believe that I would rather have that trophy than the biggest set of antlers of the biggest deer I ever killed.

So, in my reckoning at least, the biggest trophy of all, is what lingers in the heart and mind and not what hangs upon the wall.