Five years ago, the photographer for the Pennsylvania Game Commission, who attends my church, was telling me about some new opportunities for flintlock hunters. It used to be that if you purchased the special muzzleloader stamp with your general hunting license, you would have to give up your antlerless license application. That rule was dropped. No longer would I have to risk doing without venison in order to have a special post-Christmas ether-sex hunt. In addition, a week long October antlerless season just for flintlock hunting was created, so I could enjoy the autumn woods when the weather was not quite so bitterly cold, and my flash pan powder was more likely to stay dry...in a "normal" year, that is!

I was sold on the idea from the start. Since I had become ill in 1999, I had not been able to count on getting out to hunt much during our regular firearms season. On my 37-acre farm and the surrounding land, if you do not get out on opening day, your chances of connecting are slim since the deer wise up quickly. I had not the energy to go elsewhere, or hunt as hard as I would like, and I figured these two extra seasons would help make my hunting more enjoyable, as all did not rest on one or two days.

There was just one "little" problem. I had not a CLUE how to load, shoot, or clean the firearm that founded our freedoms. It was all Greek to me, and my husband, although he reluctantly agreed to purchase my flintlock for my birthday, said he would have no part in helping me learn to use it. He hadn't a clue himself, you see! I heard about the new Firestorm from Thompson/Center Arms. It was supposed to be really easy to load and shoot, and was modern enough to use the nifty looking Pyrodex pellets. No measuring required; just drop in, put in the maxi ball, and shoot. Well, it sounded easy enough!

Our favorite gunsmith was nice enough to show me how to load, prime, and shoot right outside his store. I did OK with the first load, but the second time, the gun did not fire. He warned me to hold it on the target for a minute just in case it was a long "hang-fire", when the gun goes off a bit later than you expect it. So began my love-hate relationship with my Firestorm.

It was then that I stumbled upon WomenHunters, and a gal on the bulletin board gave me tips on priming the flash pan with just enough 4F powder to ignite the gun. Too much would make a longer hangfire, she said. Her advice was helpful, but half the time I tried, the Pyrodex pellets still did not ignite. She told me to ditch the Pyrodex pellets, but that first year, I was afraid to do so. I continued to fight misfire and hangfire, and had trouble holding on target long enough to be accurate. My poor health was making matters worse, and if I practiced much, the sulfur would trigger asthma attacks.

One day I was reading about a new propellant that was sulfur-free. Not only was it less corrosive for the barrel after shooting, and cleaned up with soap and water, but it also made my sessions a lot more productive as I did not get that nagging catch in my lungs from the smoke. Still, I had no deer to show for it, and continued to lose confidence in my ability to ever get this right. Fortunately, my friend from WomenHunters continued to stay in touch and give me valuable tips, such as making sure my flint was hitting the frizzen high enough and squarely enough. Too bad she couldn't come and teach me to be more accurate! In lieu of a local mentor, I turned to Revolutionary War movies to see how the Minutemen could actually hit their target well enough to win the war. All I needed was a deer; it couldn't be that hard! I finally got it last year when I learned to kneel with my gun squarely leaning against a tree. I hit my mark! Not a bull's eye, but a "killing shot" on my cardboard target on our private rifle range. It was only 30 yards, but that was OK, since for the first few years of hunting I had used only buckshot, and was disciplined enough to pass up shots beyond my range.

Two years ago, the PGC allowed in-line rifles for the October hunt, but I was not going to upgrade. Those in-lines are little more than glorified slug guns, in my thinking. I was determined to do this the traditional way! It all finally came together this year. Although I had a wicked virus the week before my October season, and was too weak to get out that first Saturday morning, I dragged my carcass out for the afternoon. I still-hunted along the logging roads on the ridge behind us, and sat along a traditionally well used trail, but saw very little sign and no deer. As I walked home just before dusk, a deer bolted across the path about fifty yards in front of me. I slowed to a stalk, and just felt something watching me as I came to the spot in our woods just above the barn, where the other deer had crossed. Was that a deer I heard snort softly, or one of our cattle or goats? I heard a critter at the barn scratching on the sheet metal siding, figured that to be the source of the sound, and stepped forward to continue home. Big mistake! I suddenly found myself looking at a very pretty, very alert, and VERY close doe! Oh, why not try, I figured, as I raised my gun. She turned the ten yards into twenty in a flash, and stood right behind a triple-trunked tree. I had no rest, and could not see enough deer between the trunks to get a sure shot, so I passed on it. "Live long and prosper, bring me back some fawns next year" I whispered to her. She bounded away, and I marked the spot where I had seen her and her companion.

We have no Sunday hunting, so my daughter Lisa and I went out that next day to find a place for our ladder stand along the trail above that spot on the logging road. We found a straight and sturdy poplar tree, secured the stand, and prepared for Monday. I was still not feeling well that morning, and chose to hunt the ground on the ridge just above our house and let Lisa use the stand for archery hunting. I saw no deer, but was treated to a successful hunt as a Cooper's Hawk caught a chipmunk near me, and the countless songbirds in the heavy forest understory scolded their beautiful feathered foe. Lisa, on the other hand, saw four deer as she was lowering her bow before climbing down to go home and relieve her dad of watching the younger children. She had to freeze in place as the deer sniffed the sapling on which she had placed some deer lure that Redbird had so generously sent me. I was determined to sit there in the evening!

I headed out after getting some rest, and had been in my stand only ten minutes when I heard some very noisy and deliberate movement. I believe it was the same doe I had seen Saturday evening, and she was with her two fawns. They came out of the woods above the clover field, and were headed my way along the logging road! I very carefully moved my gun into position, using a side rail to steady it, praying for the strength to calm my excitement, telling myself to hold tight when the moment comes, to not move the gun a smidgeon until well after the flash. As the first deer came into range, I was delighted to see that it was a button buck. I did not want to shoot a doe this year. This would be my way of protesting the deliberate over-killing of does Gary Alt had implemented the past few years. Our numbers were pitiful already, and to kill an adult doe means to kill three, perhaps four deer! Bambi stepped up to the fragrant hemlock sapling, and I cocked the flint. My, what a noise that makes! I sat as still as stone, for he was only twenty yards away, I was wearing my required orange, and there were three pairs of eyes trying to find the source of that click. I put my TrueGlo open sights on his boiler room, squeezed, and held the gun on him. For a split second that seemed like an eternity, nothing happened, but a welcomed BOOM then shattered the still woods. Mama and sibling ran one way, the button buck straight away from me. As is usual for me at such a sacred moment when I enter into the mystery of taking my rightful place in nature, I broke into simultaneous tears and laughter, and said "Thank you!" to my Creator for blessing me so generously.

I called the house on my two-way, and Lisa asked excitedly, "Did you get one?" "I think so!" I answered. She and my husband had both heard the shot, just under a couple hundred yards from home, and both broke into big grins. Lisa donned her orange and came out to help me track, and I climbed down to check for a hit. I was going to reload, but found sign of a lung hit, so knew it was unnecessary. We found the little fellow in the fairly thick brush, just fifty yards away. He was not a trophy by usual standards, but to me he represented the end of a long period of bad health, bad shooting, bad fortune. I felt alive once again, and the thrill of connecting with my flintlock was something so awesome, I can barely explain it. It was so much more rewarding than shooting a similar sized deer with my .30-06!

While I did hunt the regular rifle season, when I could only shoot a buck with my general license, I saw absolutely no deer, thanks to the radical environmentalists' planned decimation, which caused the collapse of our once thriving herd. Lisa saw only five in two weeks. I was beginning to see how perilously low our numbers were, and hunters from all over the state were reporting even more dismal experiences. I had used my antlerless tag, but had minimally impacted next year's crop, and I vowed to refrain from using my flintlock tag on a doe in the post-Christmas season, even though it was permitted. Fortunately, my allergist's father, who lives in Western PA and still has a robust deer herd, invited me to his farm to hunt. That was to be the hunt that really topped off my year, but to read about this fun time, you must visit my doctor's site at www.huntertohunter.com

© February 2005