I think we all love to hit and hate to miss. Whether it’s the solid whack of a bat on a baseball, the satisfying explosion of a perfect strike in bowling, or center-punching a target with a bullet or arrow, successful hits are always enjoyed.
Human nature being what it is, I believe we continue to pursue a lot of activities with the optimistic hope (even an expectation) for perfection in what we do. Sometimes it’s even baffling to us when we fall short in our attempts.
One embarrassing example would be my performance years ago on a running rabbit. I was hunting with an old friend, Pete, specifically for rabbits and grouse. We were pushing through brush, weeds and thorn apples and hadn’t moved any game in a while. In those days, I was doing some regular trap shooting and I carried my favorite shotgun at the time, a Remington model 1100 12 gauge. Riding high on successes involving quite a few tough shots on both grouse and rabbits, I thought any game I saw would be in big trouble.
When Pete called out “there he goes!” I was actually in a good position for a change, not off balance stepping over a log or ducking under a limb. Mr. bunny busted from cover in front of Pete, running across my front from right to left at maybe 25 yards. He was not even zig-zagging in panic mode, just running straight across a clearing that had no brush and with grass just a bit longer than a golf course.
In short order, I had the gun up, established a proper lead, and started shooting. One, two, three shots were thrown at the fleeing rabbit. After each shot, Pete unnecessarily called out “miss”. Pete had no shot from his position; I stood there with an empty gun and the bunny continued hopping away. They say humility is good for your soul.
Sometimes a miss can actually be a hit, sort of. I knew two guys who worked together and occasionally hunted together. One fellow was middle aged and not really a “gun guy” who hunted a few times a year. He killed a deer once in a while, with an old Mauser 8mm or his 30.06, but what he really wanted was to shoot a turkey, which had not yet happened. He apparently shot at quite a few birds over the years with his rifles and a shotgun with no success. The previous year, his younger friend had purchased a .222 rifle and bagged a turkey with it. Thus inspired, the hopeful hunter found a suitably priced .222 for the coming season.
As chance would have it, he apparently ran into a flock of birds wandering through the open woods. He commenced to fire all the rounds in his rifle at the moving birds before he noticed one was flopping around on the ground. After reloading and firing several more shots while moving in on his bird, one bullet hit the mark and he at last had his turkey.
The remarkable part of the story is what was learned when the trophy was examined. Apparently, one of the first barrage of shots had struck when the unfortunate turkey was perfectly positioned so that one bullet went through both lower legs at once, preventing escape by running or getting off the ground. Of course, this episode proved to our new turkey slayer that he had indeed found the perfect gun for fall birds. After all, he killed a turkey with it didn’t he?
We’ve all heard a variety of explanations (excuses?) for missing. Some are obviously valid, some quite creative and sometimes there is no logical reason for the miss. Being human, if we spend enough time shooting and hunting, we are bound to miss. A few of these experiences, like the rabbit described earlier, will remain vivid memories for many years to come. Another of my personal mysteries involved a shot at a doe several years ago. I had been in the woods for a few hours on a perfect hunting day; reasonable temperature, a few inches of fresh snow and plenty of deer sign. Finally, in a band of thorn brush just below a stand of hardwoods, I caught the movement of several deer walking steadily up the valley in my direction. Seeing a good opening in the brush, I settled my crosshairs on the open space and waited for the deer to walk through.
As a large doe entered the opening, I squeezed off a shot with the crosshairs just behind the shoulder. At the shot, there were deer running all over the place, including the one I’d shot at. I looked frantically for the doe, which surely must be down somewhere nearby. I went to the spot the deer had been standing and found the tracks, but no blood or hair. There were no branches I could see in the way of the shot and no reason I could think of for a miss, especially at that close range. I searched the snowy ground in widening circles, following tracks but finding no clue to help me. This all bothered me so much that I not only looked for another half hour, but went back the next morning, wanting to be sure I hadn’t wounded an animal and left it, which I had never done.
I had been practicing shooting from all practical field positions for weeks at 100 yard targets. Now I had somehow missed a large critter at maybe 40 yards. A few days later I shot a deer at over twice the distance of the miss, and it fell dead at the shot, just like it’s supposed to happen.
My dad came for a visit to hear the story of my hunt and I told him about the miss and my frustration. He listened patiently, gave a knowing nod, and said with his usual economy of words, “you know, Rog, there’s a lot of empty space all around those deer.”
From that day on, I would often remember those words whenever I looked through my scope at a deer, being more careful than ever to not miss an “easy” shot.
