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Original Issue


On his first day of deer hunting, with his very first shot, Paul Ward Jr. got the biggest thrill of his life


The tag end of fall climaxes with big clashes of skill and stamina. There's the Army-Navy game, the Rose Bowl, and other decisive contests between giants. Less heralded—but no less climactic—is the struggle of man vs. deer. Like other traditional contests it has its occasional upsets. And it's doubtful if any bigger upset was pulled off in the woods this year than one by a 14-year-old, first-year deer hunter named Paul Ward Jr., of Auburn, Maine.

The story of his urchin triumph starts one afternoon when he came home from school and his father said: "You're going after your first deer day after tomorrow." This, to Paul, was like telling a promising young boxer that he's been offered his first bout for the title. His father is a licensed Maine guide and hunting has come down through the family from a long way back. But so far Paul had never gone after anything larger than rabbit, nor had he ever fired a rifle above the caliber of .22.


Two days later, after an early supper, Paul and his father loaded the car and took off for Flagstaff Pond, a man-made lake in Somerset County, about 60 miles away. Riding with them was a second man, Adelard Croteau, who runs a sporting goods store in Auburn. He claimed to know a secret deer feeding ground near Flagstaff Pond.

The three hunters spent the night in Mr. Croteau's camp by the lake. They set out gray and early the next morning for a bivouac spot closer to the hunting ground. They started down the length of the lake in an oversized boat with an outboard motor—loaded to the gunwales with equipment.

At the far end of the lake they picked out a good place to pitch a tent, spread out a tarpaulin for a floor, and Paul built a rude but adequate fireplace. Then they ate and headed up an old, abandoned tote road.

Along the way, Paul's father showed him how to use a map and compass, since a first-year hunter can get lost in the woods as easily as a 5-year-old in Macy's basement. The lesson over, the two men quickly saw to it that Paul did get lost, acting on a well-accepted hunter's theory that if you're really going to be a good huntsman you've got to learn to be all alone in the woods without getting scared stiff about it.

Left on his own, Paul found himself wandering around a hunk of Maine called Bigelow Mountain, where the occasional crack of a twig is about the only sound. Hours went by and he neither saw nor heard a trace of the two men. Finally, following the compass only, he broke through brush and bramble until he came in sight of the lake, about 50 feet from the tent. He still saw no deer, though he did see the pontooned Piper Cub of the modern Maine game warden circling overhead, looking for a reasonably calm place on the water to land and check licenses. The warden found none and flew on.

The men came back and they and Paul ate and compared notes. Then, about 4 p.m., all three set out once more. They trudged, presently, up a long, steep knoll. When they reached the summit, they found a nice gap in the shrubbery through which they could peer. Before their eyes, at last, was the firewarden's secret place: an open field, except for scattered hedgerows and low evergreen trees, full of soft grass and moss that deer dearly love to munch on.

And sure enough, about 150 yards away, two beauties were munching—a buck and a doe. Paul knew, when he took his first quick look, that this was a thrill he'd never feel again in quite the same way as on this first time.

Paul's father planned to get his deer first, with Paul shooting later. He fired twice at the buck and missed both times. Usually he can shatter a teacup at no small distance, but he was panting and heaving from the climb up the steep knoll. The buck turned and cut out for the nearby woods. The doe calmly remained.

Paul's father fired again, this time at the doe. He missed again and at long last the doe realized something dangerous was up. She lit out for the woods.


Paul had watched long enough. He swung his rifle, borrowed from his brother who was away at Navy boot camp, to his shoulder. It was a .30 Winchester, not nearly as powerful as his father's .270 Remington. Not thinking about recoil, acting as though it were the familiar .22, he aimed for the running doe's neck. But his eye didn't follow the flight and he hit the deer broadside.

The deer staggered but kept running. When they reached the fringe of the woods, Paul and the two men beat through the underbrush in search of the wounded doe. Paul found it first. He turned and yelled at the two men: "Here it is! Here it is!"

So that's the story of Paul Ward's first deer. The dull statistics of it read: Number of deer ever aimed at—one. Distance of deer when sighted in—150 yards. Final score—one 125-pound doe bagged and officially tagged. Time taken to perform the feat—two-thirds of his first day out. Shades of Frank Merriwell and the Rover Boys!


HAPPY HUNTSMAN pats his prize. Before leaving on the hunt, Paul made a promise to his mother: "I'll bring you home 100 pounds of meat." To her surprise, he did.