This season I was not going to let those beavers get the best of me. My 1984 Suburban, AKA "The Beast", not only had too many miles on it, but it broke down so often that I had to admit it was finally worn out and had to be retired. (I found it a good home on a California ranch.) In searching for its replacement, I knew what I needed and wanted, but had no idea if I would ever find my ideal hunting rig, powerful and indestructible. After months of shopping, we finally found the ultimate hunting rig, a fully restored black 1979 Ford F-250 short box 4X4, with a 460 big block V-8, a 12,000 pound Warn Wench on the front end, and 14-inch suspension and body lift kit to make room for the 38 inch tall, 12 inch wide mudders needed to assault the beaver pond. The truck appeared so tall I thought I might need a ladder to get in and a parachute to get out.

During preseason all my scouting was done with a spotting scope at long distance so the deer would feel secure enough to remain in the area. When opening morning of deer season arrived, Oct. 5, I jumped in Black Beauty anticipating being the first hunter, and hopefully the only one, to cross the water at the beaver dam. The beavers had worked extra diligently to make the dam bigger and stronger, keeping out any and all hunters. Black Beauty and I approached the creek bank where the water was over four feet deep and possibly still impassable, but I had to give it a try. (After all, I still had the wench to pull us out if I got stuck.) We sat there revving the engine as if it were the starting line at a drag strip. VROOM! VROOM! The dual exhaust rumbled displaying the big block V-8's horse power. To my left I spotted a beaver sitting on top of the dam. He was a big guy, about 70 pounds, poised with hand in the air as if signaling the beginning of a race. My adrenaline was pumping and her motor was humming. With the hubs locked in and the transfer case in low range 4-wheel drive, I shifted into first gear. I actually had my doubts that we would make it, but Black Beauty was properly equipped to take on this challenge. It was time to go for it. With pedal to the metal, the tachometer jumped to 6,000 RPMs. The knobby tires lunged forward into the water spewing mud from all four wheels with the force of snow blower, splitting the flow of the water, splashing water several feet high over the dam. Holy Hannah! The G force threw me back in the seat and my eyes bugged out. Just like that we were on the other side!!! What a rush! What a truck! I sat with my foot on the brake waiting for my blood pressure to go down. Then I started up to the ridge knowing I would have the entire mountain to myself.

The hunting pressure from everyone's preseason scouting had pushed hundreds of deer into this canyon no one else could access. I couldn't believe my eyes. The moment I got there, I saw four giant bucks at the crest of the ridge about 300 yards away. They stood there startled as if to say, "What the heck are you doing here?"  I grabbed my trusty Wetherby, bailed out of the truck, stumbling to the ground, muttering to myself, "My gun's not loaded."  While fumbling with my ammunition, the deer realized their vacation was over and began beating feet away from me. All I could see were their horns. The bachelor group consisted of two typical and two non-typical, all monsters, the monarchs of the herd. I had only a split second to make up my mind as to which one to shoot. I have to admit, I was caught completely off-guard and had absolutely no idea that bucks this big were even up here. They could not be spotted from down below. What a honey hole!

My 30-378 Wetherby magnum only holds three rounds. I selected my target, the widest non-typical with the most points. I started blasting away, squeezing the trigger three times. My gun was empty. I only had time to reload once. This time I threw my bipod down, lay down on the ground, cranked the zoom on the scope to 18 power, and the biggest non-typical paused to glance over his shoulder at his predator. Big mistake! I put the cross hairs on the top of his back. He is uphill about 500 yards. Holding my breath, I thought, "Squeeze," knowing this would be my last shot. KABOOM! This was followed by the echo of the bullet hitting its mark. The shot went right through his shoulders; it was a clean kill. I crawled back into Black Beauty, loaded him up whole with his antlers sticking out above the tailgate, and drove back down the hill to the beaver pond.

"OK,"  I said to myself, "We did it once before, we can do it again."

I put pedal to the metal as the beaver watched again. Piece of cake. We were home free with my trophy. What a truck!