By Dan Infalt
 Some of my fondest memories come from my childhood. When I was 8 years old, I wanted to go deer hunting with my older brother, Bob in the worst way. He was my idol. Every Thanksgiving week he would travel to Black River Falls and come back with a little buck that seemed like a huge trophy to a young boy. He would tell me stories for hours about everything that happened.
Bob once again headed away to a place I only knew as “Up North.” I really wanted to go bad, but Dad said I was too young and needed to have patience until I was old enough.
Dad was a smart man. The north woods was no place for a child who was addicted to adventure. However Dad felt sorry for the boy in the driveway kicking stones. After the hunters left, he bought me a little gift... a small, red, Fred Bear fiberglass toy bow with a couple of wooden arrows with field tips. He said, "Why don't you practice hunting with this 'til your old enough to go with Bob?" All I could think was Bob will sure be impressed when he comes home and sees the big trophy buck I am going to shoot with my new bow!
I practiced shooting every tin can I could find, imagining the cans being big bucks or charging bears. Then I started stalking the woodlots and fields around my Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin house looking for real bucks and bears. I saw a couple deer but was frustrated when every stalk was busted and the deer would just run off.
Suddenly I was faced with the last day of the nine day deer season. Dad told me Bob had called to say he got a buck and was on his way home. I had to give it one last try. I took my toy bow out for the last hunt. This time I took my dog, Beuford, along. He would help me find a buck.
I crawled through some brush into an opening in a thick overgrown field. As I stood, I was face to face with a buck staring back from about 10 feet away! Beuford circled the buck and went at it from behind while I just stood in shock staring at the buck who was staring at me. As the dog came up on the bucks rear, the animal lunged forward and ran right over the top of me. One of his antlers caught my jacket ripping it as I slammed to the ground. As he jumped over me a hoof rammed into my guts leaving a large muddy track. By the time I got back to my feet, the mighty buck was gone, never to be seen again. That's when the tears started.
My neighbor, Mrs. Martin, came to my rescue after witnessing the event from her porch. She could not cross a river that separated us, so she called my Dad who came running out to make sure I was not hurt.
"Are you OK?" he hollered.
I said "Yes" in between my moaning cry's.
He said, "Then why you cryin?"
I said, "Cuz I didn't get the buck!"
I was waiting at the door when Bob got home. "Look at the track on my jacket, Bob!" I was now part of the club...I had my own hunting story! The next week the story appeared in the Milwaukee Journal and word of "the boy who got run over by a buck" story started to spread.
That was over 30 years ago, and I am still getting even with the bucks!
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Comments
Once again, great tale! Glad you lived to tell about it. Jason
Posted by: Jason Herbert on March 8, 2006 12:19 PM
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