David Diaz

In a wounded rampage, the buck came flying out of the brush at full-tilt, headed for my midsection.

From atop the ridge, one could see the shoreline as it edged its way along the coast. A couple of hundred yards out were two sport- fishing vessels, undoubtedly serving to thrill out-of-towners with their first deep-sea catches. In a whisper, the view was gone as a blanket of thick coastal fog covered the beach. Slowly, the fog found its way into the canyon where I was scoping for deer.

Shaking my head, I had to wonder if I was really deer hunting or dreaming. Being Missouri born and bred, this environment was completely alien. More to my liking is a well-placed tree stand over a good scrape line or a stand overlooking a rich bed of clover or an uncut corn field. But now, 1600 miles away, I stood at ground-level atop a mountain, overlooking ocean, interstate, and a nuclear power plant in the distance, wondering, “What is this?”

This was an ocean-view hunt, I guessed. It was September of 1985 and my first California deer hunt. I was forty miles north of San Diego, inside Camp Pendleton. Nestled just off the Pacific Ocean, the Marine base provides what some old-timers claim is the best deer hunting in Southern California. The Department of Fish and Game supervises annual hunts throughout the state, including this military-supervised, three-weekend, “either-sex deer hunt’’ at Camp Pendleton. I was one of 150 civilians drawn by lot the previous July to participate.

On the Wednesday before the hunt, I drove up to Camp Pendleton for a second drawing that would determine what would be my hunting territory. I had naively thought I could just drive up to the base, find a spot that looked good, and wait dutifully for a shot at “Mr. Big.’’ But the base’s National Resource Office quickly disabused me of the notion.

Once there, I had to get through the main gate patrol. After twenty minutes spent proving who I was, that what I was driving was mine, and that my mother wasn’t a Communist, the guards let me pass. Next came a battery of tests and forms. The tests pertained to California hunting regulations, with some marine base “specialties” thrown in. Finally, I was given permission to report to hunt headquarters, where I found myself among a number of people who were muttering odd-sounding names, such as “Delta,” “Echo,” “Yankee,” and “Bravo” For all I knew, these were their rifles or names of the deer they planned to harvest. Not wanting to disclose my ignorance, 1 played along, letting a few “Echos” and “Deltas” roll off my tongue, too. “This is easy,” I told myself, but one of the men approached me.

“Have you hunted Delta before?” he asked. “Any deer in there?”

A slow-breathed “Ahh ...” followed by, “Never seen a thing” was all I could muster. He walked away.

The names I had heard were the designated hunting areas within the base. Camp Pendleton is divided up into thirty-one areas that range in size from sixty acres to 4100 acres. Forming the hub for them all is the “Whiskey Impact Area.” Whiskey is off-limits, since undetonated charges could spoil an unsuspecting hunter’s day if he stepped on one. However, the deer aren’t too concerned about the charges; they just know that Whiskey provides cover from two-legged menace with the ability to hurl lead at incredible speeds. Prime hunting areas, therefore, are on the outer rim of Whiskey Impact.

For the drawing, each hunter was given a number, which was then placed inside a tumbler. Whoever had his number drawn first was given first choice, and the prime locations filled up fast. I became discouraged as the areas I had preselected went. Finally my number came — my choice: Papa I.

Lacing up my boots that Saturday morning, I couldn’t help but reflect back to the previous year’s opening day. As usual, my dad, three brothers, and I had gathered on our Missouri farm. It is prime hunting land, bought solely for the purpose of hunting big bucks. The camouflaged trailer was barely able to accommodate five men, along with the mounds of hunting clothes and gear we brought. Nevertheless, Dad made room to fire up his skillet and grilled thick slabs of bacon.

However, this morning there was no smell of bacon and no camouflage trailer; just a one-bedroom condo in Mission Valley with a Jacuzzi outside. Boots laced tight, I was on my way to Papa I and whatever an ocean view deer hunt would have to offer.

Traveling in the predawn bliss to an unfamiliar area is a tough way to start a deer hunt, especially in terrain that requires unique hunting skills. From what I gathered hearing others talk, the best strategy was to get high early — to climb to canyon ridges that overlooked the dense foliage of the ravines below.

As dawn slowly lit the terrain in Papa I, my enthusiasm vanished. I couldn’t imagine why any deer would inhabit such a barren-looking place — nothing but scrubby, dusty bushes and cacti. A deer would stick out like a crow in a snow storm in this place, and at least where I come from, deer have strong inclinations to melt into their surroundings. Discouraged but unwilling to give up, I hoofed up and down, all around Papa I. I saw nothing.

The hunt at Camp Pendleton is set up so that those hunters who fail on the first weekend to get their deer may return for a second try the next. And on the following Wednesday, I went through the drawing process again. Once again it was first drawn, happy, last drawn, sad. I ended up in the middle — disappointed. But at least I had another chance, this time in the area known as Romeo II.

The drive to the base seemed to go much faster this time around, and before I knew it, the outline of the ridge tops against the coastal predawn sky showed clear. The old-timers had said that Romeo II was a much more rugged section of the base, and from the images cast by the shadows, I began to believe them. “The ruggeder, the better,” I thought. “Something’s gotta be holding up within the midst of these canyons.”

My strategy remained the same — get up high early. Slowly I crept up what looked like a perch made for viewing. As the rising sun displayed itself, my binoculars came into play. The ravine below looked promising, so I stayed put. For three hours, I peered through the eyepiece, hoping to catch the movement of something big. Nothing doing — the decision to walk came easy. Farther up I went, edging along canyon ridges.

The long-awaited movement came. No need for binoculars — this critter was in plain view. There was little foliage atop the ridges, and the sight of a deer rambling along required no more attention than the naked eye provided. My blood started to pump as only the sight of a deer can make it. The shot would be a long one, though, some 300 yards across the canyon. I looked through the scope, and the unmistakable growth on the top of his head seemed to fill the cylindrical field. A squeeze of the trigger let loose a thunderous roar that ricocheted throughout the canyon. I waited for the beast to collapse, but instead he headed for the dense foliage of the ravine. If he made it to the bottom, my chances of getting him were next to nil.

Quickly, I found him in the scope again. He was still moving and was halfway to the bottom when the urge to freeze hit him as he found a clump of trees to hide under. However, from up as high as I was, the deer had little chance of hiding. My cross-hairs centered on his shoulder, and I squeezed off a second round. Again he headed for the ravine, and a jump down a steep ledge put him squarely within the cover I dreaded. Discouraged, I sat down and pulled out my binoculars, but they could not penetrate the foliage. After a half-hour, I figured I had two options. One was pack my bags and go home; the other was to go in after him. I chose the latter.

Scaling down the drop of the ravine, I began to question my strategy. Once down in there, my sight-line would be severely limited, and I thought, too, of the mountain lion I had seen the weekend before.

To my surprise, a dry creek bed cut through the ravine, and it provided easy maneuvering, although it was only a few feet wide. I stepped from stone to stone, feeling the tension mount. Then sudden, crashing sounds filled the air, and I instinctively turned: the thick brush blocked my view, but clearly I had spooked the buck, and I jumped up on a bigger rock for a better view. The sounds headed farther away, and then there was silence. Straining my eyes, I caught him staring at me. But it was no simple stare. At that point, it was no longer man against beast, but animal against animal. I was reduced to his instinctual level of awareness.

Not many hunters come eye-to-eye with their prey, as I did, but those who ,do come to recognize the look of impending death. Yet even though I saw it in the buck, he stood strong and fierce. Never underestimate the intelligence and strength of these creatures. He must have sensed he was about to die, but like a true warrior, he was not going to give up without waging an all-out attack.

My gun came up automatically, and once again the cross-hairs laid on his shoulder. The shot rang out, but before I could ascertain the buck’s reaction, he was no longer in view. View, hell — the sounds a freight train might make running wild through a tree farm were bearing down. I froze. The tracks were leading right to me, and I couldn’t see what was coming or do a thing to stop it.

In a wounded rampage, the buck came flying out of the brush at full-tilt, headed for my midsection. Horror beset me in the instant that I envisioned his antlers tearing into my flesh. I couldn’t move; there was no time. Then, still at headlong speed, he veered at an absolute ninety-degree turn within the three feet of space the creek bed allowed. His antlers were inches from my torso. On instinct, I wheeled with the turn and squeezed off a round from the hip. Blood spattered the rocks behind him, but he didn’t even flinch. On down the creek bed he raced, sending rocks flying in all directions.

Dumfounded, I stood and listened to those hoofs crashing on the rocks. Then, as suddenly as it all started, there was silence.

The blood-stained rocks told the story. The buck was sprawled out in the dry bed, not fifty yards from where he almost bowled me over. The shot I had wheeled off from the hip was the fatal blow. It may be hard to understand that a hunting experience can deliver such an emotional high. But I stood over the dead buck clenching my rifle, sweat dripping from my brow, with a tremendous feeling of excitement. I couldn’t help but let out several yells of jubilation, even though there was no one within miles of me. I felt what the American hockey team must have felt when they beat the Russians. I felt what Rocky must have felt when he beat Apollo Creed. And that feeling was that I had just conquered a part of the world.