Miss-Delectable
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Sioux City Journal: Deaf Sioux City man never hears his buck a comin'
Hunters circle a long table at Theo's Steakhouse, pulling and picking at any of nearly 100 prize racks from deer season. It's the Big Buck Contest, a January rite at the restaurant.
Hunters in camouflage caps and boots down a few brews, lie a bit and laugh a lot, spilling their tales of recent hits and misses.
One hunter stands quiet, communicating with a smile and his hands. He is Daniel Myers. He is deaf.
Myers spends several days each fall in a tree, somewhere in Plymouth County. A seasoned pro, he isn't about to divulge his precise location. The 52-year-old sits and waits at about the same spot each October, soaking up sun, wind, rain and cold.
His season began Oct. 1. Ten days later he shot a 14-point buck that stood 20 yards away. The 300-pound animal ran 50 yards after Myers' arrow pierced its heart. Myers sat for 30 minutes before climbing down to inspect his trophy.
Sioux City taxidermist John Bunch says Myers' buck scored 182 7/8 points, one of the top racks showing Sunday at Theo's.
The point total surpasses the hunter's expectations. In sign language, Myers uses his hands to show "horns" atop his head. He then wipes his chin and finishes the statement with a sign of thumb and pinkie outstretched.
"Buck. Best. Ever," his daughter Jenny Christophersen interprets. "He's hunted for 20 years and this is the best he's gotten. He couldn't wait to see how it scored. It's better than he thought."
The rack will join others in his bedroom at home.
When I ask him about hunting and his inability to hear the grass stir below, he smiles and points to his wide green eyes.
"His eyes," his daughter Jenny Christophersen says. "That's all he can use."
Myers practices calling deer by rattling antlers together in a shop owned by buddy Rich Stolpe. Stolpe motions to him when the rattling is too high or too low. When Myers hunts, he feels the vibration of the antlers, his only guide.
"I told him he got a helluva deer because he's so quiet," says Bunch. "I bow hunt and when the squirrels make noise or the leaves rustle, you know a deer might be coming. I don't know how Dan does it."
Myers shrugs his shoulders when I ask. He thinks, glances at the other racks on the table and signs his answer.
"He likes to bow hunt because it is more challenging," his daughter says. "He likes hunting in general because he's alone and out in nature."
Myers will spend the rest of the winter shoveling and doing odd jobs for neighbors. Come spring, he'll practice his turkey call for Stolpe, then head south for turkey season.
When I ask where he hunts turkey, his daughter says, "Onawa."
I'd like a more specific site. So I ask, "Can you tell me where around Onawa?"
Myers reads my lips, smiles and shakes his head. His sign for "No."
Hunters circle a long table at Theo's Steakhouse, pulling and picking at any of nearly 100 prize racks from deer season. It's the Big Buck Contest, a January rite at the restaurant.
Hunters in camouflage caps and boots down a few brews, lie a bit and laugh a lot, spilling their tales of recent hits and misses.
One hunter stands quiet, communicating with a smile and his hands. He is Daniel Myers. He is deaf.
Myers spends several days each fall in a tree, somewhere in Plymouth County. A seasoned pro, he isn't about to divulge his precise location. The 52-year-old sits and waits at about the same spot each October, soaking up sun, wind, rain and cold.
His season began Oct. 1. Ten days later he shot a 14-point buck that stood 20 yards away. The 300-pound animal ran 50 yards after Myers' arrow pierced its heart. Myers sat for 30 minutes before climbing down to inspect his trophy.
Sioux City taxidermist John Bunch says Myers' buck scored 182 7/8 points, one of the top racks showing Sunday at Theo's.
The point total surpasses the hunter's expectations. In sign language, Myers uses his hands to show "horns" atop his head. He then wipes his chin and finishes the statement with a sign of thumb and pinkie outstretched.
"Buck. Best. Ever," his daughter Jenny Christophersen interprets. "He's hunted for 20 years and this is the best he's gotten. He couldn't wait to see how it scored. It's better than he thought."
The rack will join others in his bedroom at home.
When I ask him about hunting and his inability to hear the grass stir below, he smiles and points to his wide green eyes.
"His eyes," his daughter Jenny Christophersen says. "That's all he can use."
Myers practices calling deer by rattling antlers together in a shop owned by buddy Rich Stolpe. Stolpe motions to him when the rattling is too high or too low. When Myers hunts, he feels the vibration of the antlers, his only guide.
"I told him he got a helluva deer because he's so quiet," says Bunch. "I bow hunt and when the squirrels make noise or the leaves rustle, you know a deer might be coming. I don't know how Dan does it."
Myers shrugs his shoulders when I ask. He thinks, glances at the other racks on the table and signs his answer.
"He likes to bow hunt because it is more challenging," his daughter says. "He likes hunting in general because he's alone and out in nature."
Myers will spend the rest of the winter shoveling and doing odd jobs for neighbors. Come spring, he'll practice his turkey call for Stolpe, then head south for turkey season.
When I ask where he hunts turkey, his daughter says, "Onawa."
I'd like a more specific site. So I ask, "Can you tell me where around Onawa?"
Myers reads my lips, smiles and shakes his head. His sign for "No."