The Great Deer Butchery Debacle
Some Things Are Better Left to the Professionals …
I once believed that a smart, experienced hunter — especially one armed with a stack of instruction books, a few online videos, and a couple of helpful charts — could easily break down a deer carcass to fill the freezer with tidy white packages of toothsome venison. After all, how hard could it be? Hunters have been doing this for centuries, right? Unfortunately, I soon learned home butchering is only slightly less complicated than brain surgery, and the results can be far messier and tragic.
At the time, my reasoning seemed perfectly sane. I’d hunted, cleaned and cooked game for years, so instead of taking the carcass to a meat cutter, why not finish the job myself? Thus, on the Sunday of opening weekend of the local deer season, I set out — filled with confidence bordering on delusion — to transform my latest proud trophy whitetail into neat stacks of steaks, chops and roasts. It was one of the first times I discovered self-assurance and actual skill are two very different animals.
A trophy whitetail on the hoof is a long way off from spending the rest of its days
hygienically wrapped in freezer paper, and Brent learned — the hard way —
that some things are best left to the professionals.
So It Begins
I started by hanging the deer from my garage ceiling, which required ripping a few strategic holes in the plaster so I could toss a chain over a roof truss. I hadn’t mentioned any of this to my wife beforehand, and as I gouged out another large piece of drywall in an effort to locate a rafter, I briefly wondered how she’d view the damage to our, at that time, brand-new garage ceiling.
Brushing such trifling thoughts aside, I eventually found a rafter, threw a chain over it and hung the carcass from its hind legs. Stepping back to admire my handiwork, I felt an immense sense of satisfaction as the carcass dangled and slowly twirled in the cool air. This sensation lasted only a few seconds, until I suddenly realized my long-suffering wife didn’t know there’d be a bloody carcass hanging in the middle of the garage when she came home and raised the door. Oh, and there was the ceiling damage, too.
Fortunately, I had briefly stepped into the house as she arrived home and only suffered temporary hearing loss.
Hack Attack
The next morning, after my better half went to work, I began the project in earnest. Skinning went surprisingly smoothly, and before long, I had a large, naked lump of venison hanging from the hook. Stepping back, I noticed one glaring omission — there were no dotted lines like in the videos and how-to diagrams. My confidence flickered briefly, but I pressed on, brandishing my biggest, sharpest knife like a man about to win a cooking show, or possibly lose a finger. Or both.
It was tough, dangerous and confusing work, but several hours later, I had been miraculously transformed into what looked like a blood-smeared refugee from a slaughterhouse. The deer, meanwhile, had become several unrecognizable hunks of meat stacked on an improvised table.
Breaking down a carcass looks so easy when performed by someone who knows what they’re doing.
Brent learned the hard way that it is best to get instruction before attempting DIY butchery or brain surgery.
Photo: Pexels / Rachel Claire
The situation was growing dire, as my wife would be home in two hours and I was fairly certain the phrase “two furry dismembered legs hanging from the garage ceiling” was uncontestable legal grounds for divorce in my state. The child welfare authorities might even get involved. The clock was ticking.
Pending Deadline
Desperation breeds creativity, so I dove into the meat pile with my newly purchased saw and started hacking away at random. Bone chips flew while chunks got smaller, even as my anxiety level rose. It seemed like I had severed a thumb at some point, but I was in a hurry and my hands were too cold to confirm anyway.
Two hours later — it seemed more like two weeks — I stood drenched in sweat and self-loathing. Surveying my work, I now possessed roughly one hundred pounds of assorted “roast,” none of which looked remotely like anything from a butcher shop. Some were big enough to serve as a visual teaching aid at a veterinary school, while others wouldn’t have been a satisfying meal for a teacup chihuahua. None of them resembled any cut of meat in the known universe.
Regardless, I needed to get it wrapped and stowed in our chest freezer. Using approximately 6000 feet of paper towel—which likely deforested 1/3 of Canada — I wiped off the worst of the gore, deer hair and the odd Band-Aid brand adhesive bandage. I then wrapped the various hunks in white butcher paper, secured with special freezer tape — it sells for more per inch than 14-karat gold chain — and then stood back to admire my “handiwork.” I tried to convince myself it looked professional, but it didn’t.
“…it would seem I now owned a large box of random household objects
wrapped in white paper by chimpanzees with a crystal meth addiction.”
To the random observer, it would seem I now owned a large box of random household objects wrapped in white paper by chimpanzees with a crystal meth addiction. The whole thing was ugly.
But, it was done.
However, the story has a happy ending. I’m happy. My wife’s happy. The deer is delicious, tender, and I even saved fifty bucks in processing fees. Financially, it was almost a “wash,” provided you don’t understand finances at all: I spent roughly $150 in supplies and then $1,850 for drywall repair. Yet, I’m so pleased with the results, I’ve made a solemn vow — I will never, under any circumstances, butcher anything larger than a squirrel again.
And I’ve stuck to my vow now for 20 years.
The end result of all this trouble — toothsome homemade deer jerky. Brent made this with his own three little thumbs
and there were less than a handful of cases of food poisoning!
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