PA Deer Camp

This year's PA deer camp at Warrior's Mark Winery (Pete's Place) was highly memorable. We killed two bucks. Pete and Kelly fed me well and plied me with wonderful beverages. I had the best sandwich of my life (more on that later). I was serenaded by Pete and Kelly's beautiful children.

Pete and I had been talking about revising the deer plan for the Fie Woods and the Valley of Death since last year's inaugural deer camp. The lay of the land from my perspective is that you have a classic escape cover mature hemlock forest with blowdowns and blackberry brambles in the openings, with a steep ravine and meandering creek (sound familiar?), including thicket and marsh bramble in the bottom, surrounded by corn fields. This is a place to kill a big buck. But, as I gingerly tried to explain to Pete, you probably lesson your chances of doing that by charging headlong into the center of the escape and bedding cover first thing in the morning on opening day. A big buck may be killed, but it will be by the fat-assed hedgerow hunters surrounding the good stuff as the buck squirts out after being booted from his lair. Not optimal. A better plan, I argued, was to ease in, play the wind, and, since there are no elevated stands (a HUGE problem in terms of safety in that place), incrementally work down the contour, ambushing the deer coming in from feeding all night in the freshly cut corn fields (those that manage to survive the gauntlet awaiting them in the form of the orange-clad-woods-edge-pot-shots-over-the-big-field program).

Pete never really liked the plan. I think Pete, God bless him, would prefer a good view over a likely ambush. I noticed that Pete would go to great lengths to preserve a romantic notion that he was setting off into the pristine wilds to take on nature head to head, in the absence of all lesser men. In other words, seeing other hunters is a total buzz-kill for Pete. I can appreciate that. On the other hand, one can go lots of places within an hour of Pete and get really big woods, so the charade is lost on me. And, its opening day, a day to hunt wide-eyed and focused until sunset...views, what views? To me, this is a place where a handful of guys who have been doing the same thing for a long time continue to hunt, still fling a lot of lead over the field on running deer, and at least on opening day, few bother to get down into the good stuff. Though you may see other hunters, its a place to kill bucks. Pete has himself a honey hole to drool over. And, he has a "sense of place" and a history to contend with. So I get it, but am trying to contribute in some meager way in assisting in increasing "the take" a bit. Its fun and nutritious.

The area I was sure would produce early was downstream of the valley of death a ways. I hunted and scouted it thoroughly last year, making a lot of mental notes and memorizing the contours, game trails, blow-down openings, and so on. There is a point just above the "Duck bridge" where 5 heavily traveled game trails all converge in a bed of ferns. Twenty yards from this spot is a cluster of 3 big hemlocks in the shape of a triangle. There is a blow-down beside it. I made a blind there last year and I planned to get to it first thing this year, to hunt the escape routes early, as planned. The other hot spot was the blackberry bramble blow-down opening. I felt Pete should hunt that spot, as it had the most buck sign last year.

We hit the woods, as Pete reports, just before dawn. I asked about the flagging we agreed Pete would install prior to the hunt to insure a silent and confident entry in the darkness... Pete related to me that he gave the order but no privates executed it, so no flagging. This was problematic, as the timing depended upon the smooth, quiet entry. If our plan was to crash around in the crackling under-story of a mature coniferous forest, perhaps we should have stuck with the Pete plan, had crepes and champagnes at 3 am, and started walking shortly thereafter. At least we wouldn't feel rushed as we pushed deer out in to the next county. Undaunted, however, we soldiered on. At some point Pete leaned over to me and whispered "Plan B?" I responded that it was time to improvise, that we just needed to get in a 100 yards or so and then sit tight until it got lighter so we could stop making so much noise and pick a spot to sit/stand for the first 30 mins. We agreed on this, both of us doing a fine job of quelling feelings of a hunt gone bust. As luck would have it, we arrived in a blow-down clearing (the only one like this on this section of the ridge) totally overrun with blackberries. It was the one I hunted last year and wanted Pete to hunt. I recognized it immediately, having hunted over it for a few hours last year. I whispered excitedly to Pete... "This is the blackberry bramble blow-down. The main game trail is just below and down hill, where the buck sign was last year. This is a great spot," I said. "The other spot I was thinking of, Ambush Alley, is just 150 yards up stream, on this ridge, a little to the left. Do you want to split up and settle in?" I asked, anxious to let the woods settle and get my listening post up and going (I hunt predominately on audio mode, not visual). We agreed to split up, to hunt the top for a few hours, then work our way down to the stream below, and to Pete's hallowed valley of death (monster bucks DO live there, I am convinced).

I arrived at my spot, happy to have remembered things so well. I settled in. My phone buzzed as I rushed to my spot, so I retrieved it and saw two texts. Pete had seen another hunter and vacated the bramble blow-down. Damn! It was still dark enough that I needed to know where he was. I attempted to text back. No signal. We were out of communication, and had made no contingency plans. That was my error. I decided to focus on the hunt, and worry about reestablishing communication with Pete after the golden hour was over.

Fifteen minutes passed. There were turkeys clucking and putting and cutting. I saw a little motion in the distance, heard and sensed more motion, coming down one of the 5 trails towards me. Behind me , motion. I perked up, heard more. Gun up... doe. Cross hairs on her. Eased back to position of the first sounds, back up the ambush alley. Then, I was startled by a very close shot. Silence. No more turkeys. I cursed that jamoke. Probably poached a turkey. I later found out Pete had concluded his hunt by shooting a buck on the ambush alley. I stupidly sat tight for another two hours on that spot, while Pete gutted a deer, and then dragged it out. At 1000 I relocated. Down to the stream, as planned.

I saw deer running on the other side, saw antlers, but no shot. Too fast, too much brush. I ranged the area and saw that it was only 65 yards, so I stayed in that spot until 1145. While there, I noticed that young oaks lined the stream, and the deer had been digging for acorns. I then noticed a line of rubs on sapling hemlocks going up the ridge. I looked back at the water, and could see that the bottom lacked the dark green silt here, at this narrow spot. You could see little dimples in the bottom. A crossing! I got up and followed the buck rubs, then tracks, then located a switch back trail that joined the main trail back below the original blackberry bramble blow-down. There were fresh, maybe one or two day old rubs directly down hill from the bramble blow down. I decided to hunt here, given that it was noon, lunchtime, and perhaps Pete would circle back to the last point of contact to reestablish communication. I knew that one simply needs to set up with a favorable wind on a line of rubs like that and wait. Something will eventually happen.

I settled into my new blind, a nice fat tree with two crossed blow-downs in front for cover. I trimmed a little for shooting lanes, ranged a few landmarks, and listened. The shooting from the perimeter of the woods had slowed way down. I reached into my backpack for the sandwich that Pete had made. It was big and flattened a little, and appeared to be quality bread. I unwrapped the saran wrap a little and suddenly my deer sonar went berserk... I froze. Nothing. But now I was on alert. Finished unwrapping the sandwich and a beautiful little hunters sausage that reminded me of a lunch while hunting red-legged partridge in Spain. Sonar alert again... I paid more attention this time, scanning 360 degrees very thoroughly. Nothing. I returned to my sandwich, that Pete lovingly made, that I had been thinking about since 0930. I took a few bites... delicious meat and cheese and sun-dried tomato on rich thick bread. This was a high quality sandwhich, a true treat in the woods on a deer hunt. I looked down at my knees, at the lovely three-barreled wonder laying across my lap called a drilling, made by JP Sauer, that I had only blooded once, with Pete, on grouse, on the great Drowned Road covert near the "Thoroughfare Valley" along the Allagash in Maine. A fine sandwich and a fine gun. Deer hunting. Hard to beat.

I took another bite of my sandwich and noted that I was half way through it with a mix of pleasure and pain... chewed once or twice, and the deer sonar went off a third time. I froze, mouth full. I saw movement to my right. A deer... antlers - sort of. A half rack... 3 points. Dilemma... I promised Pete I'd shoot the first legal buck, since he mentioned that he was anxious to fill the freezer. But this was an ugly management buck, not what one travels all the way to a different state to hunt. And besides, I am eating my sandwich. He presented a broad side shot. I carefully set my sandwich down on my backpack. I peered through the scope, aware of the slight protrusion in my cheeks due to the sandwich I was waiting to chew and swallow. This is a chip-shot, I thought. Moved the scope and gun to the antlers to confirm three points. Good. Shall I attempt a buck with the drilling? He begins to quarter away. Yes, for the drilling and for Pete's freezer. BANG. Right barrel slug-- connects, but a little right on the quartering away shot. Hits left rear hip and angles nicely through vitals. He's hurt bad, but this is, as Pete calls it, the Jamoke-osphere... I need to anchor this deer. Breaking all of my own rules, I stand up and fire again. Grazing miss at 70 yards (poor shot selection with the second slug smooth bore). He's hobbling off toward the cornfields and a death in a firefight. I reach for a handful of 30-06 and note the exact position of my half sandwich... and off I go after the management buck. I catch up to him quickly, he is loudly stumbling forward, presents an 80 yard broadside. The drilling rifle barrel barks, and the deer is down. First ungulate blood on the drilling.

I quickly tag the deer, aware of an orange-clad perimeter zombie eyeing me only 100 yards away. After tagging, I grab the single antler and heave mightily, hauling the deer in a kind of sprint back to the blackberry bramble blow-down. I rush back to my blind only 30yards away, and savor the second half of my sandwich, and the sweet feeling of a buck on opening day, management buck or otherwise.

The 2010 NY deer opener (southern)

(This is an abbreviated version of the post at http://tidball.blogspot.com/2010/11/odd-season.html)

Saturday was the opening day of the firearms deer season. At around 7:30 am, I missed a moving buck, a very wide and thick 6 pointer, at about 90 yards in cover. This buck was just hammering on a small button buck, literally kicking his can all over the place. I watched this big old buck throw the little feller into the air with his antlers, chase him down, and pin him to the forest floor. When the shot (80 yards or so, moving- high winds) finally, briefly, presented itself, I was surprised and frustrated by the miss. The day's frustration continued with increasing heavy winds, and the hunting pressure from neighboring farms, as it seemed every time I got settled into a new location, within an hour bright orange blobs could be seen in my upwind scent cones.

I finally decided to finish the opener in a newly installed, safe, two person ladder stand in the "square wood" otherwise known as the "hickory lot." This stand has a great view to the east and the south east of two large fields and a hedgerow. As I entered the little grove to climb into the stand, I kicked up two deer, but I could only hear them and see their tails. About an hour later, two deer, does, appeared at the end of the large field I was hunting over, out of range. They were feeding relatively comfortably on the clover. I watched them for quite awhile through the Nikon BDC scope mounted on my Ithaca Deerslayer II. They finally drifted out of the field and into the gully. Ten minutes later, another doe appeared, this one moving more purposefully toward the gate at the far southeast corner of the field. After 5 minutes, another deer appeared- the big 6 pointer.

The wind was blowing from the West, from behind me, to the field and the deer. I had not noticed any of the three does from minutes earlier obviously "scent" or "wind" me. However, as I had an aerosol can of "Buck Bomb" given to me, I thought I 'd see how well it works by spraying some in the air and hoped it would drift down wind to the buck and lure him my way. I sprayed, and within a minute, the buck could be seen scenting the air, nose high, in my direction. He immediately began to move towards me, closing the 300 yards step by step.

At about 150 yards, the buck veered slightly left (south) and was concealed by the thin hedgerow that runs perpendicular to the line of woods where I was positioned. The sun was setting, a big full moon was peaking in and out of the clouds. I assumed the buck was marching toward me. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes elapsed. No buck. I resigned myself to the fact that he had been dissatisfied with something and lured elsewhere. I packed up my satchel, slung the gun over my head and shoulder behind me, and prepared to descend from stand. Just as I extended my foot to step down to the first rung, I heard leaves crunching steadily, from behind the hedgerow where I had been expecting the buck. "It's him!" I nearly said out loud. "Better late than never." I clumsily removed my gun, knocking my hat off in the process. I settled in to a shooting position and tried to calm my nerves.

The bright moon and lingering sunset gave decent light, which was improved by the light-gathering qualities of my scope. I watched the end of the hedgerow intently. The sound of shuffling leaves grew louder . I could see feet, legs. The deer paused. Head movement. I could see an antler. "It's him!" I thought again, almost out loud. He was hanging back, sniffing. I needed two steps for a 15 yard shot at vitals, broadside. He took ones step, still partially obscured by the tangly brush of the Buckthorn and other hedgerow miscellany. As he bobbed his head I could make out his profile, tall antlers, points, some thickness... he stepped again. A clear shot at vitals. Bang. The Hornady SST was on its way.

He jumped straight up, and then went running. I shot four more times at him running, later learning that three of these running shots connected. The final shot downed him in the middle of my field, out about 150 yards. It was done. I descended the ladder, slightly shaky and well adrenalized, was smiling as I walked up to the big buck... but he got smaller as I approached. I stopped, paused... "that's a different buck" I said aloud. I walked closer, knelt over him, gently took the tall but juvenile antler, and chuckled softly. "Sorry boy- a case of mistaken identity" I said.

Apparently the original big 6 point deer, when concealed by the hedgerow, was met by the smaller 8 point 1 and 1/2 year old buck. Whatever transpired, time elapsed, and one buck went one way, one buck went my way. The smaller one went my way and is now headed towards the sausage maker.

I believe this is the same buck as pictured below from pre-archery October trail camera shots. He was supposed to benefit from QDM. Instead he fell victim to classic buck lust and "eager orange" as I call it. I have been struggling with that since the kill, but have resolved to be thankful and move on, perhaps wiser. In any case, as I have been told, you can't eat antlers. He'll be tasty. I will remember him for what he is and isn't, and for the Opening Day hunt under a full moon that I wasn't going to get to experience, but did.


















Day two of the opener dawned sunny and with little wind. I set up in the second of my three two-person tree stands, the one that faces south down in the gully. I set Rich up in the "Quickie" stand that overlooks "The Bedroom," a deer bedding area that has traditionally held big bucks every year. My goal was to fill the first of my 2 DMPs (the second is for a different WMU). At 7:30 am, I filled that tag with a nice, neat, single 50 yard chip shot that anchored the deer in her tracks. In the picture, the white spot in the center is the doe's belly. Rich helped me gut it and drag it out. There will be feasting.

Google killed Bambi

apparently this has made the rounds the past few years.

New York state street address. No wonder.

Ice fishing- an alternative to QDM

A few risk averse land lubber grousers [ ;0] opted out of a day on the ice. Ya'll were missed... T'was a nice outing. Yet, as much as I missed the "low banter" of "sense of place," the distinctions between method and methodology, the merits of merrily shooting mercury infested waterfowl, and the inherent dangers to culture and society of being selective about the bucks one shoots, there was a distinct pleasure to be found in the solitary, slow jigging for one's dinner. No booze, no cigars--just a strong North wind and 5 inches of ice under the ironic comforts of 10 pound pac boots. And dinner was pickerel and perch.

Eric brought his daughter Danielle, Gary his daughters as well. see the Kuneytown blog for pics of the kids taking great pride in the catch.

If it's brown it's down, baby

Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure again to spend a day afield with Winchell, Tidball, and Stedman.

First came a duck hunt on the big water--or "nice habitat," as they say in Maine. Big Country. Big Water.

Anyway, Josh managed to scratch down a black duck. I was dazzled by the reflection of the sun off his newly Lemon Pledged stock, and so I missed the companion duck. I blame Tidball.

At 10am we had had enough of that . . . cow manure, as Keith would say. Honestly, I was enjoying myself, and enjoying the aesthetic pleasures of the open water, and communing with nature, and all that, but Keith was getting a bit antsy. Almost (but not quite) "I think I'll take a walk" antsy.

So we adjourned to a deer drive on the Tidball plantation. I oranged up and was posted on the north hedgerow adjoining the Parks farm. Stedman and Tidball meanwhile drove through the gully and other hotspots, leading Keith to take a 150 yard shot at Moby Buck. Sad to say, Keith missed that shot, and was forlorn for the rest of the day. Not suicidal forlorn, mind you, but "interrupt me with heavy sighs when I'm drinking my scotch at the end of the day" kind of forlorn. But I digress.

So Keith forlornly followed Moby while Stedman split off and climbed into a tree stand in the "hickory woods" to my east. Somewhat later Tidball made a push along the cornfield to our south, and then did a big loop upwind from us and picked me up at my hedgerow hideout. Together Keith and I continued the push past Stedman's stand eastward.

At this point Keith busted a BRUISER of a bunny out of the brush. The lagomorph came to rest five feet away from me, eyeing me cautiously.

"SHOOT, GODDAMMIT! SHOOT!!" came the orders from the Cottontail Commander.

"But I am armed with but a 12 gauge slug gun, kind sir," replied I, "loaded with a sabot slug, which I fear will do much bodily harm to the wittle fellah if the sabot finds its mark."

Tidball considered this fact for a moment, and allowed the hapless hare to pass.

Along we went, hither and yon, aided by our portable electronic devices to position each other in the putative paths of runaway whitetails. Keith and I continued driving, and I broke a mighty sweat. But push on we did, up the gully, through the thicket, and into the corn. Rich waited patiently for results, but alas! none were had.

By now it was three o'clock, and we were mightily fagged out by our exertions. Conferencing along a path in the woods, a doe suddenly burst out of the woods, into the pasture, and (I exaggerate slightly for dramatic effect), STRAIGHT INTO THE PATH OF THE ONCOMING STEDMAN.

"By golly, there goes one now," says I to Tidball.

"Assuredly this is so," he agreed. "Shoot, Richard, shoot!!" we cried in unison.

But it was not to be. Young Rico was unable to pick up the speeding deer through his peripheral vision, and she escaped to be prey on another day.

At this point, Tidball announced his intention to go "play host" with his Winchell guests. I believe that there will be a forthcoming squirrel hunting tale authored by one Jonah Winchell, and so I will say no more about it. But I am looking forward to reading it. (PSSST, JONAH, if you're reading this. Don't forget what we talked about: film, insults, sarcasm, how bad your dad's shooting was, etc etc etc. Good lad.)

Tidball assigned me to the double wide honeymoon stand for the late afternoon rush, whereas Stedman went northward somewhere in the general vicinity of the gully. I saw nothing for the rest of the day, whereas the Vicar of State College passed on a lowly six point buck.

Later, when I scoffed at the idea of passing up a legally antlered deer, I was informed by the farm's proprietor that he is engaging in something called . . . "Quality Deer Management," or some such thing.

Humphhh. I informed the farm manager that I would be quite content with a lowly six point buck, or a forkhorn for that matter. Hell, a two point spike would suit me just fine! "If it's brown, it's down," says I to the farm proprietor.

He just smiled sagely and replied, "It's a good thing you didn't shoot anything like that here today." When I pushed him slightly, as is my wont (and as an aside, I have heard, incidentally, that trophy bucks store mercury and organochlorines in their racks--but can't seem to recall the source at the moment), he told me that I would not have been disowned for shooting a lowly-racked buck, but I would have been relentlessly ostracized to the death (As in Forever) had I done such a crass and tasteless thing.

I replied in turn that I was verily glad not to have committeth such a grave and venal sin.

At day's end we retired for drinks, food, and USDA home movies. Yes, you read that right. USDA HOME MOVIES.

Don't ask.

Anyway, I bid my adieu at night's end, and retired toward Trumansburg.

This morning, I woke up at 5am, drank coffee until 6 am, climbed into the crow's nest at 6:30 am, and killed this buck at 7 am. I "reverse bloodtrailed" him just for fun after I found him 25 yards away from where he was standing when I shot him.

If it's brown it's down, baby.

It's not a trophy bunny, but it will do