9 points
14 1/8 inside spread
very nice mass at the bases and throughout
easily my 2nd best deer to date
currently in third place in the Kuneytown Big Buck Challenge
Got a coyote earlier in the morning.
Showing posts with label bucks to be proud of. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bucks to be proud of. Show all posts
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tagged Out
9 points
14 1/8 inside spread
very nice mass at the bases and throughout
easily my 2nd best deer to date
currently in third place in the Kuneytown Big Buck Challenge
Got a coyote earlier in the morning.
Friday, November 26, 2010
It takes a village...
Thanksgiving on the Tidball ranch; a fantastic tradition that brings together family, friends, land, sky, and the creatures therein. Jim and Keith, each having shot multiple deer, felt sorry for my state of deprivation (22 hours in the stand and no deer seen) and devised a plan to push something past me.
The morn dawned grey and windy, strong out of the SE, so we drove around to the W of Keith’s back field and worked our way E. I wore my throwback hunter red and black plaid Woolrich coat that belonged to my grandfather. Jim and I each sat on a fencerow, and Keith chose the hickory lot. A brush-busting neighbor paid me a visit, having managed to sit on his stand for an entire 20 minutes!! After departing, he pushed out a couple of deer a couple hundred yards away. My deer shotgun is pretty low tech (smoothbore and no scope). It is more like bowhunting (gotta upgrade) so a few hundred yards feels like the next county. Probably they had been working their way right to me, but at least I had seen deer.
We regrouped. Keith had seen deer as well: a buck and four does. I still hunted my way along the N fenceline toward a good stand just off the corner of the field and with a good view as well of the big gully. A buck jumped up when I was about 30 yards away, but flashed through the thick stuff and was gone. No shot. I settled into the stand and Keith and Jim began a slow push toward me. Movement in the brush along the fenceline. A coyote! Despite farm protocols that suggest I should take advantage, I really didn’t want to shoot the dang thing.
I still wanted a deer.
About 5 minutes later, from where the coyote disappeared, I caught movement. A doe (or so I thought), working her way toward me, down in one of the smaller gullies that drop into the main branch. About 50 yards. She was coming closer but I saw that if she stayed in the gully, she would soon be below my line of sight. She showed me some chest and I held behind the shoulder and touched the trigger. She tumbled, letting out a bloodcurdling bawl that Jim heard from a couple hundred yards away. She lunged to her feet and then crashed down again, and lay still, white belly toward me. I sat still for 5-10 minutes, watching.
Dead deer.
I still hadn’t moved, but then suddenly she was on her feet, lunging away, too thick for a shot. I called to the boys and told them to watch out. Jim walked toward me along the fence, where I had last seen the deer. I still expected it to be dead along the fenceline.
A single shot from Jim. “Great,” I thought, “the finishing shot”. My heart sank, though, when Jim’s shot was followed by another, 10 seconds later. The deer was on the run, the chase was on, and my role was that of the guy trying to piece it together from afar. More shots from the gully. A call from Keith. “The deer is down!”. Relief. Followed by more shots. “What the ****?”
The deer was running the gully, with Jim following and Keith racing to outflank. He made it, to the promontory that overlooks “possum flats” where we dragged out his deer a couple of days earlier. The deer was trying to climb out of the gully to the east. If he made it to the open field, he’d be across route 89 and into the marsh on the other side. Keith hit him again, from ~150 yards across the gully, and down he went.
Only to get back up again.
To be hit at last from Jim. Bang. Dead deer.
Mostly. After yet another shot in the neck.
I have never seen an animal that wanted to live so much, that fought so hard, as this guy (as he turned out to be a button buck). Altogether we hit him five times. I surely am not proud of this, but I am proud of how well we coordinated as a team. Without the team effort, he surely would have not been ours. Much to be thankful for here—the winter meat yes, but so much more.
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Google killed Bambi
apparently this has made the rounds the past few years.
New York state street address. No wonder.
New York state street address. No wonder.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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
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 doSunday, November 01, 2009
archery buck
Sorry to post over the "Bone Collector" jack-o-lantern, but I needed to chime in with some deer lore too. I'll keep it short. I filled both my archery tags this week... a nice doe on Thurs and a respectable 7 point buck yesterday. The buck was my first left-handed archery buck. I missed the charmed giant (huge 10 or 11 point) earlier in the week, and decided "freezer first," at least this time.For the full story, go here.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Monday, December 01, 2008
Home for the Holiday
The in-laws came Downeast for the extended Thanksgiving weekend. The past couple years my father-in-law, Ken, and I have hunted deer together at Thanksgiving, sort of continuing the tradition my dad and I began when I was a pup. My dad gave up hunting a few years ago, so our tradition now is for me to call him after I get in from deer hunting.
Thursday morning was crispy, upper 20s firming up the rain of the preceding day. I dropped Ken off in the dark to walk to his tree stand, then continued on to my parking spot. I had a quick half mile walk to where I'd left my climber attached to an oak looking over a fairly open side hill. The deer and bears had been feeding on acorns.
The bark of the tree was slick with an icy film, causing me to be extra careful and deliberate ascending to my perch. An hour into my sit, I was wondering when I'd be able to get out for a duck hunt... a flicker of white off to the left got my attention. Within a minute I saw it again. Through the developing fog I could make out the form of a deer facing me, head down nibbling acorns about 100 yards away, the tail occasionally twitching a flash of white. Cranked the scope to 7 power; when the head came up I could see antlers. Small antlers. This time of year, yearling head gear is first choice for choice eating... if you even have a choice. In my 8-10 hours of hunting this year, this was the first deer I'd seen, buck or doe. Around here, with a deer density well below 10 deer per square mile, it's always bucks-only hunting.
The buck was slowly heading in my direction, munching acorns. He drifted a little downslope, but still advancing in my general direction. Then he drifted into a beech thicket, and soon I lost sight of him. Then I couldn't hear foot steps. After 10 minutes of not seeing or hearing "my" buck, I started to worry he'd simply walked away. Or bedded down? I pulled out my trusty Primos "canned heat" doe bleat can. Baaa baaa. Immediately I heard foot steps, but my eyes straining through the fog failed to locate the source. Then I saw him.... walking away. Another bleat, and he's no longer walking away, now he's running away!
A year ago I used the same call to bring in (*almost* for a shot) a mature buck not 200 yards from this location. This year's buck most certainly was not high in the pecking order in these parts. A deer trotted through an opening 80 yards downslope, but I could not see antlers. Through another opening at 85 yards... I saw antlers. I was ready when the buck stopped in an opening at 90 yards. It disappeared at the shot. I kept the scope trained on the spot; 30 seconds later I saw a brief flicker of white, and began descending the tree. The buck lay dead where I shot him, the bullet entering the chest high behind the shoulder, breaking the spine. Not the preferred neck shot, but the carcasse damage wasn't too bad. And the tag was filled, duck/bird hunting opportunities awaited, no longer constrained by the concern to put deer meat in the freezer.
Slid easily on oak leaves.
Yearling 3-point, field dressed 103. I gave dad a call, told him the story.
We arrived home for lunch to an enthusiastic reception.
Ken watched a large cow moose Thursday morning, and a doe the next. Angela hunted deer for the first time Friday morning. In 5 hours she saw no deer but plenty of sign. Seems eager to try again.
Saturday night we had a meal that needs mentioning. The whole holiday weekend was more or less a game feed, with woodcock and fresh deer tenderloin on the menu Saturday. I prepared the woodcock according to Pete's blog entry of October 08. Rave reviews from all -- the legs were especially liked by the women and boys, the breasts being craved by the men and the boys. So far I'm on the good side of the dog spirits.
The deer was delectible as well.
Thursday morning was crispy, upper 20s firming up the rain of the preceding day. I dropped Ken off in the dark to walk to his tree stand, then continued on to my parking spot. I had a quick half mile walk to where I'd left my climber attached to an oak looking over a fairly open side hill. The deer and bears had been feeding on acorns.
The bark of the tree was slick with an icy film, causing me to be extra careful and deliberate ascending to my perch. An hour into my sit, I was wondering when I'd be able to get out for a duck hunt... a flicker of white off to the left got my attention. Within a minute I saw it again. Through the developing fog I could make out the form of a deer facing me, head down nibbling acorns about 100 yards away, the tail occasionally twitching a flash of white. Cranked the scope to 7 power; when the head came up I could see antlers. Small antlers. This time of year, yearling head gear is first choice for choice eating... if you even have a choice. In my 8-10 hours of hunting this year, this was the first deer I'd seen, buck or doe. Around here, with a deer density well below 10 deer per square mile, it's always bucks-only hunting.
The buck was slowly heading in my direction, munching acorns. He drifted a little downslope, but still advancing in my general direction. Then he drifted into a beech thicket, and soon I lost sight of him. Then I couldn't hear foot steps. After 10 minutes of not seeing or hearing "my" buck, I started to worry he'd simply walked away. Or bedded down? I pulled out my trusty Primos "canned heat" doe bleat can. Baaa baaa. Immediately I heard foot steps, but my eyes straining through the fog failed to locate the source. Then I saw him.... walking away. Another bleat, and he's no longer walking away, now he's running away!
A year ago I used the same call to bring in (*almost* for a shot) a mature buck not 200 yards from this location. This year's buck most certainly was not high in the pecking order in these parts. A deer trotted through an opening 80 yards downslope, but I could not see antlers. Through another opening at 85 yards... I saw antlers. I was ready when the buck stopped in an opening at 90 yards. It disappeared at the shot. I kept the scope trained on the spot; 30 seconds later I saw a brief flicker of white, and began descending the tree. The buck lay dead where I shot him, the bullet entering the chest high behind the shoulder, breaking the spine. Not the preferred neck shot, but the carcasse damage wasn't too bad. And the tag was filled, duck/bird hunting opportunities awaited, no longer constrained by the concern to put deer meat in the freezer.
Propped up for draining.
Slid easily on oak leaves.
Yearling 3-point, field dressed 103. I gave dad a call, told him the story.
We arrived home for lunch to an enthusiastic reception.
Ken watched a large cow moose Thursday morning, and a doe the next. Angela hunted deer for the first time Friday morning. In 5 hours she saw no deer but plenty of sign. Seems eager to try again.
Saturday night we had a meal that needs mentioning. The whole holiday weekend was more or less a game feed, with woodcock and fresh deer tenderloin on the menu Saturday. I prepared the woodcock according to Pete's blog entry of October 08. Rave reviews from all -- the legs were especially liked by the women and boys, the breasts being craved by the men and the boys. So far I'm on the good side of the dog spirits.
The deer was delectible as well.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Canoga Creek Deer Opener 2008 (shotgun)
Rich and I had a great opening day...there are good stories to follow.Click below on the picture for details on the buck.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Drop Tine
That is a great deer George took on Sunday. It inspired me to stop chasing the ducks that are not here and get back to the tree stand. Monday after work I helped Keith with some posting and then was planning on a bow hunt. However, we finished a little late and I was leaning toward just going home when Keith said, "you know, it only takes a minute for the deer to walk by and your whole season can change." Anyway he talked me into it. I hit the stand at 5pm; sunset was at about 6:10pm. It would be a short hunt, and it was almost over, when this nice buck with two drop tines came down the hedgerow. He was scaping and rubbing trees and looking for some lovin. Unfortunately for him he walked in bow range of me and it was all over. He ran less than 50 yds and went down. A great hunt.
See you in the blind,
Eric
Eric
Monday, October 29, 2007
We Grows 'um Big here
Yesterday, George H. took a beautiful buck out of the Canoga Creek Farm & Conservancy. I won't tell George's story for him in hopes that we will hear from this future Grouser in person on the subject, but suffice it to say that this may be his best archery deer to date, and it is the second "big boy" to grace my lawn since I've been the steward of this here parcel. Hearty congratulations to George.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Yup
After 15 years of deer hunting, I finally killed my first buck. Well, let's just say that it was the first buck that I knew was a buck when I shot it ("Yep, son, I've killed plenty of monster button bucks in my time. There was one that was practically the size of a Chessie..."). Ok, so I'm not much of a deer hunter, but this guy initiated me to the fraternity of eagle eyed nimrods who, when asked if they got a buck, answer: "yup."
Yup.
It all happened on the first monday after Thanksgiving, which is opening day here in PA. Out of a sense of duty, more than anything else, I joined "tell me why I would want to work here" Rich on an annual tradition. Meet at my place at 5:00. Raise, then dash, the expectations of Abbey and Cody who only associate Rich with good things. And stroll down the lane to my neighbors’ over-hunted, un-posted woodlot.
Our plan was to settle into our respective hides long before the anticipated arrival of the opening day jamokes. The mercury was forecast to head into the 60s, so we were both dressed too lightly for the early morning temperatures. I imagine it was a bit like opening day in the south. Needless to say, expectations were at a minimum. Between last year’s uneaten venison (my freezer) and this year’s road kill (Rich’s), neither of us felt the need for meat. We agreed to shoot one doe between the two of us if the opportunity arose.
Around 7:30 I heard something crashing through the hemlocks to my right and a moment later a large doe hurtled by. I was just raising the 0.243 (Johny on the spot) when Moby raced by. Through the hurriedly raised scope he was a complete blur. Even so, I caught a glimpse of his eight points and, so low were my expectations, that just seeing him left me with a tremendous sense of accomplishment.
The arguments against today’s deer management program have been so aggravating to listen to, yet so “clearly” borne out by last year’s dismal season, that my thoughts went immediately to the vindication of poor Gary Alt. This one buck had to be evidence of the success of Alt’s management program.
Twenty minutes later two tails flagged through the red pines to my left. Could they be the same deer? Within minutes my thoughts were answered by jamoke #1, who came crashing through the ravine below me and, upon seeing me, waved and marched over to chat. A pleasant, funny, little fellow with a fading orange ball cap perched on top of an insulated cap. “Seen that spike?” he inquired. “Nope, but I saw I nice buck” I unwittingly offered. And off he went, with roughly 0% chance of ever seeing a live deer.
Oy, this story is dragging on and it’s getting late.
Shortly after the encounter with jamoke #1, Rich came strolling by. He was cold and had seen nothing. I was cold and happy, having seen a very nice buck and a funny looking jamoke. Rich suggested I warm up by putting on a small drive while he manned my hide, which, he felt, had clearly become the better place to be on opening day.
I walked briskly over a rise and then down the back side of the 70 acre ridge that we were hunting. My thoughts were on driving deer, not on seeing any. As I approached the “valley of death,” with its memories of past kills of deer and turkey, I was startled by the clatter of hooves on hard earth. I sat and stared through a narrow corridor of white pine boughs into the meadow below.
Suddenly, Moby materialized, and I could feel the excitement douse any illusion of self control. Fighting instinct, I tried to slowly raise the rifle as Moby tried equally hard to discern what had interrupted him from his pursuit of doe. When the gun had only traveled half the requisite distance in what seemed like an eternity I lost control and yanked it to my eye. Amazingly, there stood Moby. Amazingly, the scope was dialed to the perfect setting (5x) for the 75 yard shot. I aimed at his chest and squeezed the trigger.
Moby turned and trotted off. Within seconds I was groping for one of Rich’s new walkie talkies (I left one of mine at Black Lake this year). With some coaxing (ok, cajoling), Rich persuaded me to stay put. And, within ten minutes of his arrival, we had tracked Moby to the flood plain, bordering Joe Fye's little trout stream that has been the place of so many memories over the past few years. It was the spot where I killed a turkey over Abbey when we first moved to Pennsylvania Furnace. It was the spot where Rich had killed a doe last year. And, it was the spot where I had killed a doe last year following a series of very bad judgements.
Moby's antlers were extended to the heavens. I was overtaken with gratitude. Rich beamed at me like a proud dad. It was perfect.
It’s also 5:15 and I need to get home to the wife and kids… More later.
Back on the blog (at least for now)...
Pete
Friday, November 17, 2006
2006 DEER OPENER
Tomorrow is the big day all of us mammal hunters
have been waiting for. Just a little reminder of
what we are looking for out there. Hope everyone has a great hunt and be safe. Nick will have to ride the bench tomorrow but with any luck we will be back after those flying feathered fowl soon.
shoot em up
Eric
have been waiting for. Just a little reminder of
what we are looking for out there. Hope everyone has a great hunt and be safe. Nick will have to ride the bench tomorrow but with any luck we will be back after those flying feathered fowl soon.
shoot em up
Eric
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
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