Mo's first deer

Last year Mo hunted with me.  We had a great time sitting in the double stand together mornings. On opening day I shot a deer that was originally setting up to be hers, but then bolted.  The following day Mo got a shot, but was using a Savage Camper .22LR over 20 Ga.  The gun is nice for a small game-getter, and I thought would suffice as a slug hunter at close range, but that proved to be naive optimism, as the gun sent slugs hither dither with no pattern to be found. Prior to the hunt, I got three out of four slugs into a pie plate  at 20 yards.  I thought it was good to go.  It was not.  Mo missed...just barely missed.  Gave a brisket trim --- little bit of white hair, no blood.  I watched it through the range finder.  It was 43 yards.  She was bummed.  I felt stupid, after later trying the gun at 40 yards at the range and realizing that despite the three in the plate at 20 yards, it could take me all day to get lucky enough to get one in at 40.  That gun was basically retired as a deer gun that day.

Under the tree for Christmas last year, nestled in with lingerie, perfume, chocolates and other sundries, was a new shotgun.  It was a single shot H&R 20 gauge Ultra Slug Hunter Compact, rifled barrel.  I had the barrel tapped and a nice scope mounted. I spent a few hours testing various loads at the range.  I settled on the Hornady SST sabot and dug in for a few hours of getting that gun perfect. It is a tack driver at 150, with nice clover leaf patterns consistently from a bench rest. Definitely good for a 40 yard deer. I'd actually like to shoot it myself.

So this past opening day (2012) found us back in the same stand at dawn together. The weather was uncooperative and we saw no deer.  After a cold rain, Mo was ready for hot coffee and a fire, so we packed it up around 10:30 am  ( I went back out at 11:30 and stalked a 7 point buck to < 20 yards-- that buck is in the freezer and the antlers are handles for my gun cabinet... but that's a different story).  At 2:30 Pm she was ready to go for the evening sit. We went to the double stand down by the lake, and enjoyed a nice evening.  As dusk descended  we saw deer at the end of the field near the state land, a buck and two does and two fawns.  They came 1/4 of the way towards us and I began to imagine a nice conclusion to opening day, and then suddenly they stopped, tails up.  I had been winded in this scenario in archery season, so I felt the deflation of it going wrong begin to rise in me, until I noticed that the deer were not looking in our direction, but instead were focused on the marsh.  I got the binocs up, and quickly picked out the coyote, sitting on the marsh edge, staring in the direction of the deer.  I ranged it at 143, in range for both of us.  Mo wanted nothing to do with a coyote, and  I hoped the deer would skirt around and continue coming our way.  But they spooked,and ran for the woods of the state land.  The coyote remained for quite sometime, but with fading light and the prospect of a success with deer in the morning, no shots were taken.

The next morning dawned a classic November Autumn deer hunting morning- crisp and clear.  We were in the stand in plenty of time, and our only worry was fogging glasses and scope lenses.  We sat taking in a beautiful Finger Lakes Fall morning, when I caught motion at the far end of the ridge we were hunting. A quick look through the scope confirmed an approaching doe.  I searched her back trail hard for a buck, but saw no additional movement. The deer approached to within 100 yards and I suggested that Mo get her gun up and get comfortable; the deer was ambling through without any awareness of our presence, but not stopping much. Mo was up, and I looked over to see her breathing a bit hard.  I said "check you scope."  We had practiced defogging quickly the day before, and she frowned and defogged.  The deer was moving down a draw, potentially offering a right to left quartering towards shot. I suggested Mo wait til the deer got broad side, asked her to check her scope, and she defogged again.  Then, at about 70 yards, the deer abruptly turned to its left, briefly giving Mo a left to right broadside, which evaporated quickly as the deer browsed behind trees. Mo was hyped up, even agitated, letting cusses fall about regarding uncomfortable rest, fogged scope, rest height, etc. I ranged the deer, who's head was perfectly hidden by a tree at 65 and said to Mo "find vitals and shoot when ready."

We had spent a few evenings doing vitals drills using hunting magazine photos.  I was confident that she knew the boiler room at most angles. I watched through the range finder and the shot rang out. The deer dropped low, laid back its ears and tail, and sprinted hard at the shot.  I thought it all looked good.  But then, Mo, who was hoping for an instant flop-over, was cussing up a storm.  I shared with her how heart shot deer often do what hers just did, and that it looked like a good shot. She asked how long we should wait.  I said, normally, at least 30 minutes, but after a shot like that. I'd say we can at least go look at the point of impact in 15 minutes and decide from there.  Fifteen minutes dragged on, Mo bemoaning her shot, me trying to encourage her not to write it off, that it looked good.  She was suffering from last year's miss. Finally 15 minutes had expired, and I got down to have a look.  Walked over to the tree that was hiding the deer's head, and was pleased to see major sign. This was an extremely well hit deer, by the looks of the leaves and the path out. Catastrophic blood loss at the point of impact and continuing for as far as the eye could see. I felt confident, and waved Mo down from the stand and to me.

When she arrived I pointed out the various sign, the way the hooves had churned up leaves, the serious blood splash on both sides of the prints indicating solid pass-through. As a matter of training, I had her mark the spot of impact with orange survey tape, and suggested she follow the blood trail.  She followed it head down a mere 20 yards, until she reached the deer. which was still.  It was heart shot,and moved no more.

Another 30-minute epic

Had a good deer opener today.  Got out into the crow's nest at oh-dark-thirty this morning, and I was treated to a fawn parade for the first couple of hours.  First a single, then a pair, then another single, all going in different directions.  Finally at 9:30 I caught another glimpse of movement in the undergrowth, and before I knew it a good-sized buck was skipping through my window of opportunity . . .  but alas, he was moving too quickly and I didn't have the gun ready (I was glassing him with binoculars).  Sat there for a while and was kind of bummed out--I didn't see a buck all last season, so he was the first in two years.  Anyway.  One more fawn rounded out the action at 10 or so, and by 11am I was in the kitchen eating breakfast.

Because it's opening day, and because I saw that decent buck in the a.m., I figured I'd better go out into the swamp in the hopes of seeing Mr. Buck again.  I'd poked around the back nine a couple of days ago, and there was plenty of buck sign, so I'm guessing he's the local boy.

I put on my gear, turkey vest, blaze orange, and safari sling for the gun, and at noon it's down hill I go.

One minute later: I get to the mowed area below our sheds and barn, and . . .  DAMN, there he is.  Bedded down on the far side of the pond!

I duck into a crouch, and fortunately I'm screened behind some goldenrod I hadn't gotten around to mowing. Good thing I'm lazy. I am as out-in-the-great-wide-open as it is humanly possible to be--I'm in a mowed field, so there's no belly crawling off to a more covered spot, if I move, he's going to see me.  I then proceed to crouch there for the next twenty minutes, alternately eyeing him in the scope, figuring out whether I can take an offhand neck shot, and then getting the shakes and having to put the gun down.  I'm kneeling, shifting position, eyeing him through the scope again.  I'd not brought my shooting sticks, and he's so low and the goldenrod so high I can't shoot at him from a sitting position.  It's kneeling offhand or nothing.  I can't quite make his neck out enough for a really clear neck shot, either.

Time passes.  I start to get hot, so slowly I strip out of my orange vest, my turkey vest, and my coat.  Might as well be comfortable if and when I shoot.  He never moves, his head is facing east into the wind and I'm basically south of him.

I had just gotten my jacket off when suddenly a squirrel busts me and starts squawking. Mr. Buck takes notice, I see his antlers starting to swivel, and all of a sudden he slowly gets up and stretches.

That's my cue.  From a kneeling position I aim at him broadside and shoot at him, offhand.  He goes down, staggers a bit, gets up, and just stands there looking around. I stand up and take a second shot, and he staggers off into the brush.

I reload and start following him.  I'm prepared to have him get up again and try to take off.  As I get to the edge of the pond and look into the woods, I make out his antlers--and he's down for good. He'd only gone about 20 yards. With a sigh of relief, I make my way over to him, give him a nudge, and it's over.

Go up to the house to get some help for the drag, and my daughter Julia does the honors.  She also sticks around and watches me field dress the deer--that's a first.  Not squeamish at all. Showed her the heart--one of the two shots took it out, hopefully the first one (the other/second shot hit the hind leg, so maybe he started moving when I stood up to take the second shot, apparently I'm not much on shooting at moving targets I guess. Although it could have happened the other way, it was all a bit of a blur.) At any rate, we then pull it uphill and hoist it into the truck for the trip to the butcher.

Anyway.  Haven't written a true writeup in a while, this one just felt like it needed it.  I was pretty damn nervous about having to take that offhand shot, but it worked out well. 

Julia photo credit

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.

2011 PA Opener

I have to admit that I prefer to be sitting in my deer stand around the time that Tidball chooses to roll out of the house on opening day. It comes down to aesthetics, more than anything else. Leave early and you are less apt to run across many of the deer hunters who descend upon Fye Forest on opening day. Building upon last year’s experience, Tidball had strong logic for the day's plan. I was happy to follow, with few delusions of my own deer hunting acumen.

The new plan, cemented the night before over 8-year-old bourbon (Tidball), delectable Canoga Farms venison sausage and turkey mousse, and 4-day-old gout (yours truly), had us parking a mile from the forest where we would hunt.

At 6:30 we were finally working our way into woods, dodging the mob of hunters who were readily identified by their 1,000,0000 candle power lamps and pungent cigarette smoke. Admittedly, the “mob” was not large (5 or so members), but their presence was disconcerting. I had preferred a different entry point through “the Valley of Death” precisely because we could avoid encountering members of mob. "Nonsense! Pure delusion," insisted Tidball. That approach ran directly through bedding areas and escape cover. Contaminate this refuge with our own scent and our quarry would flee elsewhere. So ran the logic of Tidball.

As dawn arrived we were revising his new plan (new plan 1.1) in light of the location of individual mob members, forecast of prevailing winds and scent cones(there were none at that point), and who knows what else. My skepticism was rising. Of Tidball’s many decision making variables, I accepted only his observation that mob rules require members to remain within 100 yards of the forest edge. We stumbled through the dark, arriving at a point that Tidball confidently proclaimed was one he had identified last year: “Ambush Alley.” This seemed unlikely given Tidball’s poor night vision and the large number of blackberry glades that looked EXACTLY like the one we were in.

We agreed that I would sit in so-called “Ambush Alley” (uncomfortably close to the mob) and Tidball would move another 100 yards along the contour. It was time to put the new plan 1.1 to the test.

No sooner did I sit down than a member of the mob stumbled by, not 45 yards distant, headed straight for the Valley of Death. I re-relocated, expectations reduced to zero (new plan 1.11). Finally it was quiet.

Within five minutes I heard the snapping of a twig. Too late to move again, I hunched behind a massive hemlock, waiting for this latest mob interloper to move on.

Footsteps. No, hoof-steps! In the din I could see, 10 feet distant, a small doe. She winded me. Snorted. Jumped back. Peered at the gouty blob at the base of the hemlock. What was that? She stepped forward, tentatively, then snorted and ran away. I took the opportunity to pull out cell phone and film, aware that by this act I was changing this elemental experience from a primitive aesthetic to a modern, made-for-the-blogosphere production.

Thankfully I felt no compulsion to tweet.

What a morning! Soon I could hear turkeys near Tidball’s location. What an absolute joy! With a clear view of my surroundings I settled in to one of the most active hunts in recent memory. Good on you new plan 1.11!

Spirits fully restored and senses at their apex for the day, I peered around, getting familiar with Ambush Alley. And there he was. 100 yards distant, down hill and walking steadily toward me was a deer. A buck. I looked at him through the scope. A six point. Perfect.

Calm, surprisingly so, I picked an opening in the trees but quickly decided there was too much underbrush to make a good shot. The little buck was unaware of my presence and there was time. I picked a different opening, dialed my scope to roughly 5x power, and waited a moment. He was there. I checked again to be sure that he had the required three tines on one beam, then lowered the gun to his shoulder and shot.

The report was massive. The first to break the morning silence. The deer toppled to his side. A few kicks and he was still. I fought the urge to run to him and waited, adrenalin finally coursing through my system. Gout cured, at least temporarily.

Over the next 10 minutes I suffered, fighting every natural urge to run to the downed animal, whooping and hollering my achievement. Compelled to wait by the admonitions of friends with whom I had long-hunted (you know who you are). After a few minutes I sought diversion. First I checked the time on my cell phone. 7:30. Then, well, I texted. Mind you this is something that I have only been introduced to in the past 6 months. Sitting in the middle of the forest, finally content that I had escaped the presence of the mob, I sought distraction (and connection) by texting. First Tidball, then Stedman, then wife, then father. As a distraction it worked. At 10.00000001 minutes I walked, as calmly as possible, to the downed animal.

Barely legal (3x2), but my trophy!

What followed that day can only be seen as pure irony, or poetry. I could not contact Tidball as his phone had no signal and quickly lost power. So I dragged the deer alone. Slowly. Gouty toe a factor. 44 years also a factor (see Stedman’s recent opening day post).

At 10:30 I was met by wife at trail head.

By 11:00 I had dropped off the deer at the local butcher.

I was back in the woods by noon. With no ability to contact Tidball I walked, and walked. Toward gunfire. Is that Tidball’s drilling? Toward blaze orange. What was Tidball wearing this morning? At one point, back in Ambush Alley, I flushed a turkey, 10 yards off. Apparently Tidball was 30 yards beyond the bird, gutting his own buck. This modern, cell-phone texting hunter walked right by. I sat for awhile, had an opportunity at another small buck, but my season was over.

By 3:00 I gave in to the pangs of gout.

A great hunt of complex aesthetics. A complete experience.

Opening of deer 2011-- a family affair

Mo and I were up and in the stand before first light, sharing the double stand christened the Honeymoon Suite (you'll have to get the details on the name from Rich).  We weren't planning to use the "Suite" for anything but deer slaying, and deer slaying we did.

The hope was to get Mo her fist shot at a whitetail.  She was carrying her Savage 24C "Camper," loaded with Federal 20 ga. rifled slugs.  I was carrying the trusty Ithaca Deerslayer.  At around 8 am,  I caught faint rustling to my right and picked up movement.  As I am now a left handed shooter, the right side is my side, so these deer were coming up on the wrong side for Mo.  I watched the deer work their way to within 20 yards of our stand, a doe and two big fawns, all the while whispering to Mo in hushed tones about the dark arts of deerslaying from tree perches. She was uncomfortable, as was I,with the notion of shooting across me, so we waited and waited for a shot for her to materialize.Our scent was being blown in the direction of the quarry, and they finally winded us, exploding in a confusion of "tail-up" fleeing deer.  Mo later said it was pure chaos to her, that she couldn't really register what was happening.  Meanwhile, I registered that a few meals over the Weber were attempting to elude their fate.  I swung on the left deer, peering through the scope...fawn.  Far right deer...fawn.  Middle deer, big doe, running--- now broadside, running, lead it... a little forward... BANG.  Dead deer.  Mo said "Holy S@#t" or some such, beaming with exuberance and the thrill of all of that.  I felt a strange calm, a sense of surprise at my gladness to have shared that moment with my wife and best friend.

We both sat back.  I reloaded.  She noticed this.  "Will she get up?" she asked.  "Not likely," I said, "but a buck might have been trailing her-  we'll wait awhile.  We sat together.  I ranged the downed doe at 83 yards.  After a while the inevitable question emerged... "are those fawns going to make it?"  I thought about this.  I said "They will nose around here a day or two, looking for Momma, and they will be on their own.  She would have kicked them off in a matter of days or weeks anyway, as soon as she hit her estrus. The best plan is for you to hunt this area again tomorrow and have a crack at some young vittles."  She was quiet and thoughtful about this for a few moments.  I am sure as a mother, she pondered larger issues.  Then she said, "for me, this is about food.  A lioness doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about zebra orphans when its time to feed the family."  I let that sit in the November air, smiling to myself and availing myself of the new-found pleasures of hunting with a partner.

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.

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.

shortest. writeup. ever.

appointments over -
three o'clock home and in stand
four thirty . . . deer . . . bang

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.

Opening Day 2009 - PA Furnace Report

As the old timers say, the success of a hunt comes down to preparation (and breathing through one's mouth). My preparations for opening day 2009 were extraordinary. By any measure.

I finally honed the Ruger .243 to a one inch grouping at 100 yds. Check. I and my kin folk gussied up the ground stand in the Valley of Death and opened a new shooting lane. Check.

View from my well prepared stand

To prevent myself from getting lost, I left a single ribbon of flagging at the hemlock stand where I always make the wrong turn. Check. Ground the coffee before going to sleep. Check. Piled clothes in kid's play room so I wouldn't disturb anyone at 4:30 am. Check.

I woke as planned at 4:30. Check. By 5:11 I was established at my stand in the Valley of Death, enjoying the night sounds and solitude. Check. At 5:30 I congratulated myself for the extraordinary preparations. Check. Congratulated myself again at 6:15. Check. Twighlight arrived sometime after 6:30 and I treated myself to another round of self-congratulations. Check. At 7:00 I looked up to see an eight point buck just 10 yards in front of me, crossing the trout stream. Check. More kudos for a fine job in preparing for this inevitable moment. Check.

Inevitable arrival of Moby Buck.

Gun still in lap. Hmm. Deer winds me and turns, trotting across Valley of Death. Check. Confident in my preparations, I do not raise gun, instead allowing Moby to cross the meadow and disappear into the woods on the far side. What? Give him time and he will return I reason. Ok...

View from well prepared stand from 7:01 am to 5:00 pm

The Deer Hunter in 10 Seconds

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

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.

... the shock that overrides

Came across this quote I thought I should share while doing some reading...

"I whisper thanks to the animal, hoping I might be worthy of it, worthy of carrying
on the life it has given, worthy of sharing in the larger life of which the deer and I
are a part. Incompatible emotions clash inside me—elation and remorse, excitement
and sorrow, gratitude and shame. It’s always this way: the sudden encounter with
death, the shock that overrides the cushioning of the intellect. I force away the sadness and remember that death is the spark that keeps life itself aflame (p. 263)."

Nelson, R. (1989). The island within. New York: Random House.

On Suffering- Antlers Come and Go

I had been seeing him since July- the monarch, the twelve point with drop tines (10 pt plus drops). He was the biggest of the "Gang of Four." The others include a wide 9 (Rich's story) a perfect 8 with wide spread(missed at ten yards in archery by one of the guys that hunts here--I saw him twice during archery but too far), and a huge 7 point. I saw these four bucks many times in velvet together, then during hay making season in August and September. Twice while varmint hunting/ deer scouting armed with a scoped .223 I had them at 50 yards or less, inspected every fiber of the big 12's vital area with the cross-hairs overlay-ed...talk about temptation. Anyway, I knew these four well.

Two evenings ago, after having spent countless hours during shot gun and more recently the muzzle-loading season, I found myself once again reveling in the mediation of suspension by deer stand. I have so enjoyed the hours this year, the time to collect thoughts and put them in quiet places for long periods, the time to focus intently on being aware of being totally present. I was in my third "half hour perfectly still" repetition ( I allow myself a five minute break between these to look around) when I heard a muffled sound to my left and a bit behind me. I moved only my eyes and picked up a fast moving doe. She stood out well against the snow in the fading light of the lead sky.

As I prepared to move slowly to take the doe (thus far I have killed a small buck,no antlers to speak of, in archery and the 11 pt "bizzarro" in shotgun, so I still have excess DMPs), she stopped and looked over her shoulder. I froze, and looked with eyes only, further to the left and rear. There with his nose down and snuffling was the perfect 8, looking just like the picture on the "Wanted" poster of the Gang of Four hanging in my mind and robbing me of sleep for months. He was trailing her by only a few yards, and then, he looked back. Through the whip saplings and briers I could see the monarch. He was cautiously trailing the doe and the 8 pt, but was exhibiting signs of nervousness. The other two deer entered the thicket in which my stand was placed haphazardly...the big boy was not so sure. He sniffed the ground where my footprints were in the snow, walked forward, swung his head down and up quickly, suspicious.

I quickly assessed my situation. Clear shot at the 8 pointer slightly quartering away at 15 yards, or, potential shot at the monarch broadside at 25 yards in a few seconds/steps if he stays on his current left to right path skirting my stand thicket, but a very narrow shooting lane. Decision needed NOW. The decision was the monarch, of course. I got the gun up, a New England Firearms "Sidekick" muzzle-loader with fiber optic sights, and swung with the deer evenly. The deer stepped four times and had his vitals in the shooting lane. I whistled lightly and he stopped. I touched the trigger, heard the snap cap go "pop"...and watched the startled deer take two steps to the right before the follow up "BANG" of the pyrodex powder ignition. The deer squatted at the shot. It was chaos...smoke in my eyes, attempting shot follow through but incredulous and panicked at what I thought probably just happened. Two trophy bucks and a doe running in confused circles under my feet. Physiological reactions to the situation manifesting themselves in my body as I tried, futilely, to reload a muzzle-loader while balancing in a tree-stand wearing a f*#@-ing moon-walking suit. Total soup sandwich.

The big deer ran down the logging trail and I listened for any tell-tale crash but heard none. The other buck stood and stared at me loading my gun, at about 100 yards, right up until I finally had the thing loaded and ready to go. Then he bounded away. It was quiet. I had a bad feeling, like I imagine a professional football player feels when he realizes that the Superbowl has just been lost by one point with seconds remaining on a 3 pt kick that was somehow blocked.

I waited for the woods to settle down and for my hands to stop shaking. I realized that light was fading fast, so rather than wait the obligatory 30 minutes, I descended and slowly puzzled through the tracks in the snow to the point where the buck stood when I shot. It was brushy. I could see the impact of the bullet in the dirt, where it had kicked particles of frozen mud into the pure white snow. There was neither hair nor blood. I looked back upwards toward my stand and guessed at the angle of the bullet. There was a twig recently broken, hanging awkwardly, in the path. Damn... very bad luck. Hit a branch, deflected the bullet. Game over. I blew it.

Antlers come and go.

Tonight, and last night I have sat in the same tree-stand, more out of penance than passion. I have been over the scene many times to be sure I didn't miss something; a speck of blood, a hair. Nothing. Nada. The red gods graced me with a consolation prize tonight, unexpectedly. I shall try once, only once, again and finally, on the morrow.

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.

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.

Chances

Deer hunt opener
Rivers of Rain ran through it
Shifting momentum

Started the morning out at “the club” (Kuneytown): I wanted to start getting to know this property better. I know one spot really, really well now. Cagey and I had looked at some maps and found a nice pinch point between an E/W pond and a N/S hedgerow. Deer had to move through there when people were moving them. I hunched down behind a ground blind at 6:15, and waited in the rain. And waited. A smattering of shots in the distance; nothing close enough to raise my hopes. The rain continued. And then it rained some, followed by some rain. Nothing. I waited. Rain. Quiet. Rain. Cagey called. He had a nice 11 pt buck. Yes!! It rained. I saw a squirrel. And then perhaps 45 minutes later, a crow. It rained. I heard one goose honk. I didn’t move. A river ran down my neck and then my pants. Cagey called again. About noon. He was done tagging and dragging, and would I meet him at the club for breakfast. Yes, I would. After some sausage, taters, and eggs, a measure of vigor was restored.

Time to redeploy! Keith took mercy on me and suggested I sit on the new stand (my old portable) at the S end of the gully at Canoga Creek Farm & Conservancy while he took his buck in for processing. Yup! Great spot; not for those afraid of heights. Even loaned me his slug gun, he did. Rifle sights and non-jamming; both good things. Settled in. Still raining some; not as much. What’s this? 2 does trotting up the gully from the south! Justice served from the 6 pointer I passed up last year (as per QDM directions) that died 15 mins later on the self-same property to the south). They stopped in some whippy brush at a bend of what Cagey says is called “Yellow Ck” (a trib to Canoga). I prefer to think of it as the Tidball Fork of Canoga Ck. About 60 yards; steep downhill. But standing, broadside. The bigger deer more open than the smaller. Held on her shoulder, touched her off, and down she went. Stumbled, fell, regained her feet, and lunged through the brush about 30 yards and then was still. Gave thanks, reflected a few moments and called Keith: still at the farm; we now had two deer to take for processing. I floated her down the raging creek—up to my thighs—I could have been swept away in the torrent to certain destruction!!!, but couldn’t really get any wetter—to where Keith took the 4 wheeler.

Time to relax, to bask in the glow of “to have hunted”. A mellow trip to the butcher, some good-natured ribbing by the boys there about the quality of the deer gutting by these Cornell types (fancy tools only work if’n you remember to USE ‘em). Even the rain letting up, beautiful orange glow suffusing the water vapor (the earth is about 98% water rather than 70%). Life is good….hey, what’s this???!!! A huge 9 pt buck in the field?! Cagey had his shotgun, I had 2 random slugs in my pocket. “Do you want him?” asked my Professional Hunter. Uhm…yeah…why wouldn’t I? But I felt strangely detached—transition too abrupt from mellow to predatory. We pulled off the road and did a hasty sneak across leased lands; me fumbling to load a weapon totally new to me. Crab-walked up a fencerow. As my Professional Hunter had known he would be, the buck was in the corner. This was my chance. How the **** do you take this thing off safe and turn on the red dot scope???! Knelt and took aim at about 80-85 yds—a long shotgun shot for me. Touched it off. In replaying this the next morning, I can laugh a little: I jerked my head up from the stock to watch that buck fall—like a golfer looking up to watch his drive and missing entirely—but of course he did not fall. Nor did he run away. Just stood there. I still felt strangely arms-length about the whole thing. This deer was huge, and he was still standing there. Did I have another slug? I did. Should I put it in the gun? I suppose. Why not? I belly crawled another 5 yards, put the dot on the top of the bucks spine, and touched trigger. This time, perfect. And the deer again just stood there and I was out of shells, out of luck, out of time. What a helpless feeling. Off he ambled, and we walked back to the truck, quietly. In thinking about it this morning, I didn’t get that deer because I somehow just couldn’t quite get back into predator mode: it felt too easy somehow, I was too mellow, and I couldn’t yank myself back into the moment. Cagey was very kind to me: he has seen—and felt—this kind of thing in Africa. Chances come quickly, and they go quickly. A very good opening day, and lessons learned.

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.

Thanksgiving.

Jonah and the doe.

Thinking of the warm, still form;

In leaves he rests, breathes.

Little Carnivores

This past year I posted to this blog about as much as I got out hunting. Which wasn't much. Sadly, my grouse dog of 10 years hunted birds just one day. That one woodcock didn't go too far at dinner! A little better was the duck hunting -- two mornings -- so Spy got a few swims in, and we had a few meals of duck.

The deer hunting was hard. Hunted a few days in Maine, probably out 6 or 7 times. Came so close to lining up on a buck, but it wasn't to be. After he snorted at me and was walking away, I pulled out a Primos doe bleat can and called him over. But he was just a little too nervous, and came to his senses about a nanosecond after an ear and antler came in sight... and he was gone. I even borrowed a black powder gun, bought a tag and tried that for a couple long days of steep snowshoing. That was fun, but did not see a deer, although sign was abundant.

I was able to get down to my folks' in CT twice during the fall. Usually it's deerville, but I did not even see a deer in 3 days during November and another two after xmas, which is unheard of. On the afternoon of the 6th day, a couple days after xmas, I settled down in a tree stand at the edge of the woods, overlooking an apple orchard (which had a liberal supply of apples still on the trees and more underneath). There was a pretty good covering of snow, and the temperature was comfortable in the upper 30s, west breeze. I had read maybe a couple articles in the Northwoods Sporting Journal when they appeared like a mirage. It was like the good old days -- deer were walking up out of the oak woods (and what an acorn year!) to the orchard. I counted one, two, three. Looked like a doe and two fawns. The fawns came first, and I let them pass at 70 yards up into the orchard. The doe stopped under a greening tree, facing me at 60 yards, head up. I placed a bullet high in her neck, reloading as the fawns jumped at the shot. They milled around a little, trying to sort things out. When one of them stepped clear of a tree limb, I threaded a bullet to his neck as well (I like the high neck shot, as the deer drop like a stone and the clean carcass makes the butcher very happy). That filled my tags, so I just watched the orpan. Finally it trotted down into the woods. A couple bleats from Primos, however, turned it around and it trotted to me, calling, right under my tree and up toward the orchard again looking for company.





There was much rejoicing that afternoon. Finally, after having to say No everytime Nolan would great me at the door with "Daddy, did you shoot a deer?", I was able to tell him yes. He told me several times over the next few days how happy he was that I shot 2 deer. When I was cutting up a carcass up on the kitchen table one day he walked in, asked what it was, and said "that looks like good meat". Little carnivores say the darnedest things.






The last day in CT I brought Nolan out for a short walk to look for bunnies. Sure enough we saw one sitting near its burrow. A crack of the .22 reduced it to possession, and again there was much rejoicing. So, what the hunting this past year lacked in quantity was made up for with a few precious memories and good meat.


And what kind of post would this be if no recipe were offered?
A favorite deer or moose dish at the Path Walker camp is "barbequed" ribs. We like to have a good rib feed right away, as the bones otherwise take up a bit of space in the freezer.
Trim up the ribs, cut to sizes that fit in your crockpot or stew pot. Cover with water, bring to a boil or nearly so, then let them simmer til the meat wants to fall off. Cool so the fat will solidify on top (especially important w/ deer). Then pick the meat, put in a casserole or baking dish, mix with Sweet Baby Ray's barbeque sauce flavor of your choice. Pop it in the oven at about 375 until it gets a little crusty on top. Serve over your favorite type of rice with a nice lager along side. Ribs of a fawn are probably good for one meal, an adult deer maybe two meals (if there are any leftovers you'll probably have to fight for them, or hide them).


Good luck in 08.