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.

Thanksgiving 2008

A gift idea- and a gift

Here is a gift idea...
























...and the rumination that inspired it.

Oh, and while we are on the subject of gifts, we should be thankful for the wisdom of Yoda (Ernie) for this prescient warning:

Two more days: Ballet Boy swan song

Close of business Thursday. It's all over.

The good news is . . . I'll be able to grouse hunt again. So, I got that goin' for me.

Which is nice.

One more day

Last day of deer (shotgun) and duck (first split) tomorrow in Western New York. Good luck to all in pursuit.



An illustration from A. B. Frost, The American Sportsman’s Artist" by Henry W. Lanier.

Hunting in Sports Illustrated and on NPR

Two things I think are particularly noteworthy; simply that NPR ran this piece at all, and the host shows a real grasp of the material. Take the time to listen in.

NPR's On Point with Tom Ashbrook - Good Hunting

And here's a feature piece running in the current SI:

How the Decline of Hunting is Changing the Natural Order of Predator and Prey

A lot to be thankful for

Good friends, good land, good dogges. One last (?) retrieve for old McPhee.

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.

PA Opening Day Eve

Guns loaded, gear prepped
Liquored anticipation
Will dawn prove fruitful?

Yesterday at Pintail Point

Stella in sorghum.

Bounding, brown head breaks surface.

Birds flushed, but shots missed.

Anticipation

Cozy winter memories

Seven am and I'm off to a training session/grouse hunt with my little pointer in the fresh fallen snow. This image captures everything about the hunting season that I love. There's something timeless about what we do boys. Perhaps I'm succumbing to some early Thanksgiving sentimentality, but I feel blessed. Off to the grouse woods...

Still Recovering From the Sock. But Stella Doing Great.

Stella, Nos and I spent some time in the woods this past weekend. D.C. - despite the abundance of game ('specially donkeys and elephants)- still is without a hunting season, but I can still take the dogges out for fun and some training.

Stella looked good searching for the "dead bird" (which I threw into the woods when she wasn't paying attention), and did a nice job retrieving to hand. She also made some water retrieves, too.

So, at least we got that going for us.

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.

Woodcock and Ticks - redemption

Veterans Day, 2008. I honored our heros with a day in the Pennsylvania woods, hoping the woodcock had preceded our recent cold front.

9-1
First to Cobert Covert with Lilly. Conditions were cool (40s-low 50s) but dry. Nothing. At 10 we tried a new covert on a south facing hillslope managed by Penn State. Lilly pointed a grouse (reflush) but bumped it as I fought the underbrush trying to get to her. Then, a one hour Bonasa hiatus. Just when I thought we were done, as I emerged from pine plantation to a 20 ac clearcut, I flushed a bird into the open by almost stepping on it. I was not "in the moment" so I rushed the shot. I thought I'd clipped it. Lilly is a delight to watch when she is hunting dead, but even her heroic efforts couldn't make one materialize. I was less disappointed than I was confused, but I was able to regain my composure and a semblance of calm for the budding pup. From there, we scouted the slopes of Tussey Mountain, tried our hand at a covert that is best in January after the snow has settled, then headed home for lunch and Cody.

2-5
The infamous grouse research plots are now open to hunting. This is the land of popple, and ticks. I alternated the dogs. An initial treck with Lilly, too close to a firing range, turned up nothing. I relocated the truck, disconcerted by the number of vehicles parked at every likely looking patch of cover. Another quick excursion, this time with Cody, and I was ready to call it quits. Conditions were bone dry. Ticks were crawling all over the black dog, dozens of them. We ran into a pair of bunny hunters, exchanging information: bunny hunters had seen no bunnies but had bumped many woodcock; tick-covered bird hunter had seen not birds but had bumped two bunnies. We pressed on, eventually finding a large stand of aspen with a fairly thick undergrowth of miscellaneous eye swatting bushes.

In minutes we flushed our first bird. I dropped it and Cody quickly found it, mouthing it a few times but unwilling to pick it up. It was an enormous bodied adult female (Andy would probably ID it as a hatch year male). Bodacious and blond. We soon flushed several more birds, but the understory was too high and thick for me to make much of the opportunities. More importantly, Cody became quite disoriented, losing me several times and unable to locate me when I called her. So, we returned to the truck and I brought out a thoroughly tired Lilly.

Within several minutes we flushed our first bird. I don't know who did the flushing, but I decided to shoot, cleanly missing with the right barrel. As the bird disappeared from range I pulled the rear trigger and the bird stopped it's progress, descending to the earth in a controlled, sitting position. We hunted it dead but Lilly immediately bumped a woodcock. Was it our bird or another bird? Lilly is regularly bumping woodcock. I've been told she'll figure them out eventually. We bumped four more birds and I did my fare share of polluting the environment with lead, briefly forgetting that I was in training mode. Bad Pete. I leashed the dog and stumbled back to the truck, ticks dropping from every branch we passed.

We returned to site of the potentially lost bird with Cody and Lilly. They both hunted the dead bird with enthusiasm, and suddenly there was a flush. A clearly injured woodcock rose and flew over my head. You could see it losing steam and, within 10 yards it simply dropped to the earth. The two dogs were on it and Lilly promptly brought it to me, refusing to release her prize but technically delivering to hand. I was elated, vindicated and redeemed. We returned to the truck where I spent fifteen minutes removing several dozen ticks from each of the dogs. At home, I removed another 50 from Cody alone. Vive les ticks!

The Camp Life

Night-life at camp is, of course, important. As important as the hunting itself? Depends on how good the hunting is and how bad the dinner and musical entertainment. Luckily for us the hunting was just fine, the food lovely and the music good enough (my banjo playing brought down the quality level some, but I hope not too much).

Dr. Dirt arranged a wonderful lobster meal the first night. We enjoyed the fermented fruit of the fields and vines each night, which also served to loosen up fretwork some.

In the photo below we see the Perfesser pushing out the tunage, Cagey  taking a much needed liquid break, Dr. Dirt dreaming of bog-suckers shot over Lily and PW customizing his official "Ethics Inaction" hat (thanks to Jefe for those!).

Turkey

Click the picture for the full story.

More Maine

Departing Visions

Farewell Sunrise ...
Spruce Grouse Moon ...

The Lady of the Lake

One grouser is designated to conduct a ritual face washing AT LEAST once during the week. This symbolic act releases the remaining nimrods from engaging in such serious activity. PW was given the honor this past camp, and conducted himself with proper decorum.

With the salt of his brow, and the saliva of the dogge's maws, the blessings of the Spider Lake Naiad are secured for the week.