Canoga Creek Clean-up

http://kuneytown.blogspot.com/2011/03/canoga-creek-clean-up-success.html

An Odd Season- Deer Opener

I wasn't expecting to hunt this year. I had injured my arm in a fall from my tree-stand in the off season, in August, as I was repairing a deer stand and making it "safe." One of the metal screw-in steps, the top most step, snapped and left me a free fall, interrupted by a grab of a step which caused me to burst and tear my right biceps tendon, but, kept me from breaking my neck or back. When I caught myself, my body swung back toward the tree like a pendulum, and I slammed into a lower screw-in step, which I am lucky did not manage to completely pierce my torso. I lived through this, but was told by my doctor to expect a surgery and a long painful recovery.

I won't go into great detail about my travels to Asia and the various forms of traditional healing that I sought out while there on business. It suffices to say that I returned home, the archery season in full swing, healed, at least enough to hunt. A second opinion from an arm specialist confirmed this, and I used my jet lag to arise early and provide the family with a wild turkey for thanksgiving. The turkey fell to the big side-by-side 10 gauge. I missed the first shot, but made a satisfying second wing shot and relished the thud of a big turkey falling from the sky. My 2010 season was underway. The picture here is a classic and comedic capture of me patiently explaining to my loving wife that taking pictures is not very hard.

I turned my attention to the archery deer season, managing to hunt almost every day of the nearly three weeks remaining of the season, for at least an hour or two. I saw surprisingly few deer during that time, but did see 2 different "shooters," one of which I confronted at about 15 yards head on, but was never afforded a reasonable shot. That buck was later killed on the first day of gun season, today, by my neighbor. I was able to take an antlerless deer as the season closed, a memorable shot from a tree stand down by the lake on a beautiful misty evening.

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 continued 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 by 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. There will be feasting.

Common Blue Violet

http://plants.usda.gov/java/profile?symbol=VISO

Wild Geranium

Geranium maculatum

Becoming a Lefty: A Bow Hunting Story

I lost the vision in my right eye when I was serving as an infantry officer in the Kentucky National Guard, back in the early nineties. Seems I was specially selected to be a victim, a target of reprisals for the aggressive counter-drug operations we were involved in. In the end, my right eye doesn't work so good-- the rest of the story is irrelevant to the one I am telling now.

With the loss of vision in my right eye came the loss of my ability to shoot a gun, or a bow, right-handed. Try as I might, it was ineffectual. One late summer day, a good friend took me to a shooting range, where he was regaling me with the enthusiasm he had for side by side shotguns. He offered me the gun to "take it for a spin" and predictably, I could hit nothing. The orange clay disks floated away unharmed to land in the grass, like small Frisbees. Then, he encouraged me to try it left handed. I did, and I hit the first target launched, and many thereafter. From that day forward, the shooting sports have been left handed affairs for me.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that the archery set up my wife had given me for an anniversary gift, was worthless to a left-eyed, left handed shooter. I let it go in an auction, and with it went, for over ten years, any thought of bow-hunting.

I spent a decade becoming a lefty. My first shotguns, LC Smith side by sides, became my friends. Their flat sight plane and straight, no cast stocks allowed me to find success despite the awkwardness. Over time, I became a side by side purist, both for aesthetic and practical reasons. Then, I entered into the realms of big game hunting, still using a side by side 12 gauge. As time passed, the big game hunting began to occupy more and more of my thoughts, until I reached the point, last year, of considering attempting to shoot a left handed bow. I wanted to enjoy closer, more frequent buck sightings, and I wanted to have a chance at them before the orange army descended upon every nook and cranny of Canoga-land. So, on a whim, I searched Ebay for left-handed bows, and to my surprise, found a full set up for under a 100 dollars. I bid, and promptly won. Must not be a great market for ten year old left-handed bows.

After a once over, some fitting, and some upgrades, I was ready to fling arrows. Within a few weeks I was passably accurate, and I entered the archery fray, two weeks into the 2008 season. I hunted hard, missed a few deer, wounded a buck (that I eventually recovered in gun season, luckily) and finally found success as the season was closing, taking a young antlerless deer from a treestand at 30 yards. I was hooked. I spent the summer thinking of bow-hunting, strategizing optimal stand placement, and completing broad-head comparisons. By the time this fall season (2009) rolled around, I had upgraded to carbon arrows, had made the move to retractable broad-heads, and was using illuminated nocks. All of this makes my Browning Bridger II a reasonable example of a late 2oth century bow.

Though I missed the first few days of the 2009 archery season (due to travel), I still managed to hunt all but 6 days of the season, if only for an hour on some days. As October came to a close, I began to see an upswing in buck movement around the farm. I was seeing multiple bucks, a 4 pointer, a 6 pointer, a 7 pointer, a big 8 pointer, and a monster 10 point buck. The biggest buck made a point of chasing does in open fields near my stand, no matter where I was located or in what field. He seemed comfortable 150 yards from any cover that I found myself in. Until one windy morning, a morning I almost passed on. At the last minute, I decided to give it a go and was in my stand about a half hour before sunrise. The wind made it difficult to hear anything but the sounds of leaves falling. Within minutes of settling in, the big 10 pointer snuck in behind me. As I slowly rose to get my bow and face the right direction, he covered the few feet from the opening in the thicket to the tree I was in, and began smelling the climbing steps on the tree and licking the air. He was right below my feet, and he was huge. The wind was making him nervous, as was my scent, and I could see he was twitching his tail. He would bolt in a moment. I drew and positioned the shot, straight down. It felt awkward and uncomfortable. All I could see was brown in the peep sight. I opened both eyes to get the precise aim point, and let it fly. Unfortunately, I neglected to check for clearance of my arrow, and the fletching of the arrow hit the trunk of the tree and the tree-stand as it passed, sending the arrow 3 inches off course, completely missing the buck and spooking him. As he ran, and my heart sunk, I saw that he was the biggest deer I have ever seen.

It was difficult to recover from that failure. I was sick about it for days. I sat in the stand the next few mornings, more out of penance than passionate optimism. All I could think was that I had probably just messed up the buck of a lifetime. As I related the story to friends, all were sympathetic and empathetic, and all encouraged me to keep sight of the goal--to shoot a buck, any buck, this season. My personal goal was to shoot a buck that was "four on a side" and beyond the ears. I kept hunting, haunted by the one I missed, the one that got a way.

One morning I hunted a favorite stand, "The Cedar Tree." I have successfully bagged at least one buck and a few other deer, plus two coyotes, out of this tree (with a gun), which overlooks a small, hidden, ten acre field near the gulley. The stand itself is blended nicely in the cedar's branches and needles. There is a fence directly below, the field to the right (north) and a mowed lane way through a dense thicket to the left (south). The sun rises behind you in this stand, which is optimal. This particular morning was cloudy and gloomy, and there was not a lot of activity. I had missed a doe out of this tree a few days earlier. The deer can be heard running or trotting towards the cedar tree over the left shoulder, in the laneway. One must stand and draw immediately as the deer will enter the window for shooting quickly. As soon as the deer is visible in the opening, one must make a sound to startle and stop the deer for the shot. There is only a second or two to shoot. It is a little more than 20 yards. On the doe I missed, I aimed low on the 20 yard pin and missed her clean underneath.

On this morning, I sat thinking about my missed buck, and my missed doe out of the Cedar Tree. I was consoling myself as best I could, and had resolved to play and replay the misses in my head until I knew what errors I had committed, and learned how not to repeat them. At about 8:15, as I was mulling this, I heard over my left shoulder the same sound I heard a few days earlier...a deer coming up the trail. Like last time, I stood and drew. The deer emerged in the shot opening and it was a buck! I stopped him in the window with a vocalization, and in a split second saw four points and some mass, let the sight pin rise a bit, and let it fly. I saw the arrow hit the buck, right in the shoulder. He leaped straight up in the air, double kicked like a bronco, and I watched the arrow pop out and fall to the ground as he scampered off to the south. I stood for a moment with my mouth open, brow furrowed. I couldn't believe it. I heard the buck snort, and he sounded like he was only a hundred yards into the thicket.

I thought better of the tried-and-true strategy of sitting for 30 minutes after the shot before descending, and I quickly climbed down to look at my arrow. The arrow had meat on it, but no blood, and there was hair but no blood on the ground. I heard the buck snort again. I was kneeling down, peering into the brush where the noises were coming from. I realized that the wind was out of the west, so he wasn't winding me. I also realized that I had another stand that I could get to and at least halve the distance to where I thought this buck was now, perhaps lucking into another opportunity. It was a long shot, but the wind was in my favor. If it didn't work out, I would have to come back to the spot where the arrow came out and begin a search for any further sign.

I hustled to the other stand, the "Y-Tree" stand (where I had missed the 1o pointer!) and was up and in within 5 minutes. I had just nocked an arrow and had put down my face mask when I felt that feeling you get when someone is staring at you. I slowly turned my head to the right, and there was a buck. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was 30 yards away, facing me head on, looking in the direction of the tree, but not up. He must have heard the commotion, and was investigating. He took a few steps in my direction and I could see a slight limp. Then, he turned to lick his right shoulder. I could see it was bleeding. Miraculously, this was my buck!

He would take a few steps, and turn to lick his wound. Each time he turned, I would prepare a littel more for the shot. I stood and froze. I turned sideways and froze. I widened my feet and steadied and froze; each time he would look back at the base of the tree after licking his wound, but not up at me. I looked hard at his antlers; they were an interesting brown shade, thicker than I expected at the bases, but not as wide as I would have liked. Just out to the ears, and seven, not eight points. I felt a little disappointed, but then realized that I had yet to bring this buck into possession! I debated drawing the next time he turned his head, worrying that he would present me only a frontal shot and then proceed to walk right under me without ever presenting a shot. But, since he was already at 20 yards, I decided to gamble, and when he turned, I drew. He seemed vaguely aware that something moved, and he flicked his ear. Then, like he read my mind, he turned broadside and presented a perfect shot opportunity. I let an arrow fly at the buck, the second arrow in the span of ten minutes. Rare, if not unheard of. The shot looked great. I saw the arrow go in, not too far back, and felt that the shot was good.

Normally, it would have been time to savor a good shot. But, things had really not been going my way the last few days, and rather than feeling victorious, I felt anxious, worried that this, too, would end up in disappointment. I forced myself to wait 30 minutes, replaying the entire sequence. The shot was good. The arrow was in two thirds of the way as the buck ran off, to the south east. Finally, it was time to find out what had happened. I climbed down slowly, quietly. I walked slowly to the point of the shot. Hair and blood, good. There was a good trail to follow. Easy tracking. So, I went slowly, thoroughly, and was gaining confidence. The buck seemed to be traveling basically south, and there was a good track and blood.

After about 1/4 of a mile, there was a heavier patch of red, and there I found the arrow, broken off. The broad-head was still in the buck, cutting with every step. I felt sure I'd find the buck soon. It had now been an hour since I shot the second arrow... 9:30 am. I followed on, using the arrow as a pointer, tracking well still, but noticeably less blood on the trail. Continuing south, I passed through the deep side gully where the turkeys often roost. The buck scrambled up the other side, and here the tracking was easier. I kept resisting the urge to rush ahead. Just follow the sign, I kept telling myself.

Following the southward trail, I came into the Hoster farm field, this year in corn. The buck skirted the eastern edge of the field, still traveling southerly, along the Van Riper farm boundary. The tracking was getting harder now. Where before there was lots to follow, now there just drops, spaced out over a few yards. The buck veered out of the field and into Van Riper's thicket. Here, I lost the trail for about 15 minutes. Finally, on my hands and knees, I found a drop, and then another, on a leaf. He had made a hard right back into the Hoster field.

He seemed to linger in the corner, where there was a fresh scrape. I wondered if perhaps it was his? Then, his trail was lost to me. I spent 2o more minutes trying to find any sign. After many false starts down "hunch" paths, I happened down the right one and picked the blood trail back up, 15 yards from the last sign. I was getting worried now, and more anxious. The buck's trail took me down into a spur draw, a familiar place for bedding does. This was fitful tracking...here a sign, then a puzzle. It was slow going. I looked at my watch- 11:15 AM. I looked ahead, and there was a large splash. As I began to step towards it, up jumped the buck, bounding away to the west and out of the draw. He crossed the little freshet and I could see that the flow of red had picked back up with his sudden exertion. He was angling south west, headed towards the row of pines.

As soon as I reached the pines I knew I was in trouble. The russet bed of pine duff beneath the boughs left little to contrast with the red, and the fine needles move and roll, covering the blood droplets. I spent an hour in this stretch, on hands and knees yet again, scouring the pine needle bed for any indication of direction. I lay pine cones in a line, and after a while a general direction emerged. He had cut due west. I projected my line and exited the pines to the field edge, to the corn. Here, about waist high, was a splash. Eureka!

I learned that in corn or blond grasses, it is better to track kneeling or squatting down, so you can see the red ahead on the sides of the stalks and connect the dots. It is much more difficult to see from above. I went along this way for some time, following the corn and the trail. He had exited the draw and was working his way into the wind following a grassy drainage rill in the middle of the corn field. As I worked along, I noticed that the splashes were very wet. I slowed way down and peered ahead as I stepped...a few steps and around a corner I could see the antlers through the grass, at an intersection of grassy drainage ways. I crouched low and observed the buck. He was panting, laying down but head up. He had positioned himself to be able to observe his back track. At that moment the buck seemed bigger than before to me, and I wanted him more, too. I looked at my watch. It was noon. I decided to just wait, to back off and let him stay here, having already bumped him off a bed once.

No sooner had I made that decision, then the buck rose and turned, heading west. I nocked an arrow and attempted a shot, but the corn was to thick. Off he went, flag high. At this point, I could not understand how this deer was still going. It seemed he had lost a lot of blood, he had been arrowed twice, and he had covered a lot of ground, bedding down twice. In other places, I saw in the spoor that he was wounded in vitals, certainly. I felt a mixture of awe and respect for his toughness, all the while fretting that I might have just pushed him too hard and sent him out of my area, never to be found.

The tracking seemed to get easier. The buck was crashing ahead now, breaking down corn stalks and leaving good sign. The ground was wet and the mud was heavy in the drainage. I felt that the resistance of the corn and footing must surely be wearing the noble beast down. Yet, we were at the end of the corn field to the west! I began to be aware of panicked thoughts. The little patch of woods he had made for was an island in a mostly plowed field, nearly impossible to track him in. If he continued on, he would have to cross that field and then a road, and then he will have gotten the upper hand on me. I was thinking this as I crawled under the overhanging buckthorn at the field edge, the shrubby barrier to the island of woods.

The trail seemed obvious. He ducked under the branches there and then...where? The trail vanished. I was losing my ability to be patient. It was nearly 1 pm. I searched in circles in the island woods. At one point, a doe came racing by, low to the ground like a track star. It was unnerving. I found one more splash of blood, waist high on a pole size tree. It seemed the buck was wobbling, but I couldn't make sense of the direction of travel. Many more circles later, I decided to give it a break- to return home and eat something, have some coffee, and seek advice and assistance. I needed to back off.

I spent lunch brooding, making my wife miserable. After the telling of the saga she asked,"You do this for fun, right?" sarcastically. She was right... the whole thing is an obsession; significantly more emotion is invested than a mere pastime requires. She looked at me, silently. I felt her taking pity on me. She said "you'll find him."

I called some hunting buddies (Eric and George) for a consultation. After the telling, they both seemed optimistic that we'd find the deer. George shared his opinion about how long one should wait after the shot. We agreed to meet at 3:30 pm and search. When 3:30 finally arrived, it was raining. So much for a blood trail. We drove around to the back of the farm, and split up. We walked toward the island woods slowly, checking for any tracks or other sign, from the west. The thought was, it would be better to push him back into the corn than out the west side and into the plowed field. As we entered the woods, George and his son joined the search. Eric was pushing in from the west, and I was pinching from the south, while George was pinching from the North. We met in the middle, I pointed to the area where the deer entered the woods, and George's son squinted off into the brush. "What's that?" Eric replied "That's a dead deer."

The buck had turned in, to the North, and died. When I left the chase, I was no more than fifty yards from him. At a little after 4:00 pm, I finished what I had begun at a little after 8 that morning. Hefting the antlers, I felt immense admiration for the courageous and tough 7 point buck, and for all his brethren.

The wound on the shoulder was surprisingly deep and severe, given that the arrow bounced out. It was not, however, a mortal blow. The second arrow struck true, but because the buck was slightly quartering away as I shot, the arrow merely clipped the lower left lung, as opposed to hitting both lungs or heart. Then, the arrow hit liver and upper stomach. A mortal blow, but not instant.

In the end, I am pleased with my first left-handed archery buck. It was hard fought, and hard won. And the hero of the story is the buck.

Beavers have arrived

Last fall while deer hunting in our gully, subtle signs of newly arrived beaver (or perhaps just passing through) were observed. A small beech sapling "skinned" and spear-like, floating in the creek; a handful of chomped off dogwood and poplar in the flats near the creek.

The beaver sign came up in a conversation around the dinner table, replete with recollections from my childhood in Minnesota. Throughout the winter, the possibility of beavers on our farm has generated considerable excitement among our budding naturalists Charlotte and Victoria.

So, with the thaw and resulting loss of snow, combined with a growing case of cabin-fever, we decided on an exploration. We tracked to the creek, built a fire as a kind of central rallying point (quite a challenge in the soggy conditions!), and had a brief discussion about beavers and their habits. I set it up so that the children were in charge of locating evidence, and then building a case, that beavers actually were taking up residence in our gully. My what a ruckus... shrieking over here on the discovery of a Carpinus caroliniana all chewed up, whooping and hollering over there upon locating a perfectly preserved set of tracks. "Daddy, over here!" when the beginning of a damn was discovered, and also the holes in the bank that we all hypothesize serve as quarters for the new beaver family as they continue work on impounding our creek. What a blast.

It was interesting to me that the preferred food did seem to be Carpinus caroliniana, followed by Fagus grandifolia, despite the presence of poplar and willow relatively near by.


I have posted a few pictures, and will continue to update the status of our beavers.