No Hunting

I spent some time with the family, celebrating my 40th birthday, in my favorite Adirondacks area, the Moose River drainage. This time, we were focused on the North Branch, based at Big Moose Lake's famous Big Moose Inn. We enjoyed some truly fantastic family downhill skiing at McCauley Mountain, and also some first -class backcountry touring in the Pigeon Lake Wilderness Area. While in the woods, we came across this novel scene of the game in the Adirondacks.

Finale buck

Despite the twists and turns of 2010, I am able to reflect upon my big game season with some measure of satisfaction. On my last successful hunt of the 2010 big game season I was able to take a nice coyote and a buck that is easily my second best ever. This in a year that was supposed to be a wash for me, a year that I had written off as a loss, given my injuries in the pre-season. I ended up the year with an antlerless archery tag filled, a buck and a doe tag filled during the shotgun season, and a buck on a muzzleloader tag.

The buck pictured here represents a very memorable shot. I had killed the coyote only about 30 minutes earlier and was debating about ending my hunt when I noticed motion about 150 yards away in a ravine. After a few minutes of watching, I was able to pick out the shape of a doe, who became more visible with time and focus. She was intent on something in the opposite direction of my stand location, and the wind was in my favor. I watched her for over 30 minutes, sometimes laying down, other times standing up with ears pricked forward, twitching her tail. A buck?

After another 15 minutes of this I decided, seeing no other deer, to climb down and try to stalk the doe by creeping to the edge of the ravine and pulling off an ambush shot. I didn't want to take such a long shot on a doe. As I was descending the tree, I kept looking at the doe in the gully, but as I got lower and the angle of view changed, she went out of sight. Then, I caught a burst of motion and the shape of a deer raced by from right to left in the ravine. They're moving...change of plan!

I raced back up the tree, thinking better of my ambush plan, and hoping they would move towards me and offer me a shot. As I reclaimed my position in the tree stand, and brought the binoculars to my eyes, I could see two deer. I looked at them through the binoculars. They were bunched up now, both looking intently away from me, oblivious of my presence over a football field away. Then, out of the right side of my field of vision through the binoculars emerged an antler, which kept growing until I saw a large neck and attached to the body of a very healthy buck in full rut. It was so vivid and clear against the snow, and yet I dropped the binoculars, not trusting the data coming in. I raised them again... he was big bodied, his tines reached beyond his eye in profile and he was beyond the ears... "a shooter," I breathed, dropping the binoculars and raising the gun to asses the situation through a scope.

The shot was no chip-shot, plus 150 yards, down hill, lots of trees and brush. I had two possible openings two shoot through if the buck cooperated. It would have to be perfect. PERFECT. I debated momentarily about taking the shot at all, and then the voice of reason, the one I have grown to trust in deer season told me "you see one shooter per season-- two if you are really lucky... if you have a make-able shot, take it." So the shot was makeable, I told my self, so I'll take it.

The buck was busy sniffing and twitching his tail while I was snuggling up to the seat and the tree on my hang-on tree stand, trying to find a rock-steady rest. As I settled in, kneeling on the platform and using the seat to stabilize, he stepped into the better of my two openings. He was quartering toward me, presenting a thin window at vitals with a sharp down angle, but I felt good on my rest. He stopped. I focused on a quarter-sized patch of fur slightly forward of his front right shoulder. At that angle I'd hit vitals and perhaps break the shoulder, anchoring him. I prepared to commence the squeeze. As I began the exhale and the oh-so-gentle squeeze I vaguely noticed him move his head downward to lick his front left leg and his left hind quarters. The shot. A cartwheel through the scope and smoke. Did I hit his antlers when he moved his head? Still looking through the scope, and not moving an inch, I began to be able to see four legs straight up in the air quivering, and then they became still and listed to the right. Deer down. Was it my buck? Did I hit him in the head or antlers? Did a different deer step in front of the shot? Many questions were racing through my mind.

I regained my seat in the tree stand to compose myself, reloading and checking back every few seconds to confirm that the downed animal was not going to regain consciousness and scamper off (as happened the year before out of the same stand... see the "snorkel deer"). I checked my watch, to begin the agonizing but obligatory 30 minute wait. After 15 minutes, and many, many confirmations with scope and binoculars, I was certain of the presence of antlers and that the deer was dead. I descended the stand and slowly made my way to the downed deer. As I reached him, the two does he was with burst from some brush on my right and bounded away. I worried for a moment that that was a sign that the buck was still alive, but when I reached him, the bullet wound(s) told another story. As the buck had turned his head to lick his left side, the bullet neatly severed his spine, then entered his chest cavity and lodged in the upper portion of his heart. He died instantly.

I hefted the antlers in my hand. I was very aware of the feeling that was washing over me, of a kind of relief mixed with remorse, the beginning and ending, the victory and the end of the struggle. He was a nice buck. One to be proud of. I have only one bigger, but not better. This buck came with much effort, after many trials and barriers, and after a difficult previous season. This buck was a gift to mark a turning point for me, a leaving behind and a striving ahead. The season finale-and a beginning.

On hunting whitetails, Koller once said:

"If we must kill them,let it be quickly and cleanly, without excuses. Paradoxical though it may seem, a sportsman, to enjoy his sport, must kill that which he admires. He must posses it, fondle it, show it to his friends; and to possess he must kill. No one can object to this, for it is the way of nature; but in the name of this mother of all wild things, it should be a sudden, painless death."

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.

The Bittersweet Buck and the Struggle with the Sublime

(A true story--Dec 2009)

"I am in mourning, and am in pain" I realized, while sitting in a treestand overlooking a favorite field, pondering the merits, or the futility, of hunting a territory that had recently experienced the reduction of its deer herd by one magnificent 10 pt buck.

"When a quality buck is taken on a QDM area, the pride can be shared by all property hunters because it was they who produced it by allowing it to reach the older age classes which are necessary for large bodies and antlers." That's what they say. Problem was, I felt considerably less pride and palpably more of some wicked brew of remorse, envy, and despair.

I had scouted this buck in the off season, he and his larger pal. I had muffed a tough straight down archery opportunity on him; had stalked him almost to success, only to be blown out in one case by a nearby coyote bedded down, and in another by the presentation of two unethical shots (a doe and a smaller buck directly behind in one, a silhouetted target on a ridge the next). I jumped him and chose not to take a "Texas heart shot," moments later trying a longer shot through brush to no avail. I had had my encounters, had had my chances, and had come up short.

It was the last weekend of shotgun season. It was time to "push the gully" and shoot a doe or two, or perhaps get a shot at one of the big boys (there is no shooting small bucks here during gun season). I knew there was a risk that one of these wall-hangers would pop out and be taken by one of my friends and fellow hunters rather than me, but I was willing to suffer that, or so I thought.

We went over the rules of the hunt; I assigned Gary, a relatively "green" hunter, to the prime stand covering the northern most outlet of the gully- we'd push it from the south. Other hunters were posted on the other escape routes.

The push yielded a few does, but they squirted out into a field with buildings as a backdrop...no shot. Two small bucks came out of the thicket to the west, but were undersized and no shots were fired. The drive was coming to an end, when Dave, in a stand on the other side of the gully motioned to Eric that there was a good size buck hiding in a large Beech tree top that was down and laying across the creek in the gully. As Eric pushed into the thick cover, the buck jumped, but hugged the ground and low-crawled like a rabbit. He hadn't gone far, but seemed to disappear. Eric stomped around in the brush, and finally the buck had held for as long as he could, exploding out from under a log up the east side of the gully right up the switch back trail towards Gary. A shot rang out. Only one.

It took me much longer to reach Gary and the downed deer than Eric, as I was on the other side of the gully. While I was en route, the buck had laid down in the open pasture east of the gully for awhile, but had bolted as the hunters approached to finish it off. A volley of shots was heard and the buck was down for good. Pictures were taken of that trophy, with my woods as a back drop, in the back of my truck, but not with my proud face or slightly shaking hands wrapped around that perfect 10 point rack. He'd score 130 easy, probably better.

That was yesterday. I spent all night tossing and turning about Gary's success, uncomfortable with my unresolved and confused feelings about it. This morning's sit in the stand felt like a work-out, a forced exertion rather than a joy or pleasure. I watched a single red leaf float to the ground. A doe passed within range but I was uninterested in killing her. I thought about how shocked Gary seemed, how unaware he seemed of what he had done, and then how he gradually looked relieved and quite happy as the adrenaline was replaced by a sense of completion and accomplishment. The doe looked over her shoulder. I thought about how Gary shook my hand and told me privately that this was his first big buck, about the gratitude he exhibited in his facial expression and in his simple words. "Thanks so much Keith." The doe took two steps and looked back again. I thought about the sick feeling I had when I saw the buck on the ground, those antlers I had studied with binoculars, from tree stands, even at full draw at 6 yards below me. The doe bolted at the sound of a grunt, and a 6 point yearling came out of the thicket, chasing her. I raised my gun and followed the buck's shoulder. "Boom," I whispered.... but did not fire. "Nice shot Gary."

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.

Deer Opener (gun) 2008

An interesting 11 point buck. Just under 13 inch inside spread. My thought was that I had shot a 2 1/2 year old male who had some antler issues...he passed the 4 points on a side test, but turns out that, after DEC aging, he is only a 1 & 1/2 year old male! Shame...he would have been incredible as a 3 & 1/2. Still, a gift on a tough rainy opener, and memorable.

He will be tender and tasty.

A Nice Archery Buck

Yesterday, George H. took a beautiful 11 pt buck out of the Canoga Creek Farm & Conservancy. I won't tell George's story for him in hopes that we will hear from this future Grouser in person on the subject, but suffice it to say that this may be his best archery deer to date, and it is the second "big boy" to grace my lawn since I've been the steward of this here parcel. Hearty congratulations to George.

Luke's Way -Coda

The last day of deer season for me was a Monday. Luke and Rob left Sunday morning for Kentucky, and I decided Sunday evening to get out for just a few hours on the last day. I was still basking in the afterglow of the memorable squirrel hunt turned deer hunt and feeling relieved and thankful that the weekend was a success for Luke, and for me also. I once again awoke before dawn, but more gladly than in days past, moving in that mode of savoring the last day of something, be it a vacation, a season like summer, or whatever one looks forward to for longer than one can actually enjoy. I was clearly savoring the last day of deer season. Putting on my orange coat, which thankfully was becoming just slightly less jarring in its vividness. Grabbing a handful of slug shells out of the cigar box, picking up the old deer gun. It occurred to me that I might want to “keep my luck” and not switch guns, owing to the recent success of the “magical gun of mystery,” but I scoffed at my hunting mysticism and superstition and reminded myself that this was just a couple of hours on the last day. So I settled on the bolt action WWI relic and headed out the door.

My destination was the O’Connor tree stand, not 50 yards from where the gray doe came to rest Saturday. It is a comfortable stand, easy to get to quickly in the snow, and over the years, incredibly productive, or so I had been told. To date I found it to be excellent for ground squirrel observation.

As I settled in I took my habitual deep breaths and closed my eyes, listening for a few minutes. It was beautifully quiet. Even more snow had fallen in the night. A Great Horned Owl announced the end of his shift, and a gentle breeze made the tree sway slowly. I opened my eyes and there was a bit more daylight. The trees looked like they had been lightly moistened and dipped into confectioners sugar, creating a fantasy quality in the gully where one might expect to be visited by the Sugar Plum Fairy or Old Saint Nick at any moment. I chuckled at this thought, preferring rather a gift of a different sort on this last morning of deer season.

Yet, I was aware of my inner voice encouraging me to avoid being greedy, especially as Christmas approached. So I rested my mind on the gift I had been given by Luke, by hunting Luke’s way. I replayed the dinner conversation where Luke innocently rescued me from wallowing in self-pity, a perfectly ridiculous waste of emotion, especially during hunting season. Turning my head slightly, I scanned the ridge top where we had stood, looking down at the fleeing doe. Slowly turning my head still further, exaggerating deliberateness, I surveyed the area where she was bedded, where she began her ascent up the far ridge, and where she fell. And then I froze.

Simultaneously I saw motion in the extreme periphery to my right and heard twigs snapping. “Too loud and too cold for the ground squirrels” I thought. The problem was, due to my reminiscent rubber-necking a moment ago, I was now in need of a more than 180 degree adjustment of my field of view. I began the super slow revolution of my head upon its axis of my slightly cramped neck. Gradually, in the periphery of my left eye, one doe appeared, then three, then five then more than I could easily count. They were moving quickly from left to right. I was thinking to myself, “Well now, what an embarrassment of riches…which one shall I concentrate upon?” Just as I was about to raise my gun, the does seemed to hear something behind them, which caused a domino effect of snorting and tail and ear twitching. They began to move further to my right at a trot, looking as if they might slip over the little ridge to the west without offering me much of a shot, especially if I didn’t hurry. And then I saw two more deer coming fast out of some brambles from the left, two that had been lagging behind the larger groups of does apparently.

The lead deer seemed smallish, the second appearing larger, but her head has concealed behind the first. “Ok” I thought “slowly raise the gun, just wait for them to pass into your field of fire, and take the second deer.” I raised the gun, aware of a faint sound of fabric rubbing. I remember hearing a belch-like grunt and thinking “Strange…that second doe just burped” and then feeling like I might have been injected with a few cc’s of straight caffeine intravenously. At about the same moment, all of the moisture previously existing in my throat and mouth was forced as if by a press directly out of the pores in my hands, my heart rate spiked like the NASDAQ at the birth of the phrase “dot com” and, oddly, I was aware of the sound an overloaded transistor makes before exploding, that high pitched note that keeps getting higher. All of this because I was witnessing a natural history miracle; the belching trailing doe raised her head and became a magnificent nine point buck before my very eyes.

The miracle buck was trailing the doe in heat with a purpose, and they were moving quickly. Everything was moving quickly, and paradoxically, ever so slowly. As I watched the buck extend his neck and head to better understand the doe’s tail, it was as if I had been given wildlife footage and was being afforded an opportunity to leisurely observe the film frame by frame. In this frame, hmm, interesting, look at that moss hanging of off those antlers. In the next, oh, I see, they were down in the little bog…look at all of that mucky mud on her and all that pond scum and vegetation on his front legs. In the next frame, well, extraordinary, those antler beams look thick as axe handles from the rear view. And then the film was speeded up, fast forward style as I became aware that I could no longer see the doe and would quickly lose sight of the buck. He was escaping me after passing at twenty yards. For some still unknown reason, I whistled, as if hailing a taxi, and then said “Hey!” The buck pulled up short, and stood stock still for a second or two. I was aware that if I clenched my jaw any harder I would break a molar. He turned his head to the right, eliminating the back of the skull shot I had just set up, but giving me a fair neck shot if I could readjust quickly. I re-targeted none too smoothly, in a fast, overly law enforcement-esque fashion, saw the red dot settle in, and touched the trigger. At the report of the gun, the miracle buck went directly down, and I remember exhaling, or was it inhaling, as if I had nearly drowned but made the surface at the last second. The sound of my gasp startled me more than the report of the gun. The powdered sugar on the small trees where the buck now lay was sliding off of the branches and sprinkling down over the animal’s massive head and antlers.

The buck unofficially “green-scored” darn close to 140, which is big news for me and my neighbors, but probably won’t make the local papers, and surely won’t make the big book. Yet sitting here now, basking in the magic of my family at Christmas and thinking back to the fairy dust sprinkling on the miracle buck’s head, I know the real story. I know that the deer campaign I set out upon on opening day, the “year of the buck” obsession that drove me to measuring the enjoyment of my hunts by the presence or lack of quantitative accomplishments and achievements, wasn’t hunting. I learned that taking a young person out to have an adventure, or sharing the woods and waters with a friend, or that taking “me” and my need for success out of the equation and putting the focus on relationships with companions, with the game, the worthy quarry, and with all that is wild or desires to be, is hunting. I know that the way of hunting, the ways of predator and prey, are paths sometimes hidden from us. And I know that Luke’s way, the young boy’s way of noticing but perhaps not judging, is a good way to avoid becoming lost while on these paths. I know that in hunting, as in life, things don’t always go our way. And that’s okay