The Bad Year...a short story

The first morning a forked horned buck walked right under the tree. Materialised actually. He just looked up and there he was, standing there in the middle of his shooting lane. And there the buck stayed for the better part of an hour before walking off. Then ten minutes later a twig snaps and there he is again. It was one of the few times he could ever remember when a deer overstayed his welcome. By the time the young buck walked off he was stiff and exhausted from not moving.
Then finally off to the cabin for four days. The first morning rain was forcasted so he brought out an umbrella contraption his father had given him. He climbed the tree fine with the rain shelter bungee corded to his stands frame. Fifteen minutes later he was still struggling to mount it solidly to the tree. In theory a u shaped hanger strapped to the tree and below this hung a camo umbrella hung with a small bolt and wing nut. The problem was the umbrella wouldn't open completely and still hang off it's bracket. He was still trying to mount it into it's bracket when on the ridgeline a deer began to blow. It's only fifty yards or so to the ridgeline so the deer must have been very close. Later climbing down he walked up there and found a rub on a pine tree five inches thru. Right then down over the bank a grouse began to drum. The guidebooks all say that grouse drum in the spring to attract a mate. But he heard their odd drumming here every fall. At a distance it sounds like someone trying to start a small lawn mower but not quite getting the job done. Vvvrummp. Vvvrummp. Then a pause and then vvvrummp. A few times he had actually been lucky enough to see a grouse drum. Each time the bird would hop up on a log lying on the forest floor and just stand there looking things over. Then finally puff up and drum stiff bowed wings against it's body, vvvrummmp. Then the bird stands there a bit looking over his little piece of woodland before repeating the whole thing over again.
That evening he left for the tree right after lunch planning to hunt till the rains came. Well the rain never came and six hours later he climbed down stiffer and even more exhausted than the forkie had left him. A beautifull doe ghosted out of shadow looking like she was coming his way then just disappeared like smoke back into the woods. Just that way right at the end of his vision in the woods ran a staggard line of small pines thru the thicket. This created a line of green and shadow that drew his eye waiting for the deer to appear. Over the last few years he had taken several nice deer from this tree and every one had stepped out of that line of green and velvety shadow. His tree was perfect easily the best stand on his property. A maple just the right size to climb that he felt safe climbing to the end of his pull up rope in. Right in front of his tree close enough that he could lean way out and touch was an oak. A perfect oak that reliably produced lots of acorns to draw deer. Plus like many oaks it had small branches, twigs really growing up the length of its trunk from allmost right at ground level up to the first big branches. High up in the maple he was hidden behind the oak to any approaching deer. The next morning found him up the same tree again. About eight thirty a limb popped out towards the pine thicket and here came a buck. The wind swirled wildly about but the deer was coming fast and he thought it should be under his scent. But then the buck froze. Two steps from where he could shoot it. It stood there then raised it's head sniffing the wind. Up and down twice went the bucks head like a horse snorting at the reins. Then the buck just turned and began to sneak away. It slowly, slowly raised it's tail and snuck back the way it had came. Then just squirrels and chipmunks to pass the time till it was time to climb down. It was warm, too warm for november really and the chipmunks and squirrels were everywhere taking advantage of indian summer. After lunch he headed back up the ridge towards the stand. Long ago, before he had bought the place a decade ago, a large pine had fallen and it's wreckege lay beside the trail. Over the years he had tried several times to capture the essence of the strength and drama of this grand old wreck of a tree in a photo but the pictures never could create that feeling in him the old tree did. Today the old tree rustled and made scratching noises. He froze and a fence lizard scrambled out into a sunny patch. No doubt wondering what was wrong with the calendar that it should be out in mid november. Far away he could hear dogs running, baying on a track. Every day he heard them somewhere chasing the deer.
Soon after climbing the tree a flicker flew into an oak twenty feet away. Unlike most species of woodpeckers, Flickers forage mostly on the ground. though no one had bothered to tell this gut that as he spent ten minutes combing over the bark of the oak giving him the best look he'd ever had at one. This was also the same tree he had gotten his best look at a barred owl from. Seeing the bird land out thru the woods at dusk, he made a sucking kissing noise on the back of his hand squeeking like some small creature in trouble. The owl flew closer. He squeeked again and it flew unto a limb fifteen feet away. Decked out in full camo from head to foot he was a mystery to the owl. The owl bobbed its head up and down in that way peculiar to only owls trying for a better look. Finally it just sat there. Looking out over the woods. The owl turned it's head 180 degrees looking directly behind it. He squeeked again, more head bobbing and staring. This went on for twenty minutes. Often, most nights really, he would hear the owl hoot on the hillside behind the cabin. Who cooks for you...who cooks for you all... He had come to think of the owl as an old friend. A silent and deadly hunter watching over his woods at night. But why then announce to the whole woods you were there every few minutes? Maybe that was the point, for the benefit of the nervous deermice, the meek voles hidden in the leaves. Who cooks for you... Where did that come from? nowhere, everywhere. Who cooks for you all... maybe I should be over there, yes that looks safer. Scurry, rustle, and death sweeps in on silent wings. He often found the feathers of wild turkeys in the woods, once he found a wonderfully marked feather from his owl. What a difference, you waved the the turkey feather fast like beating wings and you could hear it. A soft whoosh whoosh whoosh. Wave the owl feather and nothing, just silence.
About an hour after the flicker he caught movement thru the trees. It was a deer coming his way. Slowly relaxed it took seemingly forever to get there. This made him nervous. More nervous than he had been on a doe in a long time. Finally she stopped about twenty yards out and nosed around for acorns in the leaves. There was just one little branch in the way hanging down right over the does chest. Take it easy he told himself, She's not going anywhere. Slow down. Her head came up and she took a step forward standing there alert. Then relaxing and nosing around in the leaves again. For once he could follow the flight of the arrow thru the air. Most of the time allmost all of the time you let the arrow go and the deer exploded away and you can't really tell what happened. You have a feel for what happened but you can't really know for sure. This time the light was just right, the deer was just far enough out or something, something, and he could follow the arrow. Watch it bury right behind the deers shoulder leaving a dark spot on its side. A messed up spot in it's sleek hide. The doe turned in a motion to quick to follow then bounded away. Right as it was swallowed by the woods it stumbled, more missed a step really, and then was gone. He sat there for a long time reliving the experience before climbing down. There was the arrow, seemingly perfect, except for a thin covering of blood from end to end. The deer didn't go far. But he tracked it out, painstakingly going slow trying to learn more, something that might be a big help some other time. What he didn't know, sometimes you never know till something clicks and helps you.
He used his nylon safety strap to drag the doe further away from the tree before gutting her. No matter how many times he did this it didn't help. It was nasty business much worse than butchering the carcass later. The lungs, the heart, the enternal organs were fine, enteresting even. It was the stomach, especially if you ever accidently slit it open that was foul. He knew that when he came back in a week all traces of the gut pile would be gone, turned into possum, fox, and coyote.
Not far from the cabin a man processes deer. It was a run down sloppy place, a mix of prefab sheds and old plywood. But the tables, the equipment was clean and thats what counted. Plus he was cheap and would save him the long drive home so he could hunt some more. That night was cooler and he built a big fire. He'd brought a sandwhich toaster. A fancy version of the ridiculous metal hot dog sticks sold at walmarts everywhere. But this had a box on the end just the size of two pieces of bread. Two pieces of buttered bread with turkey and cheese inside. It is probably the best thing he'd ever had cooked out camping. In the distance he could hear the dogs chasing another deer thru the darkness.
And then there was nothing. Two days passed. Then three with no deer seen from his stands. Maybe now just turn your monitor off and just stare at the blank screen for a while, a long while, a hour or two possibly to get across something of the feeling of three days of four hours in the morning and four and sometimes five hours in the evening and nothing. The only interesting thing that happened was one evening right at dark a tufted titmouse flitted around his tree fussing. A titmouse is a tiny bird that travels the winter woods in mixed flocks with chickadees and downy woodpeckers. The woods will be silent one minute then full of life the next as these flocks move thru the winter woods. But this titmouse was different he hung around fussing. Then finally as darkness edged ever closer the tiny bird flew to a snag. A tree six or seven inches in diameter broken off ten or twelve feet up. There the titmouse disappeared right into to the broken end of the snag. There must have been a hollow spot here. Probably the reason the tree broke off in the first place. Now just the right size for a tiny bird to wedge itself into, fluff up and survive another cold winter night.
The next week he was back for five more days. That morning a heavy frost covered the ground. He was hunting in the bowl. A large bowl a couple hundred yards across. Here last year he had watched a nice buck work a scrape. Pawing it out, then rubbing the pre-orbital gland on its forehead against the overhanging branch before walking right under his stand. The first light of day lit up the trees all along the rim of the bowl while the rest of the bowl remained dark. Here oaks held tightly onto their leaves after all others but the beech leaves had fallen. The oaks shone like polished brass in the first magical light of day. Slowly the line of brightness crept down the bowl waking the squirrels and chipmunks. Small scurries and rustles as the woods came to life. One big oak in particular held the squirrels attention. Up and down it's trunk they ran, it's topmost branches shimmered and shook with their movement. Every momment or two acorns rained down out of it's branches. Then across the bowl, crashing in the bushes. Here they came. The deer chasers. A big mutt, half german shepard and half something shaggy and a big mixed hound. Neither wore a collar. They hit his trail and froze. He marveled at their noses, after all, he had worn rubber boots as to not scare the deer. The mutt sniffed down his trail a bit going away from the tree while the hound came towards him. Carefully and silently. It trailed him right to the base of the tree and stood there sniffing where he had put the stand togethor. At twenty feet straight down the arrow sounded like a 22 as it hit in the spine. The hound dropped instantly and kicked for twenty seconds or so. Unlike deer, dogs have not learned to look up and the mutt cautiously approached sniffing at the dead hound. The arrow missed its spine but solidly got at least one lung. The big dog spun in a cirle growling and biting at the arrow before taking off the way it had come. It entered the high weeds and brush at the bottom of the bowl but never came out the other side.
He felt nothing at the killing. Certainly no elation but no guilt either, it was simply an unpleasant thing that had to be done. He wondered how many fawns they had killed that spring. That evening he walked up to where the gravel lane that ran past his cabin crested a big ridge before dropping over the other side down to a little valley with some houses. Here at the crest an old logging road crossed the gravel lane at a right angle then wending off both directiones thru the woods. He turned right following the logging road for a couple hundred yards then turning right again down a spur ridge running back towards his cabin. This was off his property but belonged to a land company that was holding it for timber and open to all the locals to hunt. He saw the first rub fifty yards away. On a small tree eight inches thru. As he approached he saw more. Lots more. In a ragged line seventy five yards long there was at least fifty rubs all on stuff five to eight inches thru. The rub line line into a patch of impenetrable cover. He was very excited. This was probably his best chance at a big trophy buck in several years. But he was worried too. No trails or doe sign. This was this one deer's bedding area. It's core area and trying to hunt just one deer, a single deer, on public land was also the road to madness. And so began the big sit. He was oh so carefull not to touch anything or brush against anything coming or going. The tree was good, he could go all the way to the end of his rope and there was clear shooting lanes. The first day he thought he might have heard a grunt back in the cover. Or maybe not. The next morning it was still. One of those mornings where sound carried and you could hear the train pass seven miles away just like it was right at the end of the lane. He could plainly hear the scrape scrape of the bucks antlers on a tree down in the cover. Over and over. He was very excited expecting any minute to see the deer. He kept mentally telling himself, now don't rush the shot, take your time. But the deer never came. That evening at dark he could hear the buck in the leaves but never saw him. But it would only take one mistake. It was the height of the rut and for all he knew the big buck was a mile away chasing does. But it would only take one slip up and he would be there waiting. Just one morning staying out too late chasing does and coming in after daylight to bed.
Two days later he heard the crunch crunch of leaves at dusk. The steady walking of a buck. He got ready. Crunch. Crunch. But darkness was coming fast. Finally the deer passed at thirty yards. Just a general shape in the twilight, too dark to shoot. And so it went. November, it's own season, the best season, was frittered away and now he knew what was coming. The cold. The bad time hunting in the cold of December, the snow of January just to get something, anything for the freezer. He had gambled on the big buck and lost. As he knew going in he would. But when the chance comes you have to try it.

The lucky unlucky week...

I drove straight up to the cabin after work. Calling it a cabin may be a bit of a stretch really. It's more like one of those shelters you find along the AT. A place to get in out of the weather and build a fire. No running water, no electricity, maybe one of those big sheds you see for sale in the Home Depot parking lot placed out in the woods would be a better description. Working nights put me there sometime before dawn. Some trips I had the energy to hunt that first morning. This was not one of those mornings. I unloaded only my duffel with my sleeping gear and a big cardboard box of scrap wood I'd sawn up from old pallets into firewood. Building a roaring fire in the old barrel stove I unrolled an old sleeping bag unto the floor nearby. On top of this I unrolled a another bag and then snuggled down inside my warm bag that had been with me to the mountains of Colorado and on countless backpacking and fishing trips up and down the Appalachians. I dont know if it's really that great a bag or if it sleeps warmer just knowing I had been thru worse weather somewhere in it before. That was it till noon when I began unloading the rest of my gear for the week and began thinking about the evenings hunt. I noticed when unloaded my tree stands that the tip of my index finger was tender but I didn't think anything of it at the time. That evening my stand was in a sugar maple about three quarters of the way to the top of the ridge in a bowl. Below my stand a steep little hollow made crossing rough on the deer till they were even with my tree while behind me a side ridge had sort of a low saddle. These two things had most deer drifting thru the woods past my tree, or at least that was the plan. I didn't see anything. Well no deer that is, indian summer was in full swing and the woods was alive with squirrels and chipmunks. Normally in mid November you saw them for just a few minutes each day but now they were out in full force. I counted five grey squirrels at one time out in front of the tree with more rustling thru the dry leaves behind me. The deer in their heavy winter coats were nowhere to be seen with temperatures approaching seventy. But it was supposed to drop near freezing at night so mornings should be good. A forcast of near freezing meant that it would be a hard freeze at the cabin. Surrounded on both sides by high ridges, the narrow valley was a natural sink that the cold settled in. It was always quite a bit cooler there at night than the forcast for the area as a whole said it would be. In early fall after the first frost you can climb the ridge behind the cabin and find a line where everything below was killed, the weeds all hanging lifeless, while looking up the hill everything is still alive. That night was perfect camping weather. Right at dark the temperature started dropping and the weather was just right for setting around the fire and stargazing. Grabbing the binoculars I looked at the waxing half moon just before it began to dip below the horizon. Amazing. With even low power binoculars the moon is a breathtaking sight with all the mountains and craters are clearly visable. After the moon slipped from sight I turned my attention to Orion. Just last week at work we were looking at Orion during a break at work. It was allmost unrecognizable there in the city, at least compared to out here. Out here Betelguese the bright star on Orion's shoulder was obviously reddish even without the binoculars. Rigel, Orion's left foot is the sixth brightest star in the night sky. Looking for the three stars in a row that make up Orion's belt is the easiest way to locate this constellation but out here even the stars that make up the sword hanging from his belt are clear without binoculars. But out here on a good night like this you can even see the fuzzy cloud of the Orion Nebula in his sword. To me, with my bad eyesight, I need binoculars to tell that the middle "star" in the sword is, in fact, a fuzzy blob but supposedly those with perfect eyesight can tell even without help. The nebula is a huge cloud of gasses and space dust in which new stars are forming some 24 light years across. The three stars of Orion's belt point roughly to Sirius the brightest star in the night sky. Sirius is twice as bright as any other star in the sky and is easily mistaken for a planet. I sat up till Sirius had moved from the horizon to overhead just enjoying the night and stargazing. A barred owl called several times from the woods above the cabin, one of the coolest sounds I know. I often hear Great Horned Owls here too. The Barred Owl calls "who cooks for you" while the Great Horned Owl sounds more like " hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo". The next morning was clear and cold with a heavy frost in the little bottom alongside the cabin, perfect hunting conditions. Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel, piliated woodpecker, squirrel, then a flash of movement down the hill too large for another squirrel. Out into a beam of sunlight stepped a beautiful six point buck. Not the biggest buck in the woods but still a magnificent animal. In Norman Maclean's brilliant book, A River Runs Through It, one of the two sons describes his father as the only man that used the word beautiful in everyday conversation. Of course it helped that they lived and flyfished in Montana. Out here, in the deer woods, I also find the word coming to mind almost constantly. The buck would take a few steps then stand with his head back testing the wind looking like nothing so much as a marble statue of a deer. He was indeed beautiful. Normally in November the bucks you see are steady walking looking for a doe or already chasing one. Not this guy, he was in no hurry and it was awesome to watch him feed slowly and alertly up the hill towards the tree. About twenty yards from the tree I thought he looked right at me but I guess I was high enough and blended well enough into the tree trunk that he went back to feeding. Picking a spot low in his chest I loosed an arrow which flew perfectly and he went down still within sight of the tree. Next was the mixed feelings of elation but also solemnity that always comes with harvesting a deer. Jose Ortega y Gasset once said "We do not hunt to kill - we kill in order to have hunted." Which I think sums it up just about perfectly for me. When I no longer feel solemn about the killing and do not feel the seriousness of killing an animal I will no longer hunt. But recognising the seriousness of the act does not mean feeling guilt. I feel no guilt just respect for a beautiful animal. It is possible to kill something and love it at the same time. On my little sixteen acres of woods and thicket live a nice little deer herd, racoons, opossum, squirrels, flying squirrels, fox, coyote, skunks, chipmunks, and countless little mammals such as whitefooted mice, voles, etc. Plus somewhere around seventy species of birds including grouse and wild turkey. Add in reptiles like the five lined skink, fence lizard, box turtle, and at least a half dozen snake species. Plus our woodlands are some of the worlds most diverse with as many tree species in our woods as in all of Europe. The woods also supports populations of amazing woodland plants such as trillium, bloodroot, ginseng, jack in the pulpit, etc. All existing because this is a "deer woods". What would happen if I decided to become a self sufficient vegitarian and converted it all to growing something like corn? All that habitat, all that rich diversity of life would be gone. I think it's a more logical arguement that becoming a vegitarian is the worst thing you can do if you love wildlife. In The Everlasting Stream, writer Walt Harrington tells of a city lady scolding him saying something along the lines of "how can you take pleasure in killing a cute innocent little bunny rabbit?". His answer was "How dare you eat that bunny rabbit without killing it". I'm not advocating that every one do as I do but dont think for a second that habitat used to raise the 150.4 million cattle, sheep, hogs, and goats and 8.9 billion chickens, turkeys, and ducks slaughtered in the US every year doesn't come at a steep price in less birds, less reptiles, less mammals, and yes, in less deer in the long run. After dragging my deer out of the woods and taking him to the processors to be turned into steaks and burgers for the coming year I noticed my finger was now quite swollen and becoming hard to bend. That night in camp it began to swell quite badly and throb. I slept very little that night. The next day not wanting to leave camp but still knowing something had to give I drew a sharp broad on an arrow across the most swollen area slicing it open. Out oozed a sickening stream of puss looking like toothpaste being squeezed from the tube. Almost immediately the finger began to feel much better and was nearly well in two days time. That morning the highlights of the hunt were a grouse ghosting thru the woods at dawn and a spike buck that walked right under the tree. I felt very good about my stand after not being spotted by the grouse as these wary birds spot me in trees much much more frequently than deer. I was spotted a short time later by a grey squirrel. He ran up a tree and out on a limb to eat an acorn about ten feet from me and and at the same height. He sat there for a bit, his gnawing loud in the still morning woods, till suddenly a look of seeming shock came upon him as he realised there was a monster ten feet away. But he didn't run, he did much worse, he sat there and whined, a loud scared whine that sent surrounding squirrels running for safety. He then began jerking his tail violently in alarm and whining even more. Twice started down the tree to leave only to climb back up to his perch to whine some more. Finally a switch was thrown in his little squirrel brain and he decended to rustle around in the leaves right under me for twenty minutes looking for acorns!
The evenings hunt produced another army of squirrels and a huge buck bounding up the trail. I grunted to stop him, then again, and again too loudly, all to no avail. I soon saw why as a dog came trotting after him only to give up the chase right under the tree. I was sorely tempted to rid the woods of one less deer chasing dog but did not. It was one of those evenings in the country where sound seemingly carries forever. About a half an hour before dark on the ridgetop across the valley from me probably a quarter mile away I heard the loud thunk of a crossbow firing and the sound of deer running. Later back in camp I found that the hunter had tracked his deer down the hillside across the gravel lane my cabin and was wandering around on the steep hillside lost. I yelled up "hey buddy, are you lost?". No more noise. Then twenty minutes later more brush popping and then the sound of a 22 pistol being shot in the air. Again, "hey buddy are you lost?". This time he answered, "yeah, kinda, in a way". A few more yelled instructions and he was out. I didn't say anything about him being lost two hundred yards from his truck but his buddy that came on a four wheeler to pick up his deer sure did. He had shot his first deer, a button buck that couldn't have weighed eighty pounds. His buddy said he had called him on his cell phone while lost and scared away two bucks, a spike and a fork horn. From his description they were both deer I had passed on in the last week or so. Exhausted from not sleeping the night before I turned in early looking forward to a long nights rest. I awoke an hour or two later sick as a dog. I barely made it out the cabin door and off the deck before losing supper. Another night without sleep. As glorious as the hunting and camping had been my health the past few days had been proportionally horrible. During the long night I packed up all my gear for an early trip home. But my treestand was still around a maple tree high on the ridge behind camp so I decided to hunt that morning before leaving. Sitting there in the tree I looked up and there was a deer. Seemingly appearing out of thin air, a doe stood twenty yards away. She was under a few white oaks nosing thru the fallen leaves. I heard a rustle and another doe appeared about thirty yards away. It must have taken them twenty minutes to cover the few short yards to the tree. Finally at less than ten yards the biggest doe turned sideways and I sent another arrow on it's course filling my tags, my freezer, and ending a painful but successful hunt.
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Some trail camera pics
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headed for the freezer.

The trip nothing happened...

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The first day was the normal blur that comes from working all night before driving out to hunt the next day. Mostly spent checking the trail cameras and unloading gear before going out to see nothing but a chipmunk. I slept almost as soon as darkness fell. Next morning I started out just right. With light enough to walk without using a flashlight but just barely. My stand choice was a maple hidden right behind a white oak high on the ridge behind the cabin. An oak loaded with acorns. The trail cameras showed this place was used by several deer including at least one pretty good buck. He must feel safe here feeding on these acorns. The sun came up beautiful as it always is when streaming thru the fall woods.
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The maples were just starting to turn bright crimson but the hickories and sassafras were a golden yellow. All morning a chipmunk ran to and fro under my tree making an awful rackett in the dry leaves. About forty yards out a grouse stepped out into a patch of sunlight then slipped back into shadow. Leaves rustled loudy behind me and I tensed up. Part of me almost wished it wasn't the buck as it was just the first trip of a long year, better a fat doe for the freezer. It was neither, simply a grey squirrel out for an acorn breakfast. Soon small birds began to fill the woods, a mixed flock of chickadees, titmice, woodpeckers and kinglets. I spotted both yellow and ruby crowned kinglets, tiny birds barely bigger than a hummingbird. In fall and winter the woods can seem devoid of life one minute then full as these flocks move thru foraging. A rustle and my friend the chipmunk was back. Then quiet again. It was getting warm and I eased Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey out of my pack. A good book allows me to stay on stand a bit longer and I've killed a couple nice bucks after slipping a book inside my coveralls. Sometime later loud raucous calls fill the wood. First one crow then another swoops thru the trees. Alighting for a few moments then moving on till a couple dozen have passed. They carry on this way for an hour their calls ringing thru the trees. It's quiet again and now very warm, time to get down. As I'm climbing down one of the many acorns that have been showering down all day hits me on top of the head and bounces inside my shirt. This gives me an idea and I fill a pocket with them upon reaching the ground. Lunch is two potatoes boiled on the small backpacking stove covered in butter.
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While the pot boils I open up the cabin, propping open the door. Last night I set off a bug bomb inside and slept in the back of the explorer. Hundreds of dead wasps covered the cabin floor. I swept them out using the brush I'd brought to spread tar on the cabin roof and made a mental note to bring a real broom next trip. I also filled a cup with water and the acorns I'd picked up earlier, an experiment to try and rid them of the bitter tannin. After lunch I happily spent an hour up on top of the cabin fixing the roof. But it was no chore in the bright sunlight on such a pretty fall day. Satisfied the old cabin would keep me snug for another winter, I began to think about the evening hunt. That evening except for a brief visit by a grey squirrel and the distant yelp of a turkey, the chipmunk and I were alone again. With about ten minutes of daylight left, after already deciding to hunt elsewhere in the morning, I began to get down not wanting to take apart the stand in the dark. I lowered the bow to the ground on a rope and started to descend. About eight or nine feet off the ground all hell broke loose. A crash and a young doe came running by about thirty yards away. Not wanting to betray the stands placement I froze. More noise and here came another doe straight at the tree. She walked up about ten feet from my bow lying on the ground and ate an acorn. I flattened myself against the tree amazed she hadn't spooked. Stopping she looked back over her shoulder. I immediately heard grunting and here came a buck. The buck. He stopped twenty feet away and grunted. The doe ate another acorn, He grunted again, a long drawn out grunt and she bolted with him right on her tail, passing two or three feet from my bow but going full tilt. Only a month early, the earliest I've ever seen a buck chasing a doe like this. I left the stand where it was. Supper was a sandwich and chips under the stars out on the cabins deck. Out here you can see the band of the Milky Way stretching across the sky. Soon a shooting star streaked across the gloom. Sometime later just before bedtime I heard a deer walking in the bone dry leaves on the hillside across from the cabin. The next morning a few more squirrels and my friend the chipmunk again. Make that my friends the chipmunks, it was becoming clear what I thought was one was really two. A chipmunk who kept mostly to the east side of my tree and one who mostly foraged right under the tree and off to the west. He was soon named the great western chipmunk because he was a bit bigger than the other one, because I liked the name and hey it's the kind of thing you do after sitting in a tree for three days. All else was quiet except for the drumming of a grouse behind me. All the books say grouse drum in spring, but I hear them here all the time in the fall and had one hop up on a log and drum right in front of me for hours a couple years ago. This time I did take the stand apart and bring it back to the truck.
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Pouring the water off the acorns I then toasted them for a few minutes over the small stove. They really weren't all that bad. A longer soaking and maybe some salt and they would be tasty. Loading everything up, I headed out planning to have lunch with some dead Indians. The dead Indians were at at Mound City Group in Chillicothe, Ohio. One of the best places I know if you have an extra hour to spare. Or a week, it's that kind of place, I recommend it highly.
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After that on to the Little Miami for a bit of fishing and to check on my old friends, the eagles.
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Knowing that now was the only good time of year to examine the eagles nest site, I made that my destination for the evening. Any earlier in the year and I might disturb the fledglings, any later and everything would be covered in fallen leaves. Under the giant sycamore that held the nest I found the remains of some of their meals, A few turtle shells, alot of small bones, and (jackpot!) a few eagle feathers.
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Clutching my prize I headed for home and a new work week. Later talking on the phone about something else a friend who doesn't hunt or spend any time outdoors asked if I got a deer on my trip. I said no. They said "I'm sorry you had a bad trip" and changed the subject.

Deer hunting stories

Short passages from a season past:

I spent the entire day wandering the woods scouting for deer sign. In the afternoon I stopped where I was and lay down and napped for a couple hours.
It was so nice to actually have the time, the freedom, to sleep till I wok in the woods. The funny thing is when I wok and stood up and looked around I happened to look where I lay. There the leaves were pressed flat and looked exactly like a deer bed.

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Everyone was lucky the first day of bow season. The day was crisp and clear. One of the only cool days in a run of unseasonably hot weather.It was, as the goes, a picture perfect morning. The sun broke thru the woods in bright shafts like spotlights thru the shadow. About a hundred yards out I caught a flick of a tail and then some minutes later legs, as a deer appeared then disappeared in shadow.

Then an ear twitched, another deer. It was an old doe her two yearlings crossing about seventy five yards in front of me. The left and then came running back spooked. They regrouped about fifty yards out and headed out over the hill only to snort and run back past me. Some minutes later a bow hunter came walking from that direction, giving up after spooking them.
At midday I napped in my truck, the seat tilted back and all the windows down. I heard a small sound and opened my eyes to a button buck feeding not ten feet away. I could have harvested him easily as he several times turned completely away and I had my crossbow lying on the seat beside me. Eventually an older couple looking lost drove down the lane and the spell was broken.
I headed out with high hopes only to discover someone standing in the filed in front of my stand located smoking. The next spot found some guy hunting off the ground. I headed home used to seeing no one, seeing three people in a day hunting was just too much.

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The highlight of my first day going the big woods in Jackson was the chorus of a pack of coyotes which sang repeatedly from predawn thru midmorning. Their eerie cries, lend a special quality of wildness to any hunt.Another mid day nap in the woods. I'm becoming quite fond of these siestas. Not even the hint of deer today as the mercury hit eighty six.The next
day I spotted a raccoonmidmorning, odd since I usually spy these nocturnal animals only right at dark.

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The light was simply incredible this morning. I sat overlooking a small hollow and the woods on the facing side was backlit with that wonderful soft glowing light of morning, here and there pierced with shafts of bright light bursting thru. The little scene was as gorgeous as anything I've seen, even in the mountains. Saw two deer in the distance, good hunt day.Evening came and I managed to shoot a limb instead of the big Doe I was aiming at. She ran one way, the Doe following her froze and the two being her ran the other way. I managed to cock and reload the crossbow without getting busted. I'll never hunt low again. I would have never gotten away with that if I had been ten feet off the ground instead of twenty. Harvested a smallish Doe with a good clean shot, she was down in seconds, felt well about that.I saw wild turkey, coyote, nuthatch, raccoon, chickadee, piliated woodpecker, hairy woodpecker, ten deer, a vulture, blue jay, squirrel, crow, chipmunk, and tufted titmouse. I remember thinking as I climbed down out of tree it would have been a wonderful day a field even without harvesting a deer. Things just seem to all fall into place someday, it’s kind of nice.

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Hunting again. The weather was perfect a bit over sixty during the day. Cool at night. Leaves just starting to turn. Simply the kind of weather that makes you glad to be alive.
The highlight of the trip was probably getting to share a campfire with my father again. We really hadn't gotten a chance to do that the last few years. It's getting to the point in both our lives where that is important. Although it’s never spoken you can't help but think of all the campfires we've shared and now if each is almost the last.

I didn't really see a lot of game. I did watch four does for about half an hour. They were about sixty yards away and had no idea anyone was around.The deer showed a pecking order of sorts. When one Doe would get too close to another she would kick out with her front leg. Or just rise up and threaten to do so and send the other scurrying back a few feet.


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Tonight as I was driving along I became aware of the sky putting on a show. A dark front had created a black wall halfway across the sky blocking out the stars. Above this wall the moon shown so brightly that looking at its crescent with my dark adjusted pupils almost hurt. Above that a planet shown brightly. Below the wall everything was black. But what struck me was the edge, the dividing line between the dark wall and the starry sky. It had shown as bright as the moon all along its length from horizon to horizon. A bright line cutting the night sky in half. I find that in fall and winter I seem drawn to the night sky. I love to steal away to some dark place, bundled up in too much clothes where you can see the band of the Milky Way stretching across the night.For years, on hunting trips, I've watched the late night sky before it brightens at dawn for a falling star finding one I've always taken as a sign of good luck on hunt. A sign also that all is still well out there in spite of us. That the natural world has survived another year. I find myself every year leaning on the truck hood in the predawn maintaining at least this ritual watch.


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Today I saw a red tail on a wire in a cold rain. From a distance I felt sorry for what I imagined to be a soggy cold miserable bird.
As I got closer, I found the great hawk to be alert and staring fiercely out over a small field. At this closer distance the hawk reminded me of some warrior Indian, proud and unafraid. What struck me was tat the Hawk no longer seemed "stuck out in the rain", but was simply a part of its world. It didn't suffer for being out in the rain. For the hawk what else was there?


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It's now the second day of a three day hunt in the first week of November. I'm stretched out by the fire, its still, an amazing fifty degrees and superb camping weather. I've seen one real nice buck. A ten pointer with only about a sixteen inch spread but a very massive heavy rack. He fed up to within about twenty yards of me but no shot presented itself.Tonight a deer came in and dark. I think to my grunt call. It walked up directly behind the tree and stood around for half an hour, again no shot.

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Today a midday Roger and I drove over to his buddy’s cabin. Wow, big porch with tree trunks as columns, overlooking a field sloping down to big woods golden with falling leaves. The place is simply gorgeous. My uncle Roger killed a nice buck here three days ago.
So far, this trip I've seen a possum, deer, vulture, squirrel, chipmunk,
Gold crowned Kinglet, crow, woodcock, downy woodpecker, blue jay, nuthatch, and three shooting stars. Lots of color still in the woods, with the warm weather most leaves have yet to fall.This morning was a fine hunt. A large fox squirrel came within ten feet, round as a butterball in his winter coat. Big as a cat as the saying goes. For a large measure of the morning the woods was alive with small birds.
A kinglet landed within five feet of me, a tiny ball of feathers. A nuthatch found something and spent five minutes on a limb beating open his treasure. Chickadees, titmice and woodpeckers filled the trees.
A doe snuck up to ten yards or so but happened upon where, in the darkness, I had overshot the tree coming in and spooked away at my scent. Sometime later two old gobblers, silent and spooky, stole over the ridge while leaves fell like rain.It was a very good hunt.

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On this evening the woods was so loud because of the fallen leaves that a squirrel sounded like an elk. I heard turkeys call from the ridge top and a buck grunt three times in succession like he was chasing a Doe. There were lots of squirrels, gray and fox, plus the usual assortment of winter flocking birds, chickadees, woodpeckers and nuthatches.
Late, almost at dark, a large bodied deer, walking steadily like bucks, sometime do in the rut, crossed about seventy yards from me. The funny thing is he walked right under the tree I usually hunt out of on this ridge.

I was in the stand this morning and a grouse flew into a tree about fifty fees away. He was about thirty five feet up and sat for ten minutes or so surveying the woods. Then he half flew, half hopped to a nearby branch and seemed to be feeding. On what I couldn't tell but wild grape I imagine, there’s lots of it here.
Then he hopped to another branch and slowly turned round and round and round. He stopped for a second then repeated, just turning round and round. Looking out thru the woods before flying off.

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Today the wind howled in the deer woods. I thought about getting down and moving my stand. It was located in a saddle on a ridge and the wind was pounding me.
Lots of bird life in the woods today. A couple brown crepers spent the better part of an hour combing the crevices in the bark of surrounding trees, once spending ten minutes or so going over a small tree about ten feet from me. Small birds I think were kinglets and titmice flit thru the treetops.
About forty five minutes before dark the wind laid and the woods came alive with scurrying chipmunks and squirrels. The I heard some underbrush snap and a deer stepped into view.It was an extremely large doe feeding up the hill towards me. When she got within about twenty five yards she could see me against the skyline as she was directly downhill.She would put her head down as to the feed then jerk it upwards trying to catch me moving. She then turned sideways like she was getting ready to leave and I made a good shot and she went down under a hundred yards from the tree, a good humane kill. It took Rober and me about an hour to track her by flashlight. When we found her I was again struck by her size she was fully the size of most shooter bucks. Roger said he guessed her about one seventy, an old mature doe.
I was pleased with her and personally regard her as fine a trophy as a lot of the bucks I have taken. We had a nice fire, no rain or bad weather and a fine deer. Good hunt.
This trip I saw a Red fox, gray squirrels, crow, vulture, woodcock, grouse, brown creeper, wren, piliated woodpecker, tufted titmouse, kinglet, blue jay, sparrows and white-tailed deer, no fox squirrels, though I say several from the same tree a week ago.
I seemed less restless and hunted better this week than last. Maybe that's way the forest Gods saw fit to reward me. I think time spent in the woods just walking helped my deer hunting just by calming me down.

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How different the woods seem on a winter evening. The orange sun low in the sky peeking thru the ominous winter clouds.
The squirrels come out at dusk to rummage for a few minutes among the fallen leaves. They seem to adopt some sort of bunker mentality in weather like this. Just hunkered down waiting the weather out.The woods floor still has the newer look of fallen leaves and not the pressed and soggy look of late winter and I half expect some buck to walk out of the shadows at twilight but one never comes.