November 28, 2005. It was a windy, muddy walk down to the stands for the first day of Pennsylvania’s whitetail deer rifle season. The temperature rose overnight, and the random patches of snow on the field edges had shrunk by half. In the woods, the more-or-less solid snow cover of last evening, which promised outstanding visibility, had become patchy at best.
The stand felt solid under my feet after yesterday’s repairs. Yes, I guess we’re no better than those last-minute hunters who wait until the day before the season to fire their rifles to check the sighting, alerting every deer for miles around that it’s time to go stealthy. In our case, it was trying to fix the effects of a year’s worth of wind and rain and sun and cows on our two favorite home-built stands. Dom, though, is a wizard at impromptu fixes, and with the come-along, some chain, a couple hands-full of nails and some random pieces of weathered 2x4’s, the two stands were more-or-less vertical, solid, and safe to hunt for at least the next two weeks.
The stand I hunt is the hottest corner on the farm proper — where deer funnel up from the bottom, and down and up from the mountain in the evening, and around which they trickle back up to the mountain and down to the swamp at daybreak. It was always Dom’s son’s stand, but when he is not here — all of bow season, and lately rifle season, too — yours truly, Dom’s enthusiastic protégé, is given the privilege of waiting there for the deer to appear. I took my first deer ever with a bow from that stand, and a nice buck with a bow, and various does with rifle and bow.
It was still full dark when I settled in at 6:10, 50 minutes from dawn, and the air was damp and thick. There would be no sunrise this morning. After the darkness lightened a bit, I snapped the clip of four .270 Winchester shells into my rifle, and waited. With a little more light, I chambered a round, clicked the safety on, and waited. A little more light, and I flipped the covers up off of the scope, turned the dial from the 3x setting I used for the close-in brush hunting at Sweet Surrender, to 9x for maximum magnification across the open field. I waited some more.
By now it was light enough to see as far as I was going to see this morning, which was not far at all. There was a persistent wind off the mountain, from the East, and as it blew the fog across the fields it looked like blowing snow. I would have preferred blowing snow to this muddy dampness with droplets splatting off the trees. The thick atmosphere made it as quiet as I think it’s ever been for me for hunting. No motor sounds, no human sounds at all, just the plop of water droplets and the wind hissing in the trees. It could have been an ancient hunt on a primordial hilltop, the timeless pursuit of food and clothing and survival, matching wits with wary prey at the upper end of the food chain, but for beautifully engineered Swiss masterpiece of cold steel and polished wood resting on my lap.
The scraping and chirping of a flock of turkeys echoed through the fog. Eventually, a lone hen took to low flight and landed halfway between me and the patch of woods that separated Dom’s treestand from mine. She seemed to be involuntarily separated from her flock, and spent much time calling. She worked her way down to and around the pond and eventually disappeared, evidently rejoining the flock and moving off into the silent woods.
The temperature warmed, but the fog never lifted. It was a morning of few rifle shots. Over the course of two and a half hours, I counted just ten, including those from an obvious distance. How many would ring out on a “normal” opening day? 30? 40?
After a while, Dom left his stand, crossed the field, and went into the woods, up the rise to where we leaned a ladder stand last year. He was caught by surprise by a lone buck, and couldn’t get a shot off. I didn’t see one deer.
Clearly, the deer held the day this morning. All the better for this evening, if this fog lifts and the rain holds off. That was the first morning of the first day of rifle season in the Laurel Highlands of southwestern Pennsylvania.
*******
Later… The fog lay thicker and thicker all day long, and didn’t budge by afternoon hunting time. Visibility was 50 yards at best. Dom decided to hunt nearby, straight behind the house at the edge of the woods that lead up to the mountain. I opted for the ladder stand where he saw the buck this morning, since 50 yards is as far as you could see in there even without any fog. It is at a spot where I used to climb to hunt with the bow, 50 yards in from the field, at the crest of a hillock where several game trails cross. Back when deer were plentiful, that patch just before the field used to be a staging area, where a number of deer would pause and browse and make sure there was no danger before they entered the open. Now, with deer more scarce than ever here, not much staging gets done. There was, however, an active trail directly in front of the stand, which was very evident last night when there was snow on the ground.
It is a magical perch. High in the trees, looking down an open glade to the right, and into thicker stands ahead and to the left, the air was thick and damp. Though the wind was gustier than earlier, and the droplets fell incessantly from the branches onto the sodden leaves below, there was an almost sacred silence and stillness — an open air cathedral and I was the lone worshiper.
It was no wonder, though, that nothing came. If I were a prey species, I would think more than twice about going out on a night like this. 100% humidity and swirling, erratic winds made scenting predators impossible; the constant splattering of drops on the forest floor and wind in the treetops masked all other sounds; and the fog rendered the range of vision dangerously short. Yes, I imagine a dense thicket felt pretty good to a deer tonight. But hopefully, the rumblings of their stomachs will make them move tomorrow.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Season Opener: Maryland
November 26, 2005. Dawn broke cool and clear on the first morning of the Maryland whitetail deer season. It was chilly but not frigid and the sky turned beautifully purple as the sun broke the horizon. Dom and Steve were in their usual stand in the narrow treeline that marked the northern edge of the property. Little Dom was in the Eagle’s Nest, perched high where two treelines intersected at the center of the farm. I was in the bow stand I built two seasons ago, on the southern perimeter, on a corner between two fields; my shots would be either be just into the edge of the eastern field, or in the trees.
This was my first hunt of the year. I missed the entire early bow season, mostly because of moving plus work and other life-evolving experiences. I hadn’t yet become at ease in the trees and field again, had not become attuned to the breathing of the woods, had not memorized the various weeds and shrubs that formed dark deer-like shapes in the distance. The clattering of water over rocks and the erratic scamper of squirrels on the dry leaves still were mistaken for footsteps. Nonetheless, I settled into my perch high above the forest floor, and felt at home.
This was the third year of our tenuous new tradition — tenuous because of the uncertain access to hunting ground here in Maryland. This year, though I gave up the house at Sweet Surrender, Scott still leased the hunting rights to me. Hopefully, there will be more years. But today, rather than simply walking out the back door, we had to make the 15-minute drive from Uniontown and don our gear from the trucks. Small price to pay for exclusive access to 120 not-bad hunting acres. (Exclusive, that is, except for the trespassers; as one of the three bears noted, someone’s been hunting in my treestand, and was rude enough to steal my bow hooks.)
The first deer I saw were three small ones crossing in the greenway mid-way into the field. They were relaxed and looked like they might work their way toward me, until a shot rang in the not-too-far distance. They disappeared into the treeline, and soon I saw them b-lining across the neighbor’s back field.
Shortly after, I heard footsteps close, and a lone deer was working its way by me through the trees. It was small but not too small, and close. It would have been a not-bad bow shot. I turned and put the crosshairs behind its shoulder, waited for the pause, and then dropped her (actually, him as it turned out, a button buck). A clean, instant kill. A blessing.
There were a few shots here and there in all directions. Before long, movement caught my eye in the corner of the treeline. It looked like the first three had circled around and come back the other way. I turned around to face them. It was thicker where they were; I waited for one to clear the brush and tree trunks, and shot. Some took off to the left, and the one I shot jumped and went off to the right. I saw three run back through the neighbor’s field again; either the original three had picked up a fourth, or it was a new group of four, or I had missed completely.
I waited for another half-hour or so, and then climbed down. I went to the tree I marked when I shot and circled around a couple times. It didn’t look good; not a drop of blood. I circled a little further; still no blood. So I started walking in the direction I thought she went, and within a few yards spotted bright red blood. The trail was solid and short. I could see the deer twenty yards away. Another button buck. The freezer would have some good meat in it now.
As I was walking up the field, Steve called to say Dom had gotten a 6-point. I retrieved the lawn tractor and cart, which I hadn’t moved yet (obviously) and made the rounds to pick up the deer. Not a bad morning’s hunt.
Steve left before the afternoon hunt. The two Dom’s hunted the north-edge treestand, and I went back to my bowstand. After a while I heard a shot, and shortly after, Dom called and said there were two more, did I want another one? I decided not. Little Dom had shot a little doe. I saw nothing that evening but a beautiful crimson sunset. It was a good day’s hunt.
This was my first hunt of the year. I missed the entire early bow season, mostly because of moving plus work and other life-evolving experiences. I hadn’t yet become at ease in the trees and field again, had not become attuned to the breathing of the woods, had not memorized the various weeds and shrubs that formed dark deer-like shapes in the distance. The clattering of water over rocks and the erratic scamper of squirrels on the dry leaves still were mistaken for footsteps. Nonetheless, I settled into my perch high above the forest floor, and felt at home.
This was the third year of our tenuous new tradition — tenuous because of the uncertain access to hunting ground here in Maryland. This year, though I gave up the house at Sweet Surrender, Scott still leased the hunting rights to me. Hopefully, there will be more years. But today, rather than simply walking out the back door, we had to make the 15-minute drive from Uniontown and don our gear from the trucks. Small price to pay for exclusive access to 120 not-bad hunting acres. (Exclusive, that is, except for the trespassers; as one of the three bears noted, someone’s been hunting in my treestand, and was rude enough to steal my bow hooks.)
The first deer I saw were three small ones crossing in the greenway mid-way into the field. They were relaxed and looked like they might work their way toward me, until a shot rang in the not-too-far distance. They disappeared into the treeline, and soon I saw them b-lining across the neighbor’s back field.
Shortly after, I heard footsteps close, and a lone deer was working its way by me through the trees. It was small but not too small, and close. It would have been a not-bad bow shot. I turned and put the crosshairs behind its shoulder, waited for the pause, and then dropped her (actually, him as it turned out, a button buck). A clean, instant kill. A blessing.
There were a few shots here and there in all directions. Before long, movement caught my eye in the corner of the treeline. It looked like the first three had circled around and come back the other way. I turned around to face them. It was thicker where they were; I waited for one to clear the brush and tree trunks, and shot. Some took off to the left, and the one I shot jumped and went off to the right. I saw three run back through the neighbor’s field again; either the original three had picked up a fourth, or it was a new group of four, or I had missed completely.
I waited for another half-hour or so, and then climbed down. I went to the tree I marked when I shot and circled around a couple times. It didn’t look good; not a drop of blood. I circled a little further; still no blood. So I started walking in the direction I thought she went, and within a few yards spotted bright red blood. The trail was solid and short. I could see the deer twenty yards away. Another button buck. The freezer would have some good meat in it now.
As I was walking up the field, Steve called to say Dom had gotten a 6-point. I retrieved the lawn tractor and cart, which I hadn’t moved yet (obviously) and made the rounds to pick up the deer. Not a bad morning’s hunt.
Steve left before the afternoon hunt. The two Dom’s hunted the north-edge treestand, and I went back to my bowstand. After a while I heard a shot, and shortly after, Dom called and said there were two more, did I want another one? I decided not. Little Dom had shot a little doe. I saw nothing that evening but a beautiful crimson sunset. It was a good day’s hunt.
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