Montana Mule Deer

I’m done.  Ten minutes ago my plate was stacked with perfectly prepared mule deer tenderloin and crispy garlic/sage potatoes.  Now the only thing I see is an empty plate with a thin layer of au jus, and dotted with bits of freshly cracked black pepper, thyme, and small charred specks.  I push my plate away, but even with a full belly I continue to ponder the meal.  I’m full, I’m tired, and I’m completely satisfied.  As I stare at the plate my stomach lingers in the moment but my brain is rewinding the tape.  My brain is reliving the events of the past 5 days that got me to this table, with this meal.  The stomach lives for the moment, but the brain lives for the memory.

5 days before

Last Saturday morning I found myself in a strange land.  It was opening day of Montana’s deer season and I had never been there or even seen the landscape with my own eyes.  It took 21 hours of driving to get there, and the last 4 hours had been in complete darkness.  The only terrain I had seen was about 12 feet of median on each side of the highway as it was captured in fringes of my headlights.  After I met up with my hunting buddy Tony, we made a quick camp and agreed to wake up at 0515...again I’d still be in the dark.  

I couldn’t sleep much that night, I just wasn’t tired.  There in my sleeping bag I had time to ponder a few things.  I was laying there in south central Montana.  In the morning I would rise and hunt on ground that’s not just in the echo of American history...it IS American history.  This is the same ground that the tribes of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull hunted...where indian tribes fought each other for rights to hunt.  It is the same ground upon which Custer’s 7th Cavalry hunted down the tribes of those indians.  It’s a stones throw from the very place where the 7th Cavalry was slaughtered, and the same ground where the US Army came to finish off the indian presence here and claim this land for the United States.  

Little has changed on much of the landscape since those men were here.  If you were to bring Crazy Horse and Custer back here today they’d likely recognize most every hill along the Powder River.  Conversely if you drove General Robert E Lee out to Gettysburg he’d be hard pressed to recognize a thing.  He’d have lots of questions about cars and shopping centers but he surely couldn’t pick out any trail he used to get to the battlefield.  The west is full of history, and many parts of it are still as pristine and wild as they were 200 years ago.  So this is the area we’d hunt when we woke, and I was anxious to get started.

Opening day

Shortly after waking we had a quick drive and arrived at our spot.  We left the trucks in the dark loaded down with gear, and lifted up with optimism.  Once we crossed the first barbed wire fence, our adventure had officially begun. 

My buddy Tony had arrived the day before and done some scouting.  He determined that this block of BLM (Bureau of Land Management) land would be a good place for us to begin our Montana mule deer adventure. 

As we picked our way across the landscape in the dark, I was moving on faith alone.  When sunrise lifted the curtain of darkness I would be totally surprised by what the landscape might look like.

Up front I’ll admit to being a total rookie when it comes to hunting “out west”.  I’d never been there before.  I honestly had no idea there was a difference between sagebrush and a tumble weed...I thought they were the same.  Tony graciously pointed out a few of the differences as I tripped over a sagebrush with one of my first steps on Montana soil.  The bush seemed to be providing an early glimpse of the hardship to come...as if to say “welcome to Montana...rookie.”  

Not a few steps later I had to stop us again because my boot had come untied.  I tried to re-assure Tony that despite my Keystone Cops appearance thus far, I’m actually a competent hunter.  In the dark I thought I could hear him shaking his head in disbelief.

Now, finally, boots tied and having learned how not to trip on one of the millions of sagebrush plants that littered the ground ahead, we pushed forward.  At this point I felt a  bit like a kid in the back of his parents car on a trip to Disney.  “Are we there yet?” I wanted to ask.  I didn’t of course, I merely trudged along in the dark behind Tony who would essentially be my guide for today.  

My entire world at this point existed only in the bright white cone illuminated by my headlamp.  It was good gear, and it kept me from tripping on all manner of Montana obstacles: rocks, boulders, sagebrush, some kind of round plant with long spiky leaves, gullies, cliffs, scree slopes...you get the idea.  

As we moved further from the road the terrain grew increasingly intense.  In my mind I figured we’d hike across a fairly flat prairie and maybe 10 minutes later climb a slight hill that overlooked something huntable.  Keep in mind I’d never seen this place...I had no idea what to expect.

Slowly we crawled through the darkness.  First we crossed a long slightly uphill expanse of dusty terrain covered by crushed rock, and sagebrush.  Then we came to a steeper bit that required some careful footwork to navigate.  A quick note is in order here...we weren’t on a trail...a trail is generally smooth...it might be steep or shallow...but by nature a trail is fairly smooth.  This wasn’t a trail...it was just wild Montana landscape and you had to make your own trail across it.  When you went up, you did so in whatever increment mother nature felt was appropriate.  It might be staggered steps of 4 inches or 18 inches at a time, or sometimes you’d have to really pick your foot up and hoist yourself and your load up steps of 24 inches of more.  If we ever walked a trail it was a game trail or a cow trail...neither of which are a perfect width for a mans boot.

Everywhere there were rocks.  The ground itself was basically dust covered by billions of shards of broken rock that looked like the leftover trimmings of a massive indian arrowhead making competition.  On top of the dust and countless rock fragments was the sagebrush.  The sagebrush at first appear random in their placement, but after a few minutes amongst them you see the genius of it.  They are cleverly arranged in a very intricate pattern that denies you a straight path of more than 10 feet, no matter which direction you are traveling.  You can’t get anywhere by walking straight...you are constantly shifting left and right to get around the sagebrush...which stand tall enough to come up halfway to your knee and have a sturdy, woody structure that make them impossible to simply drag your foot through.  It is a short but formidable foe.  

Now on top of our dust, shard, and sagebrush base, I want you to start adding rocks to the equation.  The rocks on the low ground came in roughly two types: flat/wide rocks that wobbled when you stepped on them, or lunch-box-sized rocks that tripped you if you didn’t see them.  You’ll note that neither of those is conducive to balance and or easy travel in the dark.  So now you should have a good feel of what the first part of our hike looked like, it was a dusty, rambling bit with lots of ways to trip.

As we neared the top of the first rise, we took a path that led higher still.  The world was still pitch black, illuminated only in the areas where I pointed my headlamp.  Now the dusty rocky landscape yielded to a lighter colored reddish dirt that looked more like clay...rough crumbly clay that might give way underfoot.  We were now climbing a finger of land that led upward.  In the light of my headlamp I could see rising terrain in front of me maybe three feet wide.  As is customary it was littered with trip-hazards, and on both sides of our path the land dropped off steeply into darkness.  This was the first time I realized that the terrain we were crossing could hurt you, and badly, if you mis-stepped.  We continued higher on this loose, clay-looking, boulder strewn spine until we hit something that looked impassable.   A butte rose straight up from the trail.  “Whew!” I thought.  “That was a heckuva hike...now we hunt.”  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  

Tony gathered his thoughts as he tried to recall which valley he wanted to drop down into.  Rather than stop here to wait for sunrise we pushed around on the right side of the butte.  In the dark with the high wall of the butte lurching skyward on my left, I found myself hopping down off one boulder onto the loose clay one moment (praying my footing wouldn’t give way), then scrambling up a series of lumpy stairs amid the sagebrush the next.  The sound of the wind was constant, interrupted only by the heavy thud of boot steps and the labored breathing of two hunters trying to make good time across rough terrain.  

Eventually we gave the high ground back to mother nature and made it back down to the valley floor...which was still only lit by starlight.  Now we made good time.  We had our feet-under-us so to speak and were a bit familiar with the terrain.  Ground passed quickly in the white light of my headlamp.  Down into one small gully, clamber up the other side, step around that sagebrush, breathing hard, over that rock, chest still expanding and contracting trying to keep up with the oxygen requirement.  Around this time I stopped to strip down to the bare essentials.  It was cold and windy but we were working hard enough to generate a lot of heat, which created sweat, which creates problems when you stop in a cold environment.  I took off everything but my base layer, rucked up, and started again.  I was thankful I did it because I could already feel the wind evaporating the sweat off my arms.  The last thing I wanted was to be soaking wet later and have to sit still...it would make for an extremely cold morning.

On we pushed.  It was still dark but we were now among a group of buttes and hills that were light colored and really stood out as we travelled through them.  They were high, intimidating pieces of topography.  The cliffs and buttes rose from this valley like the formidable walls of a mule deer fortress...like it was designed to keep man out.  Yet here we were, quietly, slowly, and stealthily slipping past these defenses in the hope that we might catch one of these mule deer by surprise in his own back yard.  

Still we pushed.  Now we were traversing a scree slope as we pushed north toward our hunting spot.  We were paralleling the ridge line but I couldn’t tell how far we were below the peak.  I could look to my right and see hillside a few feet away, and look to my left and see nothing but blackness.  If i looked DOWN and to my left I saw the hill falling away into the dark...but I had no idea what lie beyond the range of my light...death was one possibility...but I didn’t lose focus long enough to ponder it.  This was one of those times where I was happy it was dark, because if I could see what we were doing...I probably wouldn’t be doing it.  It was steep enough on this side-slope that you couldn’t put your foot flat on the ground...the angle was too steep for that.  You could get only the side of your boot on the ground...and that side better be able to grip mother earth pretty well or you were going to go for a ride on a boulder coaster.  At this point I was very happy I had bought new boots for this trip.

Once again we gave up the elevation and returned to lower ground.  Next we covered a quarter mile of your standard issue Montana “dust/rock/shrub” country when we hit our first new obstacle.  Depending on where you hail from you might call this a ditch, a gully, a coulee, or even and unmarked grave...whichever you prefer we just hit one in the dark and needed to cross it.

My fearless pal Tony is used to such obstacles...he’s from Idaho...and none of this terrain phases him in the least.  As I stand there wondering how far out of the way we have to go to get around this thing, he clambers right down into it.  Alright...I follow.  This is steep terrain that drops into a ravine that’s maybe 20 feet deep.  None of the ground looks sturdy enough to hold a mans boot, yet each time I get half a boot on the slope below me it holds.  Slowly we side step down into this giant crack in the earth.  When we hit the bottom the first thing I realize is that I’m out of the wind.  Wind that had been blasting us at 16 to 20 MPH just a few seconds earlier has been reduced to just 1 or 2 MPH at the bottom of this ditch.  It’s only a few paces across and now we have to climb out of the ditch and get back into the punishing wind.  It’s crazy...over time, the water has created this huge, energy sucking obstacle in an otherwise easy to navigate section of land.  It’s like natures way of ensuring that nothing goes easy.

One of the beautiful things about having a GPS is that it’s at times better than my own memory.  As I’m typing this I’m looking at the path we actually took, overlaid on a satellite image of the area.  After we crossed that first ravine we made it 150 feet before we realized we had goofed.  My handy satellite track shows that we doubled back and crossed that same ravine again just a few yards away from where we first crossed it. It was twice as much fun the second time.

We were still in the dark, but we were closer to where Tony wanted to set up.  At this point he was like a bird dog on a blind retrieve.  He couldn’t see the target, but he had a good nose for where it was.  Our GPS track on the map looks a lot like the path of a dog working the wind on his way to find a duck.  We poked this way and then that, then forward, shift left, then right.  On and on it went.  

Now it was starting to get a little bit light out.  While I thought the buttes that comprised the walls of the mule deer fortress were the tallest things in town, I now realized that even they were dwarfed by the walls of the valley we were in.  In the very dim early light I could see significant mountains to my west.  Just as I was beginning to enjoy my sight seeing tour we hit another unmarked grave ravine.  This one was so steep that even Tony took his time.  I stood at the rim and watched him slowly go down and evaluate our chances of crossing here.  I stayed up top because I didn’t want to waste the energy of going halfway down only to have to climb back out once we realized the futility of it...and futile it was...wait...oh...Tony scrambled right down the cliff and into the abyss.  I went partway down, but where it got crazy steep I paused...how did he do that?  Nothing about this slope looked climbable.  In my mind I saw only one scenario...me slipping, my rifle butt catching on the ground and pitching me forward where I would bounce and roll end over end just like the scene from The Princess Bride where she kicks the Dread Pirate Roberts down the hill.  That’s the ONLY scenario I could see...I saw no odds of successful passage...but Tony did it and I’m following him so I need to have some faith and dive in.  

Sure enough I made it to the bottom in one piece.  Step two would be getting out in one piece.  This ravine was deep enough to completely hide 30 foot tall trees.  The slope out of it was not walkable...you had to scramble out using your hands and feet...it was almost like climbing a wall.  I’m pretty sure that on my way up I passed a spider going the other direction who had simply quit trying to get out this way.  When we climbed out of that crevice we were approaching legal shooting light.  We crossed another few hundred yards of decent terrain and then crossed another series of gullies.  We had been hiking for about an hour and a half in the dark and were now close to where we needed to be.  

Tony wasn’t exactly sure this was the spot because he had scouted it from a high ridge about a mile away...but we were close enough to start hunting.  We decided to split up to cover more ground.  Having never hunted mule deer before I asked him a question before he left.   “Do you think I should hunt down low near one of these ravines, or get up high to see more stuff?”  

After a moment of silence he replied simply “I’m gonna let you make that decision.” Then he walked off.  I liked the answer.

To my front was a wide gap in a series of low hills.  That gap was like a really wide county road heading down from these hills and gullies to the agricultural fields below.  Given the lay of the land it seemed to me that my best approach would be to take the high ground and control as much as I could from there.  It was a painful strategy though as it meant crossing yet another gully, then making one final climb up steep terrain.  Thankfully when I got there I could rest for a while.

I arrived at the top of the hill with a heaving chest, lungs about to burst, and legs that felt like molten rubber.  Weak was not a good description of how I felt...I’m not sure the human language contains words that can convey the depth of the exhaustion...interpretive dance might get the point across better but nobody wants to see me do that.  No problem though...I could now lay down and rest for a few minutes.  I arranged my gear with my bino’s, rangefinder, and rifle all in front of me, then I proned out behind them.  It was at that exact moment that I discovered another inhabitant of these Montana wilds...cactus.

Yes...yeeeesssss there are cactus in Montana brother let me tell you.  If you hike in during the dark and have never been there you will likely find them the first time you sit or lay down.  I did the latter.  When I proned out behind my rifle I took a cactus strike to the upper thigh...missing my important regions by only a small margin.  Lesson learned, I stopped everything to clear the area underneath me of any more threats.

Now I was hunting.  I was settled in behind my rifle, bullet in chamber, killing on my mind.  Before I did anything else I broke out my rangefinder to learn my surroundings.  Now that the sun was coming up I realized that from my high rocky perch I could see every gully, hill, rise, butte, valley, and mountain for miles around.  There were patches of trees here and there but they were the exception rather than the rule.   

Range is different

As I grabbed my rangefinder my “Plan A” was quickly destroyed.  That plan had been to simply cover the gap across the valley that led to the fields below.  Picture the rock of Gibraltar covering the entrance to the Mediterranean...that’s what this spot was.  It was a dominant terrain feature of both tactical and strategic importance.  

When I ranged that gap though it was 600 yards.  I was shocked.  The enormity of this country, the fact that it is so vast and so wide open, make even 600 yard stretches look tiny.  My plan called for me taking shots no longer than 300 yards.  I know how my gun shoots out to that range, and I know how I shoot at that range...so that was my limit.  Now I had a real problem.  I could see for miles but only shoot for yards.  

This was the first bit of friction I encountered...the first time my old ways of hunting clashed with my new opportunity.  It was exceedingly probable that I would see deer that were just outside, or even far outside my effective range.  How would I handle that?

One legitimate option would be to wait and hope they come my way and get inside my range.  Another option was to simply watch them go and hope some others came along.    Still a third option would be to leave my position and try to close the distance on them...spot and stalk.  

I’ve stalked and killed a lot of deer “back east” as they say out west.  But it’s a different type of stalking.  Back east it’s more “stalk and spot” as opposed to “spot and stalk”.  It’s an important distinction.  In the case of “stalk and spot” you are moving stealthily through a heavily wooded area the deer use as cover until eventually you sneak up on one and drop the hammer...first you stalked...then you spotted him.  Out here in Montana it’s the opposite.  You can get up high to get good visibility, spot one in the distance, then try to stalk him...and you can move quickly while doing it.

So those were my options on opening day.  Day one was an eye opener.  It was the day I was introduced to my new area and it’s difficult terrain.  At first it was difficult to focus on hunting due to the stunning backdrop of mountains, buttes, and rugged landscape.  This was indeed God’s country.  

The rest of day one was a blur.  That morning marked the first time I saw mule deer in the wild.  I saw three doe about half a mile away as they crossed from the fields to a bedding area in the hills.

Next I saw a herd of antelope.  It was this day that I had another unique experience.  The country here can be a bit dis-orienting to someone not used to being in the hills.  Everything is high and all of your views are full of steep angles going this way and that.  At one point I was scanning the valley floor below me and I had the strangest sight.  A bird was flying toward me...but I was looking down at him.  It’s not every day that you see the top of a bird as he is flying toward you...it was one more visual that reminded me I was a long way from home, and it took some getting used to.  

Later that day Tony went walkabout.  If you’ve ever seen the movie Crocodile Dundee you’ll get the reference.  The man left with his rifle, his lucky Van Halen tee shirt, and his orange vest and that was the last I saw of him for several hours.  

Mid-day was dead still.  For the afternoon on day one I stalked some ridges to the south (the direction we came in) and was able to stalk within shooting distance of a nice buck antelope.  I didn’t have a tag for antelope but it was a fun field exercise and helped me learn more about the tactics I could be using.

Day one ended with no shots, but was a good intro to the area.

Day 2 - Sunday

Sunday I hunted alone.  Tony had some other obligations at church and said to keep him in touch because he could come help pack one out if I got a shot.  It should be noted at this point that we were hunting a “no motor vehicle access” area.  No vehicles means just that...no vehicles...at all.  This meant that if we killed one we’d have to pack it out on our backs.  We liked the idea of this because while it meant a lot more hard work, we figured it should also reduce the number of other hunters in the area.  

It should also be pointed out that this is mountain lion country.  Hiking here alone in the dark doesn’t concern me...very few people get attacked by mountain lions.  However, our plan, if successful, would put us in a precarious position.  

I mentioned earlier that we’d have to pack out whatever we killed.  There was no way we’d be able to drag a 200+ lb. mule deer a mile or more over this terrain back to the truck.  The plan was that we’d quarter it and debone it on the spot, then put all the meat in a pack and carry that out.

So, our best case scenario is that we kill a deer, butcher it, then strap on a very heavy backpack full of fresh meat and hike through mountain lion country.  Now that I’m back in the confines of my home it doesn’t sound like the brightest idea...but it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.  

I set out alone on day 2 with a plan to climb the ridge I left the night before.  However, due to the wind direction I decided to stop about a half mile short and hunt from a ridge on this side of the valley vs the opposite.

From the dark valley floor I picked out a spot on a ridge that was maybe 80 feet tall.  My legs were again molten rubber as I slowly pumped my way to the top.  The wind at the ridge line was almost furious.  It would grab my back pack with enough force to shake me back and forth.  I knew I couldn’t stay that high in that wind...so I eased my way lower to get behind a small clump of juniper trees.  Those juniper trees did a marvelous job of sheltering me from the wind.  I could hear and see the wind absolutely HOWLING off everything around me...just 10 yards in any direction and you took a beating by the wind.  But here behind these junipers it was only about 5 MPH.

From this high sheltered spot I could see a huge cornfield a quarter of a mile to my right, and I had tons of travel corridors to my front.  I could see down into two ravines from here, and I could see huge swaths of country that deer might cross as they left their food source.  I waited patiently in the dark, watching the stars and hoping for deer.

When the sun rose I realized that I could see every agricultural field for miles around.  I saw mule deer and antelope everywhere from this perch.  All morning long there were groups of animals moving out of the fields and into the hills.  Deer popped out of the corn all morning long and made their way into the ravines to my front.  Clearly they wanted to stay out of the wind.  I saw another group of four deer over half a mile away over my right shoulder...they were moving my way but I lost them when they went behind a large piece of topography we called the “ant hill”.  I figured I might see those deer again later in the morning when they came out from behind it.  

Just then I was treated to the sight of a herd of mule deer running across the sagebrush plains along the base of a huge butte.  They were strung out in a line and running.  The only thing that could've made the vision any more "western" would be if John Wayne himself were chasing them on a horse.  

About 40 minutes later I saw two doe coming up the closest ravine in front of me.  They were coming in from the right and I decided to get them in the scope just so I could say I had a deer in my sights (we couldn’t shoot doe but in case I got skunked I at least wanted to know what a mule deer looked like through a scope).  

As I brought the gun down I noticed more deer behind the doe...a spike buck!  Cool.  As I peered at him through the scope I saw bigger horns on the deer behind him.  Soon enough I was looking at a big bodied, tall racked mulie.  They were about 300 yards out, and I wasn’t sure he was big enough that I wanted to use my tag on him, but this was my first lesson in mule deer behavior.  

The ravine they were in ran parallel to me at a range of 300 yards.  They eased in-and-out of sight while they were down in it and eventually the doe popped  out onto the high flat that separated the ravines.  Shortly thereafter the buck popped up out of it.  He didn’t come all the way out though...the front half of his body was exposed but he wasn’t totally committed to coming out of that ditch yet.  He looked around and surveyed the area first.  This was when I noticed that he had a really narrow rack...it was maybe 8 to 10 inches across.  He wasn’t the type of deer I wanted to shoot on the dawn of day 2. That buck didn’t like being up on top and eventually eased into the ravine right below me.  He hung out between 100 and 125 yards for a long time.  The whole time I got to study him through the scope.  I let that buck walk, but if things were slow and he showed up later in the hunt...he’d be on the menu.

This ridge offered a great vantage point for learning how the deer are using this area.  Hopefully that knowledge would pay dividends soon.

Day 3 Monday

A cold front with some rain had swept through the night before and when dawn came on day 3 it was like the county fair.  Deer were everywhere, bucks were everywhere.  It seemed as though every deer in the county had come out to play.  

I started texting Tony when I saw deer but it quickly became so many sightings I had to stop texting.  Groups of doe, a few bucks here and there, more doe over there, it seemed like every direction you looked you’d see deer.

The activity was pretty steady for the first hour with deer traveling from the fields to the hills.  Around the time things began to slow down I noticed a pair of bucks about a quarter of a mile away.  One looked to be a decent sized deer and the other looked like a runt.  They were too far away to do anything with but I tried to keep them on my radar just in case something changed.

Deer sightings became fewer and fewer after 0830 but I still saw these two bucks following a ravine on the other side of the valley.  That ravine curved around the bottom of some hills and dumped out into the valley straight in front of me roughly half a mile away.  

There was nothing else going on so I just watched them work their way back, hoping to see where they would bed down.  About the time they came out of the ravine into the middle of the valley to my front, another deer emerged from behind some hills on the left side of the valley and made his way to them.  That deer looked a little bigger but at this distance, even with 10x binoculars, it was tough to tell.

I watched through my bino’s as that bigger deer made his way down and started thrashing a bush in front of the others.  They all kind of hung out in the middle for a bit,

then as a group they began moving to the left side of the valley.

Part of me just wanted to see where they were going, but another part of me began to ask “Can I close that distance?”  It seemed ridiculous, they were almost half a mile away.  More importantly was the fact that if I came off this ridge I could easily be spotted by anything in the valley.  I would be pretty upset if I started to stalk these deer and blew an opportunity at a bigger one that was coming my way and I just didn’t seen it.

This was a dilemma for sure.  Slowly the bucks eased toward a set of low hills on the left side of the valley half a mile away.  Should I stay or go?  Going means betting the entire mornings hunt on one set of cards...gambling that I can catch those deer and that one of them is big enough to shoot.  It was a big risk...there was a lot of activity here already and I didn’t want to ruin the area by spooking game.  As I watched them slowly feed their way up the back side of that hill and begin to go out of sight I decided that it was now or never.  I came out here to hunt, and part of hunting is adapting your strategies and taking risks.  I’d drop gear to get light, then I’d take off after them.

I eased my way down the ridge because I was still in sight of them...if I moved too quickly down this scree slope they’d surely see me and run.  When I got near the base of the hill I slipped behind a juniper tree, shed some gear and hid my pack.  I left with my rifle, shooting sticks, and heavy jacket.  The jacket might get me sweaty but I thought it might come in handy in case I got locked down and unable to shoot for a bit.

From where I sat my mission looked tough but maybe do-able.  I had to ease off a 100 foot ridge, then cross three ravines just to get into the same zip code as they were in.  Once I got there I’d have to figure out a way to approach three of them without being spotted and get close enough, and stable enough for a shot.  

I slipped into the first ravine with confidence.  They hadn’t seen me bail off the ridge and as I passed in between the few scraggly pine trees that lined the mouth of the gully I knew there was no way they could see me.  I made good time in the ravines, crossing them as fast as I could march.  One thing I needed to do was make sure I didn’t get so out of breath that I couldn’t make the distance in time, or couldn’t control my breathing when I got within shooting range.  

Each time I came out of a gully I looked for those deer.  When I came out of the first one  I saw the deer going behind the second of two, low hills that separated us.  With his butt disappearing behind the hill I knew I could now make good time with no worries of them seeing me.  

I practically ran into the second ravine.  This one was really wide, maybe 40 yards across at parts.  I picked a shallow exit on the far side and marched my way toward it.  80 yards to my left there was a doe in the ravine walking away from me.  I smiled as she had no idea I was there.   Even if she spooked there was no way she could alarm the deer I was after.  It didn’t feel like it at the time but I had a lot going in my favor at this point.  I was covering ground at a good speed, the wind was with me, and nothing could see me coming.   

I quickly exited the second ditch, slowed my pace to catch my breath and tried to figure out the best path to take.  There were two low hills to my left.  The first had two low tops with a saddle connecting them.  The second was a slightly smaller hill with a round white top.  Those deer had gone behind the second one with the white top.  I figured that if I climbed up the back of the first hill and snuck into that saddle then I might be able to flank them.  With my ad hoc plan in hand I scrambled into the last ditch.  I was across it in no time and had about 200 yards of uphill climbing before I reached the saddle on the ridge I wanted to shoot from.  

I was running on empty as I climbed the back of the hill.  My plan was to try to pace myself and have some gas left in my tank when I got there so I could still make a shot.  

The saddle of the ridge was coming up, in just a few seconds I’d be able to peer over the back of it and into the bowl below.  I could see the distinct round white top of the hill they had gone behind.  In a few more steps I should be able to see them below me.  I crept up to the ridge slowly so nothing would be alarmed by my movement.  Every inch closer I crept to the edge I could see that much more of the bowl below me.  Soon enough...he was right there.  60 yards away on the back slope of the second hill was one of the three mule deer bucks I had been stalking (chasing is a better term).  He was quartering away from me with his head outstretched and eating.  

The contrast of that moment was remarkable.  He was as calm and placid as could be.  Slowly feeding his way across this hill in the middle of nowhere.  60 yards away, kneeling in the weeds was a well hidden predator whose brain was in overdrive, every synapse firing at lightning speed to execute a plan, chest heaving from the chase that only he knew was unfolding.  I eased back a few steps and quietly deployed my shooting sticks in such a way that way they had no chance to see me until the gun was in firing position. 

I got behind the scope and looked at his rack.  I couldn’t see much so I went to zoom...in my haste I turned the wrong way...a moment of panic passed over me and then I got it fixed.  I zoomed in until the rack filled my scope, he turned his head and I could see that he was as wide as his ears, he had good mass, he didn’t have the best forks in the world but I recall my brain reflecting on everything I had done to get to this point and my final thought was “This is how I want the story to end”.  I flicked the safety off, found my mark, and eased the trigger until I got the boom.  

With a sudden clap of thunder my hearing was reduced by 50% and the part I lost was replaced by the familiar high pitched ringing.  There was a moment of hesitation as he locked up when the bullet hit him, and then he crashed in a heap right where he stood.  It was a beautiful sight.  There was no smell of gunpowder due to the 500 MPH wind that was constantly blowing here.  I stood there for a few moments just looking at him below me.  This is what success looks like and I wanted to enjoy it.  As I knelt there behind the shooting sticks his two partners trotted off from the other side of the hill.  I had totally forgotten about them.   

While I was busy staring at the mule deer I had just shot, they were locked up solid just a few feet away trying to figure out what just happened.  Eventually they just trotted off.  I was surprised to see them...once I got my sights on the first buck I got target fixation and blocked out everything else.  One of the other bucks looked to be about the same size as the one I shot, he might have had a rack a little bigger or a little smaller...I’ll never know...but I’m happy with the way my hunt ended.  I had planned a lot, worked hard, learned a lot, and now I had been successful.  It was a feeling of deep satisfaction.

As I walked to him I was shocked by the size of the beast.  Here lied a solidly built animal.  This is the first time I really thought about the chore of carrying him out.  As I stood there admiring this buck, I got a text message from Tony: “Did you shoot?”

“Yep...put one on the ground.”

He said he’d be on his way immediately but i told him to keep hunting.  I couldn’t gut him on the spot because I had left my knife with my pack when I dropped all my gear at the start of the stalk.  I had a mile round trip hike before I got back here to gut him.

I made the half mile through all of the ravines with a big smile on my face.  The whole way I considered what the best path might be for our pack-out.  Hiking this way with a 30 lb. pack is one thing...but doing it with a whole mule deer on my back will be another game entirely.  The straightest line is probably not going to be the best one with the beast on my back.  The line that has the least rise and fall will be the one that appeals to me the most.

When I got to my pack I had a change of plans and thought it would be best to go and drop all my gear off at the truck before starting to do the difficult work ahead.  There won’t be room for my pack and rifle in the pack-out trip.  This would now be a two mile round trip from the deer to the truck and back.

I left everything I didn’t need at the truck because I didn’t want an ounce of extra weight for the pack-out.  I left my pack, coat, gloves, layers, hat, everything except my knife, orange vest, and baseball cap.

I met Tony back at the kill site for some pictures, then we began the chore.  As we finished gutting this beautiful and tasty animal I began feeling something on my back...rain.  I didn’t think much about it...and kept working.  Soon the light rain became a steady rain.  When I turned to look over my shoulder I saw an ominous gray storm front over the mountains behind us.  This was not a rain that was going away soon.  It gathered right on top of us and as the temperature fell it left us quartering this animal in a freezing rain.    

All I had on was a synthetic base layer and a very light wool pullover.  Soon we were shivering so hard that we had to change our plan.  There was no way we could debone this entire deer in this weather.  We’d sooner freeze to death as complete the task.  

Tony’s idea was to simply separate the hindquarters at the spine, leaving their bone structure intact.  We could then dump the hindquarters into the pack as one piece and worry about deboning them later.  As plans go it was a good one...it would mean a heavier pack but it would allow us to both live AND get the meat out of the field.  

Now it was time to troll for mountain lions.  I’m guessing that the lions of south central Montana are pretty well fed, because with 90 lbs. of fresh meat on my back I was a fat, juicy, slow target and nothing hassled us on the way out. 

    

In the end I consider this to be a perfect trip in that it was extremely challenging as well as rewarding.  We had planned well, prepared well, and executed well.  Even if I hadn’t fired a shot I would have considered the trip a success.  I learned lessons about mule deer, western spot and stalk tactics, and the challenges (as well as opportunities) presented by rugged western terrain. I got to hang out with a good friend and spend a lot of time outdoors.  What more could I ask for?  The kill (and the many meals it will provide) was just a bonus.  

Night Fishing

Night fishing can be some of the most rewarding fishing that there is to be had.  In the summer time it's especially good as it allows you to escape the heat and dodge all of the boat traffic…leaving you to float alone on the lake as if you're floating right there with the stars above you.  

Constant trips to the lake can get expensive.  Between fuel, snacks, and chewing tobacco a man can run up a handsome bill in a hurry…oh yeah…tackle too.  Those costs become even more painful when the trip turns out to be unproductive…i.e. you get skunked.  I got to wondering if I could find a way to get more experience without taking the hit to the wallet that comes with actually going fishing.

Given that fishing, like flying jet fighters, is expensive, I thought it might make sense to look to the military for clues on how to do things more efficiently.  Often times in the military the budget is tight.  Jet fuel and aircraft maintenance are expensive, so rather than actually go flying…pilots simply practice flying in a simulator.  

Now, I won’t lie to you…aircraft flight simulators are expensive…lucky for us we don’t have to buy one.  What I am proposing here is a night-fishing-simulator…something that gives us the essence of night fishing without the expense of gassing up the truck and the boat, buying a bunch of tackle, and consuming hours of time.  After a few moments of sage-like rumination, it occurred to me that night-fishing is well suited to this type of simulator training.  After studying how my night fishing trips normally unfold, I was able to concoct a simulator from commonly available tools/stuff.

My night-fishing simulator requires a few initial steps to get set-up, but once you have the basics you won’t have to do much work at all.  The first step is to get your hands on your favorite baitcaster.  Once you have it in your hands I want you lighten both the mechanical and magnetic drags to their absolute lightest settings and tie on a light lure.  On the next really windy day I want you to give this set-up to the left-handed girl who lives next door and ask her to try her hand at using a bait caster.  Tell her to just let it rip, as hard as she can, directly into the wind, and that you’ll check on her progress when you get back from the pet store.

Yep…you’re going to the pet store for the next step…to buy a bat.  Any size bat will do but bigger is usually better…trust me on this.  They will probably give you your bat in a bag as they are nocturnal creatures and daylight tends to freak them out…and we don’t want a riled up bat in the truck with us…it just wouldn’t be safe.

When you get home, collect the bird-nest-infested baitcaster from your neighbor and thank her for her help.   Now you have all of the components for your night-fishing simulator so let’s put it to the test.  I want you to take your fouled baitcaster and your new pet bat to the darkest closet  in your house.  With the closet light off, sit on a stool with your reel in your hand, then reach down gently, grab the bag, shake it like there is no tomorrow, and then open it.  Have someone outside the closet start a timer and see how quickly you can untie the knots in your baitcaster with an angry bat dive bombing your head before you freak out and give up.

This is the essence of night fishing.  Aside from the cost of the bat it’s virtually free (and if nothing goes wrong you can generally re-use the bat).  The simulator lets you get just as creeped out and frustrated without the all of the fuel and bait costs associated with an actual trip to the lake.  As I wrap this up I think there may be one cost I left out…that of paying someone to remove the bat from your house after your wife discovers your simulator…and those costs may be more than monetary in nature…on second thought maybe there is no cheap alternative to night fishing.  

Of Squirrels and solutions…one mans problem

My name is (name redacted to protect the innocent), and I have a problem...a squirrel problem.  This is a problem that has haunted my home and family for years.  I’ll spare you all of the humiliating details but know this...it has been a long and difficult process for me and my family.  Sometime late last year I hit rock bottom and knew something had to change.  Here is a brief history of my struggle. 

As is probably too common, at first I didn’t even realize that i had a problem.  I didn’t take it seriously and basically took half hearted measures to control it, paying it only lip service really.  My first pellet gun purchase was a Daisy 10-pump type gun.  

The old 10-pump Daisy pellet gun wasn’t great for hunting squirrels...it was more of an ‘assisted suicide’ type gun.  If a squirrel was begging for a mercy killing I could get it done...but beyond that it wasn’t too great.  It’s range was short and it’s power inadequate for anything other than very simple tasks.  After a few shocking episodes demonstrated the inadequacy of that gun for my task I knew I had to replace it.  

Next I got a Crosman break barrel gun...and it was good.  This is the gun that ‘laid down the law’ at my house.  Prior to its arrival the squirrels were running the show around here.  They would chew on my house with impunity, destroying everything in their path.  The squirrels were unleashing wanton destruction upon my homestead.  The Crosman TR77 changed all that.  It was the line in the sand.  It marked the day I would stand up not just for myself...but for all mankind (except maybe for  hobo’s and hippies that live in vans and under bridges and stuff).  No longer would I stand idle and suffer the cruel urges of Scurious Carolenisis...otherwise known as The Eastern Grey Squirrel.

The Crossman TR77 did a good job.  The squirrels learned to respect it as a new authority.  When squirrels woke me up by chewing on my home it literally became the long arm of the law.  No squirrel was safe on my roof.

After 6 months of sustained combat, the TR77 had fought hard enough to buy me some breathing room.  No longer was the house covered in squirrels.  No longer did I have to suffer the indignity of watching squirrels chew up my wooden deck out back...no longer would I have to watch my children weep as these vermin lurked in the trees above them and destroyed their home.  For now at least there were some rules...there was some order.  The Crosman TR77 had become a plague upon those squirrels.  

The TR77 racked up a body count of 58 squirrels in it’s 6-month tour.  Today the hard-core group is long gone...dead and buried.  While it may seem fitting to sit back and basque in the security provided by the Crosman, it’s important to remember that nature abhors a vacuum.  Slowly, steadily, squirrels are infiltrating from neighboring properties.  It’s nothing unmanageable, but these squirrels are smaller, and a little more skittish.  The new squirrels spend a lot of time hanging out at the far end of the effective range of the TR77.  In a way it’s just natural selection...the squirrels that were most comfortable being close to my home are the ones who’s genes were stamped out of the pool.  

The new squirrels represent a unique challenge, requiring a shift in strategy.  My goal is always to strike like the Grim Reaper.  I want a squirrel to drop in his tracks...for his ghost to still be standing there holding an acorn when his wood-chewing, home-destroying-body hits the ground.  I don’t want my nemesis to suffer...but to meet a lightening quick and humane demise.   

The problem is I can’t guaranty that type of exit for him at 20 yards and beyond with the current gun.  Nor can I allow these squirrels to linger in relative safety just beyond my effective range, massing for a counter attack.  No, the only acceptable solution was that I needed to extend my range.  I needed to extend it straight into the heart of their sanctuary...to destroy their morale through attrition.  

What came next was a blur of research that took me into the darkest corners of the internet.  To places where men secretively discussed topics such as Foot-Pounds-of-Energy, Hammer Spring Tension, and Standard Deviation of Velocity.  It was here, in these small dens of online resistance, that these freedom fighters provided me with the solutions I so desperately needed.

After countless days of planning, research, and risk analysis, I decided that the solution to my problem...was the Benjamin Marauder.  The gun was advertised as quiet, accurate, and powerful.  Most importantly was the claim on accuracy, for if this held true then there was nowhere in my area of operations that a squirrel was safe.  This was the weapon that could bring the rule of law to my yard...forever.  Eternal peace was within my grasp. 

After a few weeks of tense anticipation it all came together today.  I configured the weapon to fit my mission profile then I settled in to get it zero'd.  

I used a few quick shots to walk the scope to zero, then I grabbed a magazine and settled in for my first 10-shot group.  The accuracy...as compared to my TR77...was breathtaking. 

I was simply not prepared for the level of accuracy that this gun delivers.  It is SO different from what I was used to.  It is so accurate that as the pellets stacked up one on top of the other I started to think that something was broken...nothing could be THIS accurate.  Surely the gun had fired one or two pellets but not 10...surely it couldn’t have stacked 10 pellets into a group this small.

After a quick check of the empty magazine and the target itself...I was startled to learn that it had indeed worked perfectly.  This gun had shrunk my groups from 6 inches...down to well under half an inch.  At 25 yards and beyond I now had the secret weapon.  I now had the ability to strike from a distance at which the squirrels were totally unaccustomed.

Sitting there, alone in my backyard gazing the target, seeing what I saw, knowing what I knew...I felt a sense of awe flow deeply and completely over my soul.  This must be what it felt like for the scientists in the Manhattan Project during WWII the first time they tested a nuclear bomb.  It was an earth shattering and fundamental shift in weaponry.  It validated everything I suspected, it rewarded all the hard work...I now had the ultimate solution.  With this new weapon in my hands...I would never fear another squirrel again.

There would be no more waking up early to the noise of my home being destroyed.  There would be no more walking out back with a beer to relax, only to find wood damage on my deck.  There would be no more stolen tomatoes or chewed up shingles.  No sir...the tide had turned.  There would be no more...squirrels.  
 
***Certain aspects of the actual story may have been embellished by the author for emphasis and entertainment but the material portions of the story are that the TR77 was good but the Marauder looks to be world class...not quite as powerful as Fat Man or Little Boy...but world class none-the-less.

Confusion and chaos

My story is a scary one.  It began on a calm Sunday morning where I had hoped to sleep in and rest from a long week of laboring and paying taxes.  My slumber was deep and restful, until…until it began.  There was a grating, gnawing sound echoing through my chamber.  At first I was confused, why was I awake?  What was that noise?  Would it stop if I just closed my eyes?  

Quickly it dawned on me that the noise was being made by none other than Sciurus Carolinensis (the eastern gray squirrel).  It was upon my roof, directly over my bed, gnawing on my home.  A sharp anger quickly rose within me, I pounded upon the walls arrogantly believing that my tantrum alone would frighten the beast away.  But no…no it did not take fright…it did not leave.  After a moment of inquisitive silence (just long enough for me to get back in bed) it began anew.  

Rage.  Rage filled me at this point.  I ran up the attic stairs and pounded directly on the plywood of my roof.  Surely my tempestuous outbreak would mortify Sciurus Carolinensis.  Finally, there in the attic, I heard silence...blessed silence.

Satisfied, I returned to my chamber and lie down in my warm, comfortable bed.  And then...it began...again.  I was apoplectic at this point.  I bolted from bed, flew down the stairs, grabbed a pellet gun and blasted out the front door.  I looked up in time to see him.  There, perched high upon my roof, just at the corner where the gutter turns, sat my nemesis.  He had an acorn in his hands and he gazed down at me with a look of scorn...an impetuous, whisker faced scorn.  As I returned his steely eyed gaze my hands were busy pumping a clackety old pellet gun…one…two…there he goes…three…over the pitch…four….five…he was gone long before I could get to ten pumps.  

Too angry to return to bed, I went to the garage.  I got a bow-saw and I began cutting down every crepe myrtle on that side of the house.  If I couldn't kill him I would deny him access.  I must have looked out of my mind.  On a calm and beautiful Sunday morning, just after sunrise, I was at the side of my house madly sawing away dang near in my skivvies.  My small and ineffective gesture felt good at the time but it fixed nothing.  The next week I was awoken again.  

My family felt bad watching me under gunned.  Time and time again a squirrel would be gone before I could "pump to ten".  For my birthday they bought me a Crosman TR77 break barrel pellet gun.  Now it would be a different game, now the odds were in my favor.  My adversary had long gotten used to my response times.  Sciurus Carolinensis knew how long it took for me to get to the window, he KNEW he had time.  He could count the pumps and be on his way long before my weapon was ready.  That day though, that day would mark the start of a very different game for Sciurus Carolinensis.

No longer could he dwell and lolly gag.  As technology boosted my abilities, my body count began to grow.  Week by week I took a steady toll on the squirrels.  Mine was a wrath that would not soon burn out.  As the furs piled up, my Sunday mornings grew quieter.  No longer did they wake me in the mornings.  Perhaps it was a peace offering…but it was just too late.  They drew first blood, not me.  

My war continued unabated.  I shot them on the weekends, on weekday mornings, when I got home from work…anytime was fair game.  I would show them no mercy.  If they dared gnaw on my home or wake me then this is the fate they justly deserved…they called down the thunder, and hell was coming with me.

After 5 months of steadily knocking the squirrels back on their heels (body count stood at 57 last I checked) my primary weapon went down.  Suddenly I found myself defenseless.  My home was once again susceptible to the juvenile and vandalous impulses of Sciurus Carolinensis.  

In the mornings as I left for work they'd be there…once again fearless.  Today I could take it no more.  I have a family and castle to protect.  I ordered a Benjamin Marauder (.177) and should have it by the weeks end.

Now the squirrels will have a new and infinitely more fearsome weapon to deal with.  Increased range and accuracy will lead to increased lethality.  As the Marine Corps says...”Distance favors the trained marksman.”  

There is a rule at my house (a joke but it's fun to say its a rule) and it goes like this "if you wake me up, you die".  It is generally delivered to my 14 year old son and his friends when I turn in the for evening and they are still up playing video games….it helps to keep them quiet.  But for the squirrels…they found out the hard way about the rule.  They woke me up, and for that they will pay a terrible price…for as long as I live.

Largemouths and sonar

Yesterday I had a decision to make.  i could turn right and go to work, or i could turn left and go to the lake.  I hear that life is short, so I took a left.

I was on the water by 12:30 with no place to be and nothing to do but focus solely on fishing.  I wanted to really try to figure out where the bass were.  I've been catching a lot of small males on the beds recently and I planned to invest some time in discovering where the bigger fish were.

Ultimately I ended up at the spot below.   Last week I caught a few bass on the middle portion of the southern bank of this cove (north is up).  So I started there again this week.  i worked the area methodically with a carolina rig but I caught nothing.  I pulled back a little deeper and saw some fish hugging the bottom, I worked them methodically and patiently but drew no strikes.

I pulled further back toward the mouth of the cove and my screens lit up.  It looked like the county fair was underway on the point at the south end of the cove.  It was unbelievable how much bait was on the screen.  I could see huge clouds of baitfish with other bigger fish below them…my brain was screaming that this was my spot. I had plenty of time, and i still had an unusual amount of patience left so I decided to stay right there until I figured out how to catch them.

This is on Pickwick so the landscape is big forested hills that fall to the lake and become rocky cliffs and ledges about 10 feet before they hit the water.  It's chunk rock city and sheer ledges underwater in this spot.

A few casts in I caught a 2.5 lb largemouth up near the bank…it was the nicest fish I'd caught all day and it encourage me to stay.  The water here is a really nice clear green and on a beautiful blue-sky day like we had it just turned the water into something special to look at.  Occasionally I'd see some brownish clouds in the water but for the most part it was really clear.

After another 20 minutes or so with no bites I saw another discolored spot in the water between me and the bank 30 yards away.  WHOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHH!!!!!!  About 10,000 shad turned and pushed the water up as the top of the school breached the surface.  O…M…G.  The "brownish" stuff I had been seeing in the water was HUGE schools of shad the length of my hand.  They moved the water with such speed, and the sight and noise was so unexpected that I couldn't have been more surprised if an Orca breached next to the boat.  It was unreal.

It made perfect sense…I'd been watching them get murdered on live sonar for the past half hour…but to see them and hear them and really get some perspective on their size…that was an eye opener.  I could now connect the blips on my screen with the real live critters that made them.

Now I had an idea.  Last summer someone gave me some advice when I was struggling to catch fish with this much bait in the water.  They told me to get UNDER the baitfish…to mimic something that was dying and falling out of the school.

The next time that big school of shad came by I tossed a white/chartruesse spinner bait past the cloud, let it sink, then popped it up and let it fall.  I'd do this the whole way under the school…pop it up and let it fall away from the safety of the bait ball.

On perhaps my third pull I was waiting for the lure to hit the bottom and I got hit so hard that I was disoriented.  I couldn't believe how hard my bait just got hit.  It felt like a log had come downriver at about 40 MPH and slammed my bait.  Most times on a spinner bait there's a pop or a pop-pop that signifies the bait has been hit, then I lower my rod tip, reel up the slack, then set the hook.  Then after I set the hook it takes a second or two for the fight to develop to the point where i can tell if it's a decent fish or not.

There was none of that on this catch.  This catch went straight from relaxed with nothing happening, to red-line, katy-bar-the-door.  It was an IMMEDIATE crushing of the bait that instantly stressed every link in my tackle to the max.  From the nano-second it happened I knew I had a real issue on my hands.

At first I thought it was a catfish because it was so heavy and wouldn't come off the bottom.  Then I started to winching the beast to the surface and with the quick flash I saw I began to think it might be a drum…because it just would not come up.  Then my line drifted right…and I watched as that translucent thread sliced the emerald green water and began to rise…it was going to breach…it's a bass…my brain screamed "brace for impact!"

And breach it did.  It breached and arched and shook violently in a classic display of bass behavior.  It was REALLY pulling hard.  I was now worried about my line.  This is a rocky lake full of flat slabs of sharp edged shale…if you don't retie regularly you WILL get your heart broken on this lake.  I lightened my drag a little and watched as it came up and drifted lazily just under the surface, almost as if it just wanted to get a good look at me before we started Round 2.

This was a nice fish, it was way bigger than anything I'd caught on my last few trips, it had a huge head, broad shoulders, and colors and marks on it that made it look ancient.  About the time I came to the conclusion that this was a really nice bass, I started reaching for the net…I guess that signaled the start of Round 2 because that fish sounded the klaxon and dove hard.  I must have looked like a one man band, fighting a fish with my left hand, holding the net handle with my right, and trying to step on the rim of the net with my right foot so I could get the handle deployed.

Trying to keep pressure on the fish while bending down to get the net was difficult.  At one point I had enough slack in the line that I knew she'd get off…but my error only lasted a fraction of a second…not long enough for my aquatic adversary to exploit...and in the next few moments I had the fish next to the boat, then net going in….and I plucked it from the it's watery kingdom.

Perhaps the funniest part is that it's been so long since I caught a fish that I cared to weigh, that I had no idea where my scale was.  I wanted to get the fish back in the water as quickly as possible so I was rummaging through my box like a madman trying to to find the scale.  The scale showed 4.5 lbs, I took a pic, and released the fish so it could continue it's reign of terror on the shad.

It's not the biggest fish in the world, but it's the biggest fish of my season, and to a large degree I was only able to catch it because:

A - my electronics told me it was a good area, and

B - I had the patience to keep trying different techniques until something worked

Turkey in moonshine country

The morning of opening day of the Kentucky turkey season I was but a tiny speck on the dark side of the planet earth.  Our hunting spot was nestled deep within hills known as much for their moonshine as for their bird hunting, but two things were certain; the rotation of the earth meant that the sun would soon be visible, and therefore if we didn’t hurry up every bird in Christian County would see us sneaking to our spot on the edge of this 70 acre field.

This morning my partner and I would sneak deep into a part of this huge agricultural field that he calls “turkey cove”.  Sunrise was approaching faster than we had expected, so we stepped off the bean field and took a pair of seats against the first trees we came to.  There was nothing but a thin veil of brush between us and the field.  Now we would wait. 

We hadn’t been in our seats a minute before we heard the first gobble from a roosted bird on the other side of the field.  I’m new to turkey hunting and my first thought was that it was pretty neat to hear a gobble since I hadn’t heard one on my last three hunts.  I had no way of knowing that the first gobble we heard would be the opening lesson in what would become a masters level course in turkey behavior.

The sky was turning an early morning gray and within seconds of hearing that first gobble we heard hens yelping on the same ridge.  They were yelping to the left, down low, up high, over on the right then another outrageous gobble.  There were so many hens calling that I couldn’t keep up with them.  Some sounded raspy and textbook, and others sounded very plain like a rookie hunter with a turkey call.  We were on 927 acres of private land that sat along the Pond River and I knew there were no other hunters here...but I couldn’t believe a real turkey could sound so much like a bad box call.

Now the sky was getting brighter and we saw the first bird gliding down from the ridge.  It followed the slope of the tree tops until it cleared the field edge, and then touched down in an open spot about 200 yards from us.  Before we could really say much about it, another three birds pitched out and glided to the same spot.  “Sweet” one of us whispered to the other in a tone of hushed awe.  Now two more birds came in, then four flew down, on and on it went until there were almost thirty birds in the field. 

I was shocked.  I had never seen this many turkeys in front of me...and they weren’t done piling in.  Three hens busted out of the tree line across from us and ran down the field to join the others.  A few minutes later a pair of toms ran out the same way...when they turned to run toward the others I could see beards nearly dragging the ground.  From every hill and valley around us we could hear thunderous gobbles and hens yelping and purring and making every other type of sound a turkey could make.  At this point I felt pretty good about my calling abilities...I sounded way better than a lot of these birds!

So far we hadn’t made a sound.  We wanted to see how this would shape up.  Before long our spirits sank.  The hens led the group out to our right…way out into the middle of this field.  Toms were blowed up and strutting and hens acted like they were more interested in feeding than in paying attention to the boys.  Birds fought and kicked each other.  At times toms strutted three wide shoulder-to-shoulder all blowed up as if marching in formation.  At this early point in the morning we had no less than 35 birds on the field all stretched out as if in a parade that led to the middle of the field.  There were groups of hens being courted by smaller groups of toms...all along the parade route the gobblers were in various stages of being puffed up.  There were deer a few hundred yards beyond the turkeys and more blowed up toms a few hundred yards beyond them.  It was truly a postcard type picture.  The only noise that ever punctuated the non-stop talk of the turkeys was the sound of a hunter on some far away hill sending a gobbler to his grave.  BOOM went the sound of opening day success for some lucky hunter. 

With every boom our spirits got a little lower...other hunters were having success as our turkeys were slipping further and further away from danger.  The entire parade moved out into the middle of the field and then began to split up, moving in smaller groups to our right.  Some went into coves further down the field while a few eased into a cove of the field about 100 yards to our right.  At this point I asked my partner if we should pull back and try to get ahead of the parade.  He said "nah...let's just sit tight and see what happens". 

Meanwhile, a smaller group of hens that had been moving steadily toward our position directly to our front were getting very close,..uncomfortably close.  A group of three hens had fed all the way to our doorstep.  They were a scant 10 yards away and apparently had no intentions of leaving.  It was time to make like a statue.  We could not move a muscle with birds this close.

The main problem was that I was already in an uncomfortable position.  I had my knees propped up so I could rest my wrists on them and I was holding my gun.  My right leg was beyond merely being asleep...it had gone from pins and needles, to burning, to almost numb.  My right leg was going to be a real problem...I thought I might really do some physical damage to it if I didn’t get circulation to it quickly.  I had visions of losing my leg to gangrene because of these birds...a tradeoff I might make for a huge gobbler but not for some hens. 

About the time I thought I was just going to have to risk moving it with no regard for blowing the birds out...the hens began moving to my left...and they kept on walking.  Oh thank goodness!  I’ll get to stretch my...wait...more birds...coming even closer.  I watched in horror as a fresh set of hens moved right up to the brush line in front of me.  I had hens at eye-level 6 yards from me...my leg was killing me to the point where it was now a mental battle...like a claustrophobic being trapped in a coffin I had to struggle to remain in control.  It took every ounce of self control I had to not move.  Just one move would ease the pain, one small move would save me so much suffering...it might even save my leg.  I knew my partner must have been dealing with the same issue.  There’s just no way to prepare for having this many birds this close for this long. 

These hens weren’t going anywhere though...they were intent on torturing us.  They were so close I could’ve strangled one.  Oh how they stayed...just looking around and eating.  There was never a time when they all had their heads down.  One of them was always up and peering into the woods.  They were almost in my lap and I had no idea how they couldn’t see me.  About the time I was convinced I would die if I didn’t move, my brain suggested that scaring these hens off might actually be a good thing.  There were no toms around and they were just cramping our style so why not move and scare them off?  About this time my partner whispered to me “hey...don’t move...gobblers behind us.  If I give you the signal wheel around and shoot them.”

He said it so matter of fact.  He said it like he was talking to a man who had full use of his arms and legs.  At this point that was not me...I had no ability to move my right leg and was rapidly losing the ability to move my left arm.  Asking me to “wheel around” would be akin to asking a guy with no legs to do a 40 yard dash. 

I eased my head to the right, looked over my shoulder and saw two big toms moving behind us.  They were all blowed up, wing tips dragging the ground, red and blue heads gliding silently over the forest floor with beards nearly touching the ground.  It was as impressive a display as one could encounter in the woods.  Now I had three hens 6 yards in front of me, and two big blowed up toms 10 yards behind me.  Still we sat.  I lost them when my eyeballs ran out of room to pivot right...but I could still hear them drumming.  Oh my legs. 

A few minutes later the toms disappeared deeper into the woods behind us.  Miraculously the hens to my front retreated on their own.  At this point I got the blessed relief I was looking for.  I put my gun down and used both hands to straighten my right leg so I could reposition to the other side of the tree.  The toms were behind us so that’s the way we’d hunt. 

In less than a minute we were both facing away from the field we had watched all morning and were looking back into the woods, my partner to my left and in front of me by about 2 or 3 yards.  He was looking to his left and announced that he saw something where the cove (now on our left) meets the woods.  He stroked the slate call and a thunderous gobble returned to us.  80 yards out he could see two gobblers.  I was looking straight ahead while he looked left.  Deep into the woods I saw a dark shape move between the “V” of a large split trunk oak.  “That’s not normal” I thought.  I got my binoculars up and saw another shape move past the same spot.  I scanned right and found a bird paralleling our position about 80 yards out...then another.  Two birds were moving left to right.  “Ugh” I thought “they’re not coming in…they’re just paralleling us and will disappear.”

I told my partner that I had “birds right”.  He kept looking left and said “I see them.”  I reiterated “no dude...look right...birds are on the right”.  Still he looked left.  I told him “look past that dead cedar tree...they are moving past it to the right.”  That was enough to get him on the birds. 

He hit the slate and another volley of gobbles came back to us.  I could see the birds turn toward us.  I whispered at him “Here they come.  You want to take the left one and I’ll take the right?”

“Cool” came the reply.  The downed cedar formed an obstacle that the birds had to go around.  Once they got to the end of it, the trail was the equivalent of a sidewalk that led more or less right to us.  We both had our guns up, and as the birds rounded the corner looking directly at us they were puffed up as big as they could be.  The moment they rounded that corner they were in my kill zone.  There was now nothing but 40 yards of empty space between me and my first turkey.   

I was waiting on my partner to confirm that he had a visual on the left bird.  The birds were at 40 yards. 

“I’ve got no shot” he said.  The birds slowly marched.

I waited, hoping that in a few more steps something might open up for him.

“If you have a shot at the left bird, take it” he whispered. 

38yards.

“OK”

36 yards.

“Do you have a shot?”

“No”

BOOM!  My sights had been on the tom since he rounded the corner and all it took was enough pressure to move the trigger a fraction of an inch, the sear tripped, the hammer fell, the firing pin lurched forward and sent 2 ounces of number 6 shot right into that birds face.  It folded like a lawn chair and began wildly and reflexively flapping it’s wings.

The trailing bird recoiled at the noise for just a fraction of a second, then loaded his legs and sprang on top of the first bird that was dying and started whooping his butt.  I mean he was laying it to him, doing the River Dance on the dying corpse of his buddy.  I was shocked.  I was in no way prepared for that reaction. 

The bird was so distracted by dishing out this beating that it enabled my partner to move far enough right to get a shot at him.  BOOM!  The shot knocked the bird off his pal and into the leaves behind him.  In a moment he was back on his feet and running.  BOOM!  A second shot was sent at the wounded but running bird.  When the second shot went off the bird took a turn that had him coming right at us.  At the last second he veered to our left and made for the field.  I still had a round in the chamber and quickly asked “do you want me to finish him?”  The bird was stopped with his head right in my sights as I waited for the answer. 

My partner looked to be fishing for another shell and I didn’t want to take a shot without confirmation.  The last thing I wanted was for him to not hear me and step into my line of fire so I waited for his answer.  “Yeah, finish him” came the response.  As soon as the words were uttered the bird took a step and put a tree between us.  It seemed like a year passed before he took another step that had him back in the kill zone...his head popped out...BOOM!  Game over. 

I had just taken my first ever turkey, and we had taken two in the span of perhaps 10 seconds.  What a fantastic day that was.  It had gone from promising, to hopeless, to a very tense and painful standoff, to opportunity and finally success.  This is the type of experience that gets people hooked on hunting.

Public land giant

Years ago I hunted nothing but public land around Oxford MS and the University of Mississippi.  To say that the area was “pressured” would be an understatement.  Over the years I’ve had 4-wheelers, dogs, walkers, hikers, hunters, and even bullets come by me while hunting.  As pressured as it was though...it was free.  

Back when I was hunting this land the rule was that you couldn’t shoot a doe.  There was one day per year scheduled as a “doe day” and as you might imagine...the doe somehow got wind of the schedule every year and they took that day off.  So it was bucks only and there was tons of pressure.  

I didn’t have much in the way of equipment back then either.  I frequently hunted to the verge of hypothermia because I simply didn’t have the money to buy warmer gear.  I hunted from the ground in makeshift blinds, I stalked, and used the occasional low tree branch to my advantage.  I had a good rifle though, and my determination was top notch and with that combination a lot of good things can happen.

One morning I decided to hunt a field we called Praying Mantis due to the fact that we once saw a big mantis stuck in an ant hill getting devoured by thousands of fire ants.  This was a long narrow field on top of a hill that had a power line trail cutting across it right where you entered the field.  So you climb up a slight slope, and when you step onto the long narrow field you can look straight down the length of it to the other end, or you can look right and left to look down the power line trail.  

That morning I had decided to set up on the power line trail and hope that a buck might come creeping across where I had found some sign.  I was about 150 yards down the power line and if I looked back up the hill I could just see the edge of it...but couldn’t see onto it.  

The power line trail was maybe 40 yards wide and while it was fairly clear in the middle, the edges where it transitions back to the woods were all choked up with thick vegetation.  There was no way I could sit on the ground as the visibility would be very restricted.

Looking around for my next best option all I saw were tall limbless trees.  Well...they were limbless until you got to about 15 feet up the trunk...then there were limbs...but they offered nothing in the way of limbs you might be able to climb with.  I loved the spot and didn’t want to abandon it, but I had seemingly no options.  As I stood there with a burning desire to hunt this spot it occurred to me that I might be able to bear-hug the tree and inch my way up the trunk until I could grab a limb at the 12 to 15 foot level.  Once I did that I could wrestle my way up into a better spot.

I stood at the base of a likely tree with my hands on my hips and my head cocked like a dog working an algebra problem.  I thought my plan could work, but the closer I got to executing it the more ridiculous it seemed.  If you doubt me, just walk out back and bear hug a tree...feet off the ground...see if you can climb a few feet up the trunk.  My best plan is to throw my arms and legs around this tree trunk, and then try to shimmy up it like a caterpillar.  I had nothing else to do, and no better options so I tied a rope to my gun and the other end to my belt...and up I went.   The first few feet of the climb were pretty awkward, the next few feet really hurt, the next few feet gave way to a glimmer of hope that this might actually work.  Slowly and painfully I was closing in on the lowest branch of the tree.  It was about 12 feet off the ground.  Now that I was getting close I realized I had to figure out a way to get on the branch.  Was I going to ease out onto it in a pull-up position?  Would I try to get an elbow over it?  I really wasn’t sure and the closer I got the more important the decision seemed.  Through the fog of time I really can’t recall how I made the transition but I know that I did because for the next three hours I stood on that branch holding my rifle.  

I stood atop a three inch wide branch with one foot in front of the other and my back pressed up against the tree trunk.  I had another limb to my left at around elbow height that I used to steady myself so I wouldn’t fall out of the tree.  All in all it was a stable, if uncomfortable, perch with a dynamite view of the area I wanted to hunt.  From this vantage point I could see a long way down the power line trail in both directions.  To my right the trail rose gradually, and then more steeply as it approached the bean field.  To my left it just continued to fade away downhill.

This was perfect.  I had a good chance of busting any buck that came creeping around this trail.  Once I got settled in I realized just how nice a day it was.  There were high blue skies, sunshine, and crisp cold air...just what the doctor ordered for a Saturday morning.  If I didn’t fall to my death then this could become one hunt to remember.  

Sadly a few hours went by with no activity at all.  Around 11:00 AM I heard a car door slam, then another, then another.  Ugh...public land.  Not 5 minutes later I see three hunters up the hill on the field.  I can hear that they are talking but I can’t make out the words.  Two continue down the bean field and out of sight, but one starts walking straight down the power line trail toward me.  Ugh...public land.  

In short order he was right in front of me and I called out “Good morning.”  He came to an abrupt and startled halt.  He looked around for a moment trying to figure out where the voice had come from and I again called out “hey...”  He looked up and stood there speechless for a few seconds with his head cocked like a dog trying to work an algebra problem.  When he finally spoke he asked “How did you get up there?!?”  

“I climbed.”  Came my reply as if I do this sort of thing every day.  

“Well, we’re about to do a drive...you ought to stay right there ‘cause you might get a shot in a few minutes.”

“OK...thanks.”  I said.  Then he moved on down the trail.   

I didn’t see or hear anything for the next forty minutes, at which time I saw the hunter come by again. 

“We’re going to head out, too bad we didn’t see nothing”.  

“Yep” I replied.  His friends had pulled a truck up onto the field and I watched him climb the hill to meet them.  The truck doors slammed a few more times and they all drove away.

I stood in my tree pondering my next move.  It had already been a slow morning, then these guys showed up and burned the area all around my stand by stomping through it, then they had actually driven onto the field and slammed their doors a bunch of times.  This place was dead...I would be better off by going to down for lunch and trying someplace else this afternoon.  

I unloaded my gun, put the scope cover on, and lowered it to the ground. I then bear hugged the tree, and reversed the shimmying process while trying to protect the more delicate parts of my body that were in danger of serving as a friction brake as I slowly slid down to the ground.  If I did this wrong I might never have kids.  It crossed my mind that bears make this look a LOT easier when they do it.

Finally back on the ground I dusted all of the loose bark off my clothes, quickly admired all of the scrapes on my arms, slung my rifle and started the climb to the field on top of the hill.  

I was so hungry that my stomach was gnawing on my backbone.  My lunch options were flowing through my mind as I stared at the ground in front of me and put one foot in front of the other.  Pizza hut?  Nice salad bar.  All you can eat too.  crunch.  McDonalds?  Agh...too fat.  Wait...what was that “crunch”?  I stopped in my tracks trying to determine if I had actually heard something.  After about 10 seconds of listening I wrote it off and started marching again.  Slowly the lip of the field was approaching.  Once I got the edge of this narrow field all I had to do was turn left and it was all downhill to the truck...and to food.  

Finally my head was coming onto the same level as the field and I could see further across it.  Slowly I was marching and slowly it was all coming into view.  Just about the time I was able to see the whole field I saw it.  Right there...right...in front...of me.  At high noon, in broad daylight, on public ground, on a field that had received all kinds of noise and pressure...was the biggest buck I had ever seen.  He had his back to me and he was absolutely thrashing a sapling.  I’ll never forget it...it was a “Y” shaped sapling and the widest part of the “Y” was getting wrecked every time he threw his head up.  Those antlers were stripping bark from this poor sapling.  This tree hadn’t even had much of a start on life...and the only thing that could save it was me.  

Time began to move in slow motion.  Right about the time I realized what was happening the buck had started to turn to look over his shoulder.  It all happened fast but in my mind it was now a slow motion race.  I could see his right eye more as he turned his head to the right.  His nose was arcing through the air as those powerful neck muscles flexed.  His ears, nose, and eyes were all racing to check over his shoulder.

I on the other hand was racing to unsling my rifle.  I had it slung over my right shoulder for the march back to the truck.  My left foot slid forward into a firing stance as my left hand raced across my body to find the sling.  My right shoulder dipped, his right shoulder dipped.  I needed the gun to come off my shoulder but gravity could not pull it fast enough.  He started to shift his weight, my hand found the strap.  Broadside...he sees me.  My right hand finds the pistol grip and as I start to raise the gun to my shoulder his hind quarters explode and launch this beast into the safety of the woods just a few feet in front of him.  My rifle only made it to the ready position...the butt never reached my shoulder...he was gone.  

At this point my brain was still in action/confusion mode.  I hadn’t yet had time to process that the deer might be gone...or my brain might have shifted into the fall-down-and-vomit mode.  As I stood there on the edge of the field watching the hole in the woods next to the Y-shaped sapling where the deer had disappeared, the thought hit me...he has to go left.   That deer wouldn’t go straight because there was a road at the bottom of the hill.  He would probably go left and race across the power line trail...he’d have to cross 40 or 50 yards of bare ground!  I ran a few more yards up the hill.  I could now see the power line trail on the other side of the field.  My gun was up but below my line of sight.  This way I could watch with the naked eye until I saw him then lift the gun the last few inches, get him in the scope, and drop the hammer on the best public land trophy ever.

My pulse was hammering in my jugular veins...I mean it was throbbing so hard I thought my throat would explode...it was pounding so hard that it actually hurt.  WHOA!  THERE HE IS!!!  Right on time that magnificent creature ran out into the clearing.  Who knows what thoughts had formulated in his mind during this whole ordeal.  I imagine he bounded a few yards into the woods, then stopped and looked back like whitetail usually do.  During that pause he might have decided that he didn’t want to cross the road at the bottom of the hill.  He might have even decided that crossing the power line was his ticket to freedom.  Ultimately though it didn’t matter what he thought.  This was my plan, this was my day...and he just ran into the most exposed place he could’ve possibly chosen. 

When I saw him burst from cover I instinctively snapped the rifle up the last few inches, moving my barrel to track his movements and get the guns momentum heading the right way.  This deer wasn’t bounding like they normally do when fleeing.  This deer was burning a straight line like a jet powered Kentucky Derby winner.  His hooves were pounding the ground and he was a streaking-blur of tan and white.  Smoothly tracking him, my thumb flipped the safety forward and my brain was anticipating the sight of the crosshairs just ahead of the deer, I lowered my head until my cheek contacted the stock like I’ve done a million times before..and...WHAT!?!  Where did it go?  Everything went black.  In the panicked confusion I thought my scope was broken or that I had momentarily gone blind.  I remember thinking in that spit second that my pulse was beating so hard that I went blind...in reality it was far, far worse.  As that monster southern whitetail was making the biggest mistake of his life I realized that I too was making mine...I had forgotten to remove my scope cover after climbing down from the tree.  

Pound, pound, crash, POOF...he was gone.  He crossed the opening and left me in his dust.  He left me in confusion.  He left me stunned, and heart-wrenched, and nauseous.  I ran to the edge of the woods and desperately peered in...hoping and praying for a miracle I didn’t deserve.  I had committed several unforgivable rookie mistakes, and this animal had made me pay dearly for them.  If a deer can laugh...I bet he’s laughing to this day.  

Why these lessons can’t be learned on a doe I’ll never know.  I like to think that I’d learn the lesson if this happened when I was drawing down on a doe but maybe not.  Maybe the bigger the opportunity that’s lost the deeper the lesson is ingrained.  Maybe it’s the pain that forges the lesson.  At this point I was in some serious pain.  For the first time in the last few minutes since this started, the full weight of what happened hit me.  I had been presented with the public-land-opportunity of a lifetime...and I had blown it.  I alone was responsible for every bad thing that had happened.  I had worked really hard to make this hunt work, but in the end I wasn’t disciplined enough to seal the deal.  I had failed.

I wanted to lay down and puke my guts out.  I felt physically ill.  I had blown an opportunity of colossal proportions all because I wasn’t prepared.   I had my rifle slung over my shoulder.  I ignored the sounds I had heard.  I was in the woods with a scope that was covered.

That buck taught me some lessons I’ll carry with me to my grave:

If you think you heard something...you did. 

If you think you saw something...you did.

You are hunting from the moment you leave the truck until the moment you return.  

My gun is ready until I unload it at the tailgate.  I am always hunting.  

That buck ran out of my life and into my dreams.  The lessons learned would be driven home over the next few years by recurring nightmares of him getting away.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought of that deer over the years, but I can tell you that a lot of venison has gone to my freezer because of the lessons he taught me.  In the end I guess that’s what counts...that buck that got away made me a much better hunter.