When you are getting ready for the whitetail season you should begin scouting in late summer by watching likely food sources. Does, fawns and bucks will be loading up on succulent grasses, clovers, ripening grains, berries and sedges at this time. Bucks don’t always use the same food sources as the does, they often stay closer to their bedding areas. If they use the same food sources as the does they may appear either earlier or later than the does. By cruising roads with a good set of binoculars near agricultural crops and meadows during the morning and evening you can learn which fields the bucks use.

If you are there early enough in the evening you may see the bucks arrive and be able to determine where they came from. If you stay late enough you may be able to see them go to either another food source or back toward the bedding area. Because buck’s don’t travel very far at this time of year their bedding area should be nearby.

When you see bucks at early morning food sources stay long enough to see which way they leave. In the morning deer usually work their way slowly from open areas, to high grass or brush and finally into heavy brush or woods where they feed and bed intermittently throughout the day. Once you know the route they take back to the bedding area you can setup along it during the hunting season.

The buck’s rub route usually winds through several doe use areas before ending up at a night time food source, then through other doe use areas as the buck moves back toward the bedding area early in the morning, before daylight. You should find several rubs along the evening rub route, and scrapes in transition zones, near food sources, along field edges and near doe bedding areas.

Following the buck’s route back to the bedding area in the morning can be difficult because they often travel under cover of darkness in the early morning which makes them feel secure enough to travel in the open, where there are few trees and consequently few rubs and scrapes, until they reach the safety of the trees in their bedding area during daylight hours.

If you have time to watch buck rub-route trails you can learn not only where, but when the buck uses the trail. Finding the rub route and knowing when the buck uses it helps you choose the right time and place to hunt. If you don’t have time to watch the trail you can use a Trail Timer or Game Camera to let you know what time the buck comes through the area.

If you don’t use a timer or camera to find out the buck’s travel time the best strategy is to find it’s bedding area and setup as near to it as possible, using different stand sites for morning and evening and varying wind conditions. By getting close enough to the bedding area to watch it but far enough away so you don’t alert the buck to your presence you increase the chances of seeing the buck during daylight hours.

By spending extra time and effort Observing, Scouting, Patterning and Recording the food sources, and travel and rub routes prior to the hunting season, you cut down the amount of nonproductive hunting during the season. Then you will know where to find the buck and at what time, so you can use techniques to ambush or attract it to you.

HUNTING THE BLACKTAIL
Whether you hunt with bow, rifle, or handgun, a big blacktail buck will give you fits. Many well known outdoor writers and hunters say they are harder to bag than a wily whitetail or a wise old mule deer. My goal, through these articles, is to give you some tips for hunting these beautiful animals.

There is a big population of Blacktail deer in Western Oregon. These are the Columbian Blacktails. Your best chance for harvesting one of these animals is in the early season or the late season (especially for archery hunters). I say early season because then some of the deer haven’t wised up to the fact yet that they are being hunted. But I think the late season is the best time of all. There’s a late archery season at the end of November and this is generally the peak of the rut when the bucks get crazed with searching for does and they lose some of their caution.

In Oregon the early bow season generally opens up around the last weekend of August while the last weekend in September or the first weekend in October is for rifle. There is a late bow season that generally begins around the third week of November, about two weeks after the rifle season ends. But in Melrose, Evans Creek, Rouge and Sixes areas the late bow season opens about one week earlier. The bag limit for Blacktail deer is one deer in Western Oregon.

Well, where do you begin? How do you locate these creatures that love to lay low in heavy cover? One of the best prospects for finding Blacktail deer occurs in 3 to 4 year old clearcuts. Look in these areas for sign such as trails, droppings, tracks, or scrapes. Another good spot to begin your search is in an alder tree canyon or a bench. You may also want to check out powerline right-of-ways, Reprod areas (a place where a bunch of fir trees have been planted and they are 6-8′ tall and really thick) because this is where they really love to lay up. Also look at lowlands because they often harbor some big bucks.

Some of the same techniques that you use for Whitetail or Mule deer hunting can be used on Blacktails. Tree stand hunting takes its share of big blacktails every year, but to me it seems very much like a hit and miss way to hunt because blacktails love to move at night rather than in the daytime. If you are hunting from a tree stand try placing it at apple orchards, a funnel strip of cover between two clearings where they are moving, or a rub line. The key to success is to learn the habits of the deer in your tree stand area.

You can also do a “spot and stalk” hunt where you may see a good buck in a clearing and try to pull a sneak. But since cover is very thick this makes for a difficult way to hunt.

One of my favorite techniques is “still hunting.” The biggest mistake most still hunters make is moving too fast. Take only two steps and then stop, look, and listen. Blacktail deer are famous for holding tight and letting you walk right past them. Every so often stutter step (a couple of quick steps). This will often break the bucks nerves and he’ll move, giving up his location. Remember to move as slowly as possible and then cut that speed in half. Keep looking in all directions, especially behind you. I’ve seen bucks sneaking across my back trail crawling with their bellies on the ground. Hunt from a top of a ridge down in the morning and hunt back up the ridges in the evening. This will help keep the wind in your face as the thermals move your scent up and down the hills.

Another very successful way to hunt Blacktails, even with a bow, is “drives.” This technique works well when you have two or more hunting partners. May sure you plan your drives carefully so safety is uppermost in your minds. On a drive one person skirts around the bottom of a hill while a second may take the middle and the third takes the top of the hill. All three of the hunters go around the hill moving very slowly as you would in still hunting. You don’t want to panic the bucks, just slowly move them hoping to give a shot at a sneaking buck to one of the other hunters. This technique probably works the best for those big bucks that lie up all day and only want to move after dark.

How about calls? These can sometimes work well although Blacktails are not very vocal. The doe bleat or fawn distress calls seem to work best while grunt tubes will occasionally work just before or during the early part of the rut.

Rattling can also work but my success rattling has been very spotty at best. But I’ve seen it work occasionally with great success so you many want to try it as just another tool of your trade.

Well, how to you begin to narrow down your search for a good hunting area. Your first step should be to write to the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. You can write to them at 17330 S.E. Evelyn Street in Clackamas, Oregon 97015 or call them at (503) 657-2000. Ask them to send you the biologist’s reports for buck to doe ratios in given units. Drive through the areas with the highest buck to doe ratio looking for logging company gates or public access. A lot of logging companies allow hunting by permission. Other logging companies will just open their gates during deer season and let anyone in. If you can find a logger who spends some time in the woods who will tell you where he has seen deer moving you have a quick leg up. Some will talk others won’t give out any information on their favorite spots. Some logging companies will even draw you a map where heavy deer damage is occurring on their land and they want deer thinned out. In Blacktail hunting like anything else you will find out your best information talking to everyone you meet who may know something about the deer habits.

The best weather for hunting Blacktail is in a light fog or a light drizzle. The deer seem to stand around more in these conditions rather then bedding up. And often they will head for more open areas then. If you’re not seeing any Blacktails, wait until it starts raining. Then get out into the field quick. The deer seem to come out of the woodwork then.

If you’ve had any success with Blacktails using any special methods you would like to share with our readers, please send me an e-mail. It’s always good to share your experience and success with others. If you would like to send me any information, tips, or “secrets” or a photo of you with your trophy Blacktail, I would love to include them in my articles. You can send them via e-mail to me at kenmcginnis@nohannah7@aol.com.

You can also post any questions you may have about Blacktail hunting to me at nohannah7@aol.com and I will try my best to answer them there.

As always, hunt safe and ethical.
Ken McGinnis

I glanced at Karena. Her eyes were wide and excited. She mouthed, “bear,” without making a sound. I followed her eyes to the front of the blind. On a small hill above the bait station a bear. Not huge, but a bear. It was coming to the bait station and soon we would have the moment-of-truth. The bear stopped.

Bear baiting is legal in Idaho. Using the correct bait can be the difference between a successful hunt and a hunt watching other wildlife. Karena and I had tried several types of bait but none seemed to interest the bears. We had done our scouting the fall before and found a good population of bears near our home in Salmon, Idaho. We both enjoy the taste of the spring black bear. It makes great roasts and stews.

Baiting bears in Idaho requires that the hunter obtain a baiting permit along with license and tags. No parts of or whole game animals, game birds or game fish may be used. The skin must be removed from any mammal parts or carcasses used as bait. No bait may be contained within paper, plastic, glass, metal, wood or other non-biodegradable materials. The exception being that a single metal container with a maximum size of 55 gallons may be used if securely attached to the bait site. No bait may be contained in any excavated hole greater than four feet in diameter.

Bait stations must be removed within seven days after the close of the spring and fall bear seasons. The Idaho Department of Fish and Game issues a bear baiting tags. These tags must be visibly marked at the nearest tree or on the bait container. Baiting permits are valid for the calendar year and can be obtained at any Fish and Game office beginning March 1. The Department issues three bait station tags for each hunter purchasing a permit. No bait station may be placed within 200 feet of any water or within 200 yards of any maintained trail or any road. Bait stations are not allowed within one-half mile of any campground or picnic area or other dwelling. Certain hunting units within Idaho have different regulations. Some units allow bait stations to be placed up to seven days prior to the opening day of bear season. Check with Idaho Fish and Game prior to hunting.

Although using metal containers such as a 55-gallong drum is a popular method we decided the bait station in our area needed to look as natural as possible. Making a bait station is much like trapping. The station is a holder for the lure. The lure is the bait. The location of the bait station is dependent upon where the bears are traveling. While many use multiple bait stations, Karena and I decided that one would do the job. This location was at the west end of a meadow that dropped off into a lodge pole forest.

The construction of the bait stations was simple. Several large rocks were placed around the base of a large pine. Logs laid horizontal formed a V from the base of the tree outwards. Other rocks were placed in the center of the V. Under the rocks in the middle went the magic bait.

While watching a movie at home one night, enjoying a large bowl of popcorn it dawned on me. The smell of popping corn, melted butter, and salt filled the house.

Even outside the smell of popcorn was enjoyable. Popcorn would be our primary bait. Popcorn, readily available at the local discount store, already buttered and salted, was cheap and the best part, the individual popped kernels would keep the bear at the bait station longer.

Positioning a ground blind near a bait station has to be accomplished with the utmost caution. Normally it is not a good idea to place the blind until it is determined that a bear is using the bait station. This gives the hunter the opportunity to position the blind downwind from the bait and away from the travel route the bear uses. This year we placed the ground blind the same day that we made the bait stations. The ground blind consisted of several large logs placed between trees, giving the illusion a pile of slash. We knew the direction of the evening wind and just hoped that the bear would not come too close. We checked the bait station every afternoon. The first few checks were negative. On the fourth check, we noticed that the logs and rocks had been moved. The individual kernels of popped corn were gone. A bear had visited the night before. Quickly re-baiting the station with two bags of buttered popcorn, and replacing the rocks on top of the kernels, we quickly moved to the blind. Our wait was short.

Karena saw the bear on the hill above the station. The bear stopped. It sniffed the air currents and appeared to be slightly nervous. The bear continued toward the bait station and if it stayed on course the bear would cross a small opening about twenty yards from the blind. Nothing ever goes as planned. The bear decided that it liked the popcorn and ignored the trail. The bear headed off the hill through jumbles of slash. It attempted to climb over a dead log, but fell off. After scratching itself and rubbing it’s back the bear went around the log and continued toward the station. Stopping every couple steps the bear worked it’s way downwind of the station. Karena could not last much more. At a hundred yards, she had seen enough. The bear passed through a small opening giving the broadside shot needed. The .270 spoke once and we had delicious bear meat for the summer. The popcorn bear was average for the area, squaring just at five feet. The hide was in great shape.

Karena had scored on her first big game hunt. She was hooked. After packing the hide and meat to the truck we reflected on the hunt. The hours of practice at the range had paid off. Returning home, hung the meat, salted the hide and decided to catch a movie. You guessed it, buttered popcorn.

The day approaches with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. Like all hunters, I want the season to begin, but that first day can be crazy. Sometimes in Western Washington opening day of deer season is not just about getting to your favorite hunting spot, it’s about hunting a place to park! However, I’m determined.

Saturday, October 14. It’s here. Rising early, I collect my gear, coffee, and wits two hours before daylight. My destination is just thirty minutes away on the beautiful Skykomish River. I suit up like a camouflage astronaut and spray myself down with an enzyme scent killer that I believe will hide my humanness so long as I don’t breathe, sweat, or succumb to nature’s other call.

The fog is thick. I am as damp as duck’s feet from walking the hundred feet from my porch to the truck. The drive is uneventful but slow going. The intermittent wipers are a must to cut the heavy veil of fog. Twenty miles of my trek is residential. It doesn’t feel like I’m getting ready to experience nature’s best. But right after the DQ and thrift store, I see a bridge. This Skykomish River bridge is the unofficial boundary between a Microsoft/Boeing generated populous, and the nearest, wonderful, shrinking, hunter’s Eden. Does anyone else ever wonder if they were born in the wrong century?

Eight miles from subdivisions I pull off the road. No streetlights in sight. No sounds except the falling of leaves. It is Fall. Things are falling. The bank down to the river is steep, I hope I don’t fall. No need to go to the gym after dragging a prize back up this hill. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

The most important thing is something I do not see, other vehicles. I am the first to arrive! I claim this section of earth as my own for the morning. I get my L.E.D light and trusty .35 caliber sidekick and I’m ready to descend through damp leaves, brush, and cobwebs to a little highway for furry woodland creatures I discovered scouting a week ago with a buddy from Kenya.

I stumbled on what I call ‘Deer Island’ by accident a year ago pursuing my other passion, fishing. I was targeting blue-backs. Salmon were jumping. Flying raptors lined the bank of the river. It was surreal. I love raptors. Eagles and hawks are the greatest and most blessed hunters. Can you imagine being able to just forget about the traffic, gas prices, tree stands, expensive hunting gear, licenses, hunting regulations that require legal counsel to decipher, and just launching out wherever you want to hunt using built-in, God-given weaponry to find and fall your prey? I love raptors and I envy them.

The fish were jumping and the raptors were flying. It was quite a while before I even looked down. But when I did there were tracks in the sand; not just a few, not all the same size. I thought, ‘interesting.’ My commitment came quickly to return God willing, minus a pole, plus a rifle.

So here I am a year later. I take my place on the ground overlooking the smaller tributary of the island and the game trail. I’m hidden by just enough underbrush to seclude, yet afford a somewhat unobstructed shot. I sit still in the darkness, motionless in the dampness. My legs fall asleep: pins and needles. My back starts to ache. It’s cold. It’s wonderful. Images of trees, bushes, rocks, and ‘I wonder if that was a deer’ begin to emerge from the foggy darkness. It won’t be long now. Prophetically I think, “He will appear out of the dark mist. I’ll have to concentrate on breathing normally. I’ll hear the thumping of my own heart in my ears.”

ATV’s?! I hear ATV’s. I hear yahoos talking about hunting. I ponder the ramifications of shooting their wheels out. Maybe I better not. This is my piece of earth! It’s my island for the morning. I guess they didn’t get the email. “God, if I have to share my island, let them run the deer right over top of me.”

Their noise pollution fades, eventually. I hear nothing but falling leaves again. It’s daylight but still foggy. Something moves: trots. It’s canine: coyote. He’s coming straight at me. Should I shoot? No. It might spook the deer. He’s spooking the deer. I think I’ll shoot. He’s fifty yards away and his head is down. He’s on the hunt. So am I. I raise my gun. He turns into the brush. He’s gone. Several minutes pass. A coyote head rises from a bush eighty yards away. Gun up. Fire! Head ducks. I don’t think I hit him. I better go check. No hair, no blood, and no coyote.

The bank overlooking the tributary is grassy. The game trail is only fifteen feet down. I lay down like a lion in the grass. I can see about fifty yards of streambed. My caffeine is wearing off. It’s pretty comfortable here. I think I’ll rest my eyes. A few minutes pass. I’m jump-started by a hawk’s cry. No deer in sight. I think I’ll just talk to the Nature-maker. After a few minutes of silent communication, my eyes open with my internal ‘amen’ to meet with a little doe’s gaze. She’s on the trail only fifteen feet away, head cocked sideways, big ears erect, wondering what this big alien lump is on the hill in front of her. Her sister appears beside her: twin yearlings: They are tentative but curious. I see more movement to my right. It’s mom. She stops and with deer telepathy calls her daughters to herself. They move away slowly: take a few steps, stop and look back at the lump in the grass: repeat. This process continues until the three become beautiful, ghostly apparitions swallowed by the fog.

It’s time to go home. Civilization still exists (and a) family waits to do family things. That’s O.K. Family is important. My wife will be happy that I get home close to the time I said I’d be back. But I’ll be back. After all, my shrinking paradise is not far from my subdivision.

A Trip From California for 5 Bucks
By Paul Thein
I am not a trophy hunter, but I am a Minnesota native and have been hunting since as far back as I can remember. Deer hunting has always been a family affair, where the cousins and uncles all get together for a long weekend. The cousins now bring their sons, adding to the family environment.
I have lived in California for the past seven years and have not been able to join the family for the deer hunt since moving out west. This year, I specifically made plans to join the family hunt. I had a difficult time paying the out-of-state fees since I am now a California resident. I joked with my cousins that it would be cheaper to go to the butcher shop than pay these high fees. But looking back, I knew it would be worth the money even if I didn’t get a deer at all. There is something about a family hunt that is priceless.
The night before the opening day, we chose our locations and set up our stands. I picked one of my favorite stands from hunts past. It is a little more challenging to get to, but it is near a creek and heavy wood cover. This has proven to be a good stand in the past.
Party hunting is legal in Minnesota and at daybreak on opening morning I shot my first buck. The buck was chasing a doe in heat and crossed the creek right in front of my stand. Since there was plenty of daylight, and I could see the buck lying dead only 10 yards away. I stayed put, hoping another buck would come my way.
Twenty minutes later, I nailed another buck and saw it fall. I thought, “Wow! Two bucks in less than 40 minutes.” I decided to try my luck again, so I stayed in my lucky tree.
In the next hour, another buck came crashing through the woods and started rubbing a tree only 60 yards across the creek. This was unbelievable! I was also able to take that buck and thought that would be it.
I had dressed out all three and drug them close to my stand before I heard a buck splash across the creek at 100 yards away. I thought to myself, “No way! This is a bigger buck than the other three.” I was out of my tree, on the ground, and exhausted from dragging the other three deer through the woods across the creek, but I thought there might still be a chance of getting another one.
I carefully walked to my stand and grabbed by 12-gauge shotgun. I was able to get up two of the stairs on the ladder of my stand when I decided not to go any higher in case the buck came my way. Sure enough, just moments later, the big boy came busting through the thick woods 20 yards in front of my stand! I was able to take him, making my hunt the best opening day of my lifetime.
By 11 a.m. I had 4 nice bucks, all 8-pointers or better. I thought there was no way my cousins would believe this.
The next day I harvested another 8-pointer, so I filled five out of our eight buck tags. The family said, “No more for you,” but that was just fine with me. I never imagined taking five bucks — I thought the time with family was prize enough.
Paul Thein
Quincy, California

I have been an avid hunter of small game from the time I first went hunting with my Dad and three older brother at the ripe age of six. However, my first encounter with a bunny wasn’t until I had reached the age of eight. Since then, no one could hold me back from hunting with the “Weber Gang”.

The “gang” included: Dad, Lee, Glenn and Howie. Although it wasn’t always possible for all of us to be a field at the same time, each season saw the “Gang” together for at least several wonderful days, in pursuit of the thrill and excitement of the hunt.

Back home in Garfield Heights, Ohio, we hunted the surrounding territory for bunnies and squirrel figuring we were fortunate to get a crack at a ring-neck or two during the season.

A lot of years past and in July 1961, I moved to a little farm located south of Albion, Pa with my wife June and our two sons, Lloyd and Russ. Lloyd was ten and Russ was three years old at that time. I found a virtual hunter’s paradise in our new home area. Grouse, ring-neck, and squirrel were everywhere.

That first small game season was fantastic. On the heels of the small-game season, Pa has the opening of Big-game season. Now I was faced with a totally new type of hunting: the white-tailed deer. Lloyd wasn’t old enough to carry a gun in Pa at that time, so he just tagged along with me that first day of Antlered Deer season. We saw white tails and more white tails, but unfortunately that is all we did see. It seemed as though every deer was a ghost in the thickets and slashing that surrounded our farm.

Dad had passed away in 1956, but two of my brothers came out for some of the best hunting any of us could have imagined when we were kids. Glenn’s wife, Grace, hunting with us as one of the “Gang” and I might add, she could and still can keep up with the best of field-hunters. In the fall of 1967, following the small-game season, Howie insisted on leaving his 20 gauge J.C. Higgins bold action for me to use in the big game season. After a little target practice with the rifle slugs, I was convinced it was a lot better than my 16 gauge single. I could place a slug into the center of a two gallon oil can at 75 yards. Ironically, Howie would only hunt with the “Weber Gang” the following two seasons, as he was stricken with an incurable disease in 1968 that would prevent him from going into the fields after the 1969 season.

It wasn’t until the big game season of 1967, that I finally got my first shot at an antlered deer. Lloyd and I teamed up and I got myself a respectable four point with a running shot at 60 yards in a red maple thicket from Howie’s gun.

Deer hunting for me had been a lot of work without much luck, but I found myself chomping at the bit for that first day of each deer season, always imagining a trophy rack hanging on a wall of our house, but only finding consolation in looking at that four point rack I mounted on a board back in 1967. Lloyd had collected two deer since I had gotten mine, one was a beautiful six point that he and the latest member of the “Weber Gang”, Russ, teamed up on. Russ did the tracking and Lloyd collected the trophy.

The fall of 1975, saw the closing of small game season approaching and big game season coming on but after going scoreless in chasing those “wily devils” through another cold and what now seemed inevitably, fruitless deer season. Lloyd and Russ kept trying to get me excited again by every trick they could think of. I heard stories of our past hunts that even I had forgotten. I finally agreed, although I did so reluctantly, to go with them for a few hours on opening day. Glen had brought out a .257 Roberts for me to use, and Russ was going to use the 20 ga., that Howie gave to me after he could no longer hunt with us and Lloyd would be hunting with his 35 cal. carbine. Glenn and Grace would be using a 35 cal carbine and a .308 pump, respectfully.

June, as usual, had a house full of people for the weekend. There was Lloyd and his wife, Lyn, daughter Michelle, Russ, Glenn, Grace, and of course June and me. The “Weber Gang” was together and the tales of yore were spinning from everyone. June recalled those days when we’d have the farm house filled with relatives and friends for some of the happiest days of our lives. And of course, the thoughts of those who are no longer with us, still remains vividly in our memory and hearts. Glenn as usual was masterminding the game-plan for Monday morning, but it seemed as though none of us quite agreed with where we should hunt. For one thing, the weather was fair, and with no snow for tracking we might do better just taking stands. We finally agreed to hunt at each ones own little “hot spot” for the first half of the day, then possibly putting on a silent drive for the latter part of the day. Sunday saw the Webers in church thanking our God for everything we can behold, and worshipping him in spirit and in truth. That afternoon, I recounted many of the blessings our family has received and what a wonderful heritage we have in this great country of ours. Each one of us agreed that we are grateful and proud to be Americans.

Getting together the paraphanalia for the hunt generally takes place late Sunday evening. Last minute instructions on safety and proper sportsmanship became the topic over coffee and a variety of “goodies” that June had bake the day before. Somehow, I still couldn’t get myself fully involved with the preparations as I normally would have and I recall telling Lloyd and Russ to call their buddies in Springboro so they could combine themselves into a bigger hunting party. I tried to convince them that I had finally lost all interest in deer hunting, but to no avail, I recanted and said I’d go with them, but that if they met their buddies in the field, they could still go on without me.

Monday morning finally came with the sound of the alarm clock at 5:30am. I got up but I felt like sleeping in. Russ was up and raring to go. Breakfast was coffee, eggs, and bacon for Russ and Glenn, Grace, and I had bacon, pancakes and coffee. June stayed in bed, worn out from listening to all the planning and instructions that were hashed and rehashed by all the nimrods the night before. Lloyd, Lyn and Michelle had gone to their own home Sunday night. Russ and I would pick Lloyd up at 6:15am, then drive a short distance and walk into a square where some pretty fair “racks” had been spotted. Well, at 6:15am, I was still sipping coffee. I then went upstairs to tell June where we would be and as usual, June reminded me to watch out for the boys and to be sure I had my compass and whistle. With a parting kiss, she said “get a big buck honey!” Glenn and Grace had already taken off for the “hot spot” in Jumbo woods. Russ and I had a 10 minute drive to Lloyd’s house and it was already 6:30am. We picked up Lloyd before 6:40am and reached our destination at 6:45am. Lloyd and Russ kept reminding me as we walked into the square, that we should have been on our stands before 6:30. I know they were right, but you can’t wish time back, so I told them to start concentrating on walking softer and stop talking so that we wouldn’t spook a big buck. About a quarter mile into the square, Lloyd broke off from us and took his stand. Russ and I continued on to the stands that we had chosen. Just before getting there, I asked Russ if he’d rather have the .257. Russ had broken his elbow while playing football and still had his left arm in a cast, so I thought he might have a better chance with the .257 as his stand was in an open field, and he could take more time in steadying himself for a long shot. He agreed and I took the 20 gauge. Somehow, I felt a quiet confidence as my fingers surveyed the action and grip of “Howie’s gun”.

The stand I took was on the edge of a long narrow meadow with scrub trees to the south, woods to the east, a red maple thicket that ran into a valley with large trees to the north. To the west was a narrow strip of saplings, grapevines, and a few hemlock. A beaten path leading from where I stood to the maple thicket and then into the valley was convincing proof that we were in buck territory. Russ went about 300 yards farther to the west into a mowed meadow where he had spotted a trophy rack the year before. Any buck crossing that field would give Russ a clear shot in any direction. Now it was a matter of watch and wait.

The weather was still fair, but I could feel the temperature starting to skid downward. The heavy clouds indicated that we would be in for some snow or possibly a cold rain. I looked at my watch and found it was just 7:30am. “Oh brother”, I hoped the boys would soon get cold enough to want to start walking, as I’m no one to stay in one place for any length of time, especially when I start getting chilled. To make matters worse, the north west wind was gusty. I kept looking in the direction of that maple thicket, envisioning a buck coming up out of the valley and straight at me. I also thought of how good it would be to have a hot cup of coffee, but I knew I’d have to wait for that, as Russ and Lloyd were carrying the thermoses.

Along about 8:00am, I saw a hunter at the east end of the field about 500 yards from me, crossing through the thicket and apparently continuing on into the valley. “Good”, if some of the hunters begin to move, also the deer would soon be moving. I looked at my right and saw Larry and Bruce, Lloyd and Russ’s buddies, walking toward me from the south. The cold wind made them decide to start walking. They saw me and came to my stand. They hadn’t seen a deer either but Larry said he had seen a lot of beds and “buck rubs” over in the maple thicket the Saturday before when he was grouse hunting. Apparently they were heading there till they saw me, but then decided to head back into the scrub tree area to the south and possibly get something moving toward Lloyd. They had barely faded into the brush when Russ came stomping up toward me. I could tell by his beat-red face that the open field stand was more than he wanted to take, even for a chance of bagging a trophy. His first words were “Did you see anything?’ I replied “no”, but then I told him what Larry had said about seeing those “buck rubs” in the maple thicket. Russ told me he had three deer in range on his stand but all were bare headed as usual.

I had just started to say we should locate Lloyd and possible organize a silent drive when Lloyd came into view. After exchanging questions of what was seen, we decided to have a cup of hot coffee and talk over our next move, as Lloyd had nothing to say that would cause us to get excited over any drive. Perhaps we should go into another square or locate Glenn and Grace over in “Jumbo”. I told Lloyd that Larry and Bruce had headed toward his first stand but their report to me had been just as negative as ours, except, no one has pushed that little maple thicket over next to the Big Valley and Larry had seen a lot of good “buck signs”. Lloyds eyes lit up, “we’ll have that coffee later, Dad, you wait right here, Russ you go to the edge of the valley, and I’ll walk down the meadow, and cut into the thicket at the east end, and push toward you and Russ”, he quickly ordered. “Hold on there”, I said, “I’ve got the shotgun and if any buck is bounced in that thicket, neither one of you would have as much advantage as I for a quick short shot”. I told Lloyd to walk to the edge of the valley and step back into the cover of a big old hemlock. From that point, he could cover the hillside and the thicket with his 35 carbine. Russ would stay right where I had stood and cover the entire length of the mowed meadow. Suddenly, I felt a warm surge of excitement as I started down the meadow, conjuring in my mind the thoughts of jumping a “Big Old Buck”.

As I started into the edge of the thicket, I held my gun at the ready position. I felt certain there would be a buck in there. Each step was more carefully placed than the last. I thought of how Glenn had taught me as a boy to walk softly. He used to tell me to feel for the twigs with my feet. Somehow, I could hear him telling me not to snap a twig. I know it doesn’t seem possible when you’re wearing hunting boots, but I sure did “feel” for those twigs that are one of nature’s early warning systems for her creatures. I started down the thicket in a zigzag pattern, going right to the edge of the valley and then back to the edge of the meadow. Each time I probably covered a length of 50 yards.

As I neared the middle of the thicket, I saw a “buck rub” on a small maple tree. The tender bark had been shredded from the four inch base, and up into its branches. “Wow, must be a big one”, I thought. As I covered each section of the thicket I saw “buck rubs” and beds on each pass. A feeling of expectancy welled up within me. I kept looking and actually thinking I’d jump a buck at any second. On the last pass that would take me to the very edge of the thicket, I suddenly realized that all my expectations were nothing more than a wild imagination. I’d be glad to complete the “drive” and get that overdue hot cup of coffee. I cradled “Howies Gun”, and as I stepped to within five feet of the north end south deer trail, a ray of the sun broke through the thicket cloud cover. The ray seemed to be more brilliant than normal as it beamed down just to the right of me. I looked over toward the stand I had told Lloyd to take, but he was in the back of a big hemlock and I couldn’t see him. I then looked to my left and I could see Russ had already started walking in my direction. I could tell he was just as anxious for that coffee as I was. I turned again to my right and just as I was opening my mouth to call Lloyd to join us, my eyes fastened onto a sight I’ll live with the rest of my days. Not more than 25 yards from me was the biggest buck I’d ever seen, alive or dead. He was absolutely magnificent. The sun beam was focused on him as though he were an actor on center stage. Just as suddenly, as I saw him, he also saw me. That mighty buck literally hunched down on his back side and with a fantastic burst of power, he was in mid air sailing through the upper branches of the maple saplings and heading away from me to my right.
I couldn’t figure why Lloyd didn’t shoot as I knew Lloyd must have seen him. I instinctively pulled the shot gun from my left arm and swung on him, but I found myself pushing at the safety. My 20 gauge pump that I used for small game hunting, has a push type safety. In less than a split second, I realized that I had to pull the safety back. By this time, the buck was into his second jump. The sun beams exposed his great figure, and as he seemed to glide in midair, I followed through pulling up toward his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger. I caught a quick glimpse of white and then, nothing!! I peered in literal amazement and almost stunned shock through the dense saplings. I thought I could hear a slight rustling of leaves, but that sound faded quickly. Russ came running up just as I ejected the spent shell. “What did you shoot at” he yelled. “The biggest deer I’d ever seen Russ”. I answered quietly, as my eyes kept searching through those saplings for a glimpse of that buck. I felt a chill come over me as I suddenly realized, there would be no chance of tracking him unless he let out a blood trail. I also remembered that other hunter was in the valley just ahead of where I’d last seen that “mighty buck”. I expected to hear a shot at any moment that would tell me how close I had come to getting a trophy of a lifetime. Although a mere thirty seconds or so had passed since I had fired, an eternity of time passed in my mind’s eye. Suddenly, Lloyd came running toward us. “Who shot?” he literally screamed. “I did Lloyd”, I said. “That is the largest rack I’d ever seen.” “Did you hit him?”, Lloyd cried out. “I think so, but I’m not sure. I had the gun right on him but I can’t be sure if I hit him.” Perhaps, I was in too much shock, but later the boys told me I was calm and quiet while all of this was going on. As I bent down to retrieve that empty shell, Lloyd said, “Aren’t you even going to see if you got him?” I responded quickly, “Yeah, let’s see if there’s blood or hair where I had shot”.

Before I even moved Lloyd cut through the saplings like a hound on a bunny trail, with Russ right on his heels. “You got him!! There he is. Wow, what a rack,” yelled Lloyd. “He’s got eleven points, twelve counting the stub where a brow point is busted off”, yelled Russ. I finally managed to reach the scene. There he was, his body had done a half somersault over the edge of the hill and landed on a short terrace that had hidden him from my view through the saplings. He was paralyzed from a broken spine, as the slug had ripped out a vertebrae just back of the shoulder area. I placed another shot into the base of his neck to finish him. In a matter of less than a minute, hunters from every direction converged on us. As I filled out my big game tag, Lloyd proceeded with the field dressing, while Russ held conversation with everyone present. I recall one hunter telling Russ about spotting an even bigger rack than I had gotten. I think he was trying to convince himself that another trophy was still available so as to salt his imagination for the remaining days of the deer season. Lloyd related to us his view of the deer just prior to my seeing him. That buck wasn’t jumped from the thicket. Instead he had walked nonchalantly up the hill from the valley floor and into the north west corner of the thicket, nipping as he went, at a sapling bug within twenty yards of Lloyd. Lloyd waited for a clear shot, because the buck was coming from Lloyd’s left and would give him a broadside view. He felt no need for a chance shot through the thick saplings. As the buck took that one last step into plain view, Lloyd placed his bead on the lower neck and was just about to squeeze the trigger, when the buck whirled and literally sailed out of view. In retrospect, I know Lloyd wished he’d have shot sooner, as a .35 Remington is a fine brush cartridge and undoubtedly would have found the mark. But that’s the way it was and there’s usually no second chance when it comes to a trophy white tail buck.

Pandemonium broke out when I got him home. The “Weber Gang” went over all the details of the hunt. Glenn called him a real “Buster”.

June told me as soon as she saw him, that I had to have his head mounted. Neighbors, friends, and a lot of people we didn’t know, came to see that “mighty buck”. Everyone seemed to have that look of astonishment, sprinkled with a little touch of envy as they viewed him. Now I know that bigger racks have been taken, and I’m sure that somewhere out in the Pennsylvania hills there’s an even bigger rack waiting for some fortunate hunter, but there certainly is no other buck quite the same as mine. Every time I look at the mount, the greatest thrill of my life is stirred up fresh in my memory. Lloyd and Russ can be sure that if the Lord wills it, their dad won’t have to be coaxed to go hunting for deer this coming fall. It feels good to hunt with those you love. I hope parents all over this country will take a tip from me, “Never give up that part of your American Heritage that gives us the right to bear arms. Teach your sons and daughters by example, the code of good sportsmanship that includes good morals, high character, honor, and respect for others and a love for God and for Country.”

Do you hunt public land? Has this happened to you?

You’re hunting your favorite spot high up in a ravine. Normally this is a productive area but for a couple of days now it seems like the elk have just vanished. They were here last year, you tell yourself. What’s going on?

As you glass down toward a neighboring ranch, you see a cowboy riding the inside of the fence line. At the edge of a small clearing he stops. This is the middle of bow season, but you watch in horror as he unlimbers a lever action rifle from the scabbard and points downhill. He doesn’t seem to be aiming at anything particular when the gun roars!

You can’t tell for sure, but in the returning echo, it sounds like the rattle of hooves scattering through the ravine and fading away down into the ranch.

If you’ve ever hunted on the public side of a private fence, you know what I’m getting at. How many times have you heard somebody say they heard somebody else say they heard from their uncle that a rancher was rounding up elk? Or maybe you’ve seen what I described above and wondered if those were just cattle running through the trees, or a herd of elk.

Here in Colorado, the Division Of Wildlife is trying to address the HOT topic — and frequent complaint — of “animal herding”.

By herding, they mean land owners either preventing elk from leaving private property or actively pushing them from public to private property.

As someone who has hunted and guided on both public and private lands, this is an issue I’ve dealt with a lot — from BOTH sides of the fence.

In my upcoming book, “Do-It-Yourself Elk Hunting”, I’ll talk in detail about specific strategies you should have in place before this kind of thing ruins your hunt. But let’s just take a step back from the trees for a minute and look at the whole forest.

First of all, the Division Of Wildlife is in a no-win situation. They are already stretched to the limit during hunting seasons. Most of the complaints they get like this don’t have enough evidence to prosecute successfully.

Second, there is no law on the books that specifically addresses herding. Generally it falls under the prohibition of “harassing wildlife”. However, there is nothing illegal about a landowner patrolling his fence or property line. If he happens to pass by a herd of elk in the process, that simply does not constitute harassment. You’re going to have a tough time proving somebody was herding elk and not just shooting at a grouse.

Third, every public land hunter — me included — has gazed longingly over a fence, either seeing or imagining a thousand elk on the other side. And of course you just know they’re standing there immovable, waiting to be shot like fish in a barrel by hunters who paid $3,000 a head.

Now I’m not saying that can’t or doesn’t happen.

But let’s suppose you do stumble across an incident like I described above. It sticks in your craw and must be the reason you’re not seeing elk.

What are your options? I hope you’re smart enough not to take matters in your own hands. Tangling with a pistol-packing cowhand equipped with a horse, a coil of rope, and a head full of Louis L’Amour stories is a bad idea!

You could get mad, drive to town, call the DOW and fill out a report. If you witness a flagrant violation, by all means go ahead. It’s even better if you had the presence of mind to fish out your camera and take a picture or video.

But look at your hole card. How much time have you got? Are the elk really all inside that fence? If you’re not finding elk, you’ve got a lot of work to do and very little time to get it done. Choose your priorities and use of time carefully.

Let me tell you, discouragement is your worst enemy on an elk hunt! When things aren’t going your way, there’s no more welcome friend than a good excuse. But excuses don’t put meat in the freezer — EVER.

Elk hunting is hard enough without fighting battles you probably won’t win. Hunting season is too short to spend time doing anything besides making boot tracks through the woods where the elk are. You don’t have time to fix all the reasons why elk aren’t where you want them to be.

My advice? Let it go. I promise you, the elk are not all on private land — at least not here in Colorado. Put your backup plan in action and get on with your hunt.

You do have a backup plan, right?

It’s opening weekend of bow season, and you are sitting in a tree on a deer lease in the early hours of the morning. It’s cold outside — so cold that you can almost see your breath turn into tiny ice crystals as you exhale. Your feet are frozen, and you can hardly feel your legs. But you barely notice. As you feel the base of the bow gently resting on your knee, you remember the majestic buck you saw yesterday when driving to your stand. You’ve paid the lease owner $3,000 with his guarantee that you’d kill a buck of record quality. Today, you have a feeling the money and the waiting will pay off.

Just then, in the breaking daylight, you see your buck step out of the thicket. He’s beautiful, and you adjust your grip slightly on the bow. But wait! Right behind him, there is another buck that looks almost identical in weight and rack-size to the first one. There is a third, a fourth, and a fifth buck. All of them are record-quality and look almost identical! As you blink your eyes to make sure you’re awake, you remember the lease owner mentioning that he’d cloned a perfect buck two years back. These, apparently, are the buck’s clones.

Scientists have been able to clone deer for a couple years now. In 2003, Texas A&M announced that it had cloned a whitetail deer. David Quammen of the Center for Genetics and Society interviewed Dr. Westhusin of the Texas A&M College of Veterinary Medicine. Westhusin told Quammen that the fawn, named Dewey, was the first successfully cloned deer, and was a “genetic copy of his donor, a South Texas buck that was considered a huge trophy.”

To create the clone, Westhusin isolated cells from the donor buck’s scrotum, which had been sent to the facility in hopes of harvesting sperm. When Westhusin discovered he couldn’t harvest the sperm, he began attempts to clone the buck. Westhusin also implanted around twenty recipient does with embryos containing the buck’s clones. Westhusin planned to use these experiments to improve the health of animals. However, by improving the deer cloning process itself, Texas A&M is also preparing its lab to handle deer breeders’ requests for trophy buck clones and deer engineered to grow huge racks.

There has been an ongoing debate about whether hunters who kill genetically-engineered deer should get credit in the record books. Ron Schara, Host of ESPN’s Outdoor Beat, said that “the big buck syndrome is as old as hunting. To clone big bucks would destroy that tradition and cheapen the joy of bagging a large deer.” While Schara doesn’t have a problem with people spending big dollars to shoot a clone within a fence, he feels that “the feat should not be recorded as a free range hunt accomplishment.”

The Boone & Crockett Club (B&C) is the premier registry for big game records. Most trophy hunters seek not only to have a big rack mounted on their walls, but also recognition in B&C’s books. I recently talked with Dale Grandstaff, a game warden with the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency. Grandstaff, who is also an official B&C scorer, said that a land owner who possessed a B&C record-book-quality deer could possibly sell hunts for around $10,000. Also, a hunter who shoots and kills a buck that scores as the new world record for rack size would receive a “great deal of money from replicas, seminars, endorsements, and by selling the original rack.”

B&C already requires that deer be free-roaming to qualify for the registry. To preserve the tradition of natural deer hunting, B&C would only need to extend their guidelines to ban engineered deer from the registry. On January 4, 2006, I spoke with Jack Reneau, B&C’s Director of Big Game Records. Reneau stated that B&C will not recognize cloned, or otherwise genetically-engineered deer, in their books.

But what if a scientist engineered a new world-record-quality deer? Grandstaff noted that if a buck was shot and killed in an area considered fair chase, and scored a new world record in B&C’s books, that hunter would be instantly famous. “The hunter would make several hundred thousand from replicas, seminars, endorsements, and by selling the original rack.” Grandstaff believes this is practical problem, as a lab could secretly engineer a deer, drug it, and transport it to a free range hunt area. If the deer owners kept no records, photos, or other evidence that the deer was engineered, B&C would have no way of knowing.

One solution to this problem is for B&C to clearly acknowledge in their books and website their intent to reject engineered deer. Also, B&C could state that anyone who knowingly submits an engineered deer is committing fraud. That way, B&C does not have to take on the massive task of regulating the deer submissions. The fraud action itself would serve as a deterrent and hunters would most likely self-regulate.

God Smiled On Me Today
by Larry Porter
It was a hot November day in west Tennessee, not a day that you would think much about deer hunting. The mosquitos were out and it was about 80 degrees on a bright sunny day. But I had two hours before my 13 year old daughters basketball game and I was itching to go deer hunting. Most people hunt for food here and with all the hunting pressure a deer rarely lives past his second birthday. Finding a Boone & Crockett trophy deer in Weakley county is like finding a needle in a haystack. As I waited for my daughter to get home so we could shoot some freethrows before the big game tonight I couldn’t help but think about deer hunting. My daughter arrived home after what she called a hard day and said she just wanted to just rest this afternoon and for me to go on an go deer hunting. I had joined a deer hunting club this year with some of my buddies and this would be my first time to hunt this new property. I went by and picked up my son’s muzzleloader and got my mosquito spray and off I went as it was only ten minutes from the house. I thought this could be as much of a scouting trip as a hunting trip since I knew nothing about the farm I was about to hunt. I am a handicap hunter and if it wasn’t for my trusty Honda 4 wheeler getting me to and from the field I would have had to give up hunting twenty five years ago when I had a massive stroke. I was very blessed that over time I have regained almost everything except the use of my legs and I can get around with the use of a cane. But through the help of my family and friends and the grace of God I havent missed a beat in my love for hunting and fishing. As I got to the field I grabbed my muzzleloader, my fanny pack, my doe in estrous scent and my grunt call. It was 4:00 pm and I had an hour and a half to hunt. I always carry a drag rag doused with doe in rut scent behind my 4 wheeler to help cover my scent and also to attract bucks. I could see a nice big tree stand of one of my friends from the road that I thought might be a good spot as it was overlooking a bean field in the river bottom. I rode my 4 wheeler dragging my drag rag along the edge of the beanfield and parked in the bushes behind the deer stand. I tried my best to get up in the stand but it just wasnt going to happen as I almost fell out trying to get situated. So I climbed down and fixed me a comfortable spot under the deer stand and leaned my muzzleloader against the first step of the ladder. As I peered through the ladder I could see the cars and trucks going by quite often down the highway. The thought ran through my mind that I’m just wasting my time but I told myself let’s just enjoy being out in the woods and sit here until dark. I’ve always thought the best way to deer hunt was just to be quite and sit still and let the deer come to you. An hour went by and all I’d seen were two squirrels. With no deer activity I decided it couldn’t hurt anything to try my old grunt call. I could still smell the scent of doe in estrous scent on my fingertips from earlier while putting it on my drag rag. I’m not a professional grunter by any means but I grunted a few short grunts. What happened next left me is disbelief as in my 40 years of hunting I’ve never seen anything like it. This monster buck bolted from a thicket looking for a fight or at least to protect his territory and he was heading right at me across the open bean field in full view. It happened so quick that when the buck stopped he was at 75 yards but I hadn’t even had time to even get my gun ready. I have a scope on my muzzleloader but it didnt take any kind of optics to tell this boy was a shooter. I managed to get my gun up and get my sights on him but he started walking again looking for the other buck. His hair was all bristled and his ears laid back as though he was ready to fight. When he stopped at 60 yards I pulled the trigger and I couldn’t see a thing for a couple seconds. When the smoke cleared all I could see was antlers, big antlers like I’ve never seen before. I waited 10 minutes to be sure he wasnt going to run off and that was the longest 10 minutes of my life. At 5:10 I got on my 4 wheeler and rode up to him he had 13 points and some of the longest points that I’ve ever seen. He had mule deer forks on both sides and drop tines on both sides. The deer had a 22 inch spread and weighed 175 pounds. It was the nicest deer that I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. I’ve never been a big believer in using a grunt call but after this hunt I will never be caught without it ever again. There’s no doubt the combination of my deer scent and a grunt call did the trick on this old buck. Looking back on my deer hunt now a week later I almost didn’t even go deer hunting on that lucky day. Had my daughter wanted to shoot basketball then I would never have gone deer hunting. Also I had those thoughts of “its just to hot and the deer wont be moving.” Then after I did go hunting I almost talked myself into leaving early. So the bottom line is if you get a chance to go deer hunting you better go, you never know what’s going to happen. I have hunted for 40 years and spent thousands of hours in the field but you just never know when its going to happen. Its kind of like that old saying “A bad day of hunting is still better than a good day at work.” Just when I think life can’t get any better God lets something else unbelievable happen to me, thank you God. Larry Porter
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

10 Years After: My first big bucks with my “brothers”

It was 1995, only five years after first entering Penn’s woods, that I shot my first big buck with my maternal cousin Greg on my great aunt’s family property just outside Watsontown, in Central Pennsylvania. Though I had learned most everything I needed through a comprehensive Game Commission hunter’s safety course, Greg was my mentor, my best friend, and the older brother I had never known. He was also my acutely trained personal hunting instructor who took under his wing and carefully explained what I need to do and when as it related to bagging Pennsylvania white tailed deer. When given the chance to shine on a fateful early December morning, in 30-degree weather with sleet and rain coming furiously at me in diagonals in the chilling early dawn, I cautiously re-ran all the instruction that Greg had given me. When the ole’ buck arrived at the precise moment, I took aim, and shot and for the first time killed a white tailed buck. He was an average sized 9-point, maybe 150-160 pounds dressed out. He was what I still refer to as a “inside basket nine”, since all points though nice and legal, curved inwards like a basket, instead of out which is what most hunter’s hope for…a broad outer point spread, a Boone and Crockett big boy!

Thinking back now in time to the fateful moment, for a brief second I felt both power and remorse, for having snuffed life from one of God’s most perfect woodland animals. In doing so though, I immediately entered the halls of adult manhood, gained Greg’s acceptance that I so craved along with his beaming admiration on that day. For the first time I saw the love I knew he had for me in its own awkward but still pure way. The high feelings that swept both of us that day I’ll never ever forget and I had longed for that same feeling again for many years in hunting seasons since. It wasn’t so much about the hunt or the kill but the training, the preparation and process, the strong camaraderie and strengthening of male family bonds through skill, sport, respect and mutual admiration. Unfortunately as things in life sometimes happen, Greg and I had fallen apart since the passing of my grandmother some years ago.

Fast forward to 10 years later, 2005, the year I felt a different hunting season might unfold for me but this time with my paternal cousin ironically, my “brother” Bill. Bill was my first cousin on Dad’s side, the Irish “I”-talians. Bill and I had grown extremely close in the last 8 years since my wife and I moved back to central Pennsylvania. Suffice it to say that in the years prior to returning to the country, my life had been extremely difficult, tumultuous and dark. But with much of his steadfast help, love and support, and not so much science, medicine or drugs I have again become whole. Life I’ve learned has a funny way of giving you what you need, when you most need it.

Yes this year I thought, “No small buck or average doe, or two” this year it could happen again… I could sense it and in my own quirky, cosmic “its my time” way. I felt strongly that I could for some reason now again will that same type of magic hunting moment to happen. I needed in some strange way to prove to myself as a man that I could in fact make such a moment again occur, that 10 years ago it wasn’t some crazy fluke…that I could do it again and I would. First, thinking intently I envisioned how it might occur, the details of the deer’s size, direction of its approach, the time it might occur even the anticipated location of the shot and how to be calm, cool and collected when aiming and firing. “Take em’ high, preferably in the neck Seb” replayed Cousin Bill’s words in my brain over, and over and over again and its what I’d “shoot” for… pun intended.

Most of the deer I had successfully shot in the last few years were on Cous Bill’s land. He and his wonderful wife have done exceedingly well in life and so I have always had special family hunting privileges on their expansive farm property. I’m most proud to always be included. My annual hunting “hot spot” is a great little densely wooded knoll tucked deep in the remote northeast corner of their rolling property…the killing fields as I affectionately refer to them now. Much blood has since been spilled. I again would hunt from a great tree stand of Bill’s, well camoed, precisely placed high and very roomy. A comfortable chair with arm rests to boot! Rough it we don’t, not my Cous, no sir!

Bill is a man’s man, straight up, let there be no mistakin’ it. He’s strong and capable, yet compassionate and giving to a fault. He possesses qualities some men work their entire lives to master, it’s just an innate ability that he possesses. He has always had a certain indefinable spark and an unmatched zest for life. He’s charming, painfully good looking for a short guy, and always the consummate host, cook, and bar tender. He’s a fashion plate of sorts, and his smile and natural borne charisma is magnetic. People are drawn to him wherever we are, whatever we are doing. It may sound corny or somewhat unmanly, but when we’re together he makes me too feel strong, anchored, invincible, safe and confident. But like the elusive bucks we seek out each and every year together he is also sly, cunning and calculated and has survived much via his own wits and intelligence being like an old wise stag, always one step ahead the game when necessary.

Calling him one of the best all around game hunters is no exaggeration and not only falls short but is quite appropriate in his case. His house is adorned from wall to wall, floor to ceiling with most wild game native and otherwise, large and small. Well over a decade ago in Utah he stalked and shot what later was alleged to be the possible new world record mountain lion that he took after tracking it in the bush for weeks, with a hand gun no less. This big cat coincidentally also became the new Utah state record that had been held by former U.S. President Teddy Roosevelt! No small feat for any big game hunter, but whenever the story is recounted which I always enjoy, he does not brag or boast. He’s got it mounted in his home, crouching and ready to pounce just like the Penn State Nittany Lion. Humble again is a word that falls very, very short of an apt description of this personal characteristic.

So here I was, on the great hunter’s land hoping for the right opportunity. Was I nervous, you betcha! The opportunity to connect with a big deer and to again show one of my family mentors that I had been paying attention to their shooting and hunting instructions, that when the opportunity would present itself I would not fail, I could not fail.
Self imposed pressure I guess, but Cous’ is a guy that holds a possible world and state hunting record! He himself has killed so many huge white tailed deer, that recently I almost think he’s partly lost his “eye of the tiger”, his will to continue to hunt deer. By takin’ a big buck, not only could I boost my own often lagging hunting self-confidence, and join Bill and the other master Edwards clan hunters (his in-laws) and have braggin’ rights but I could in a strange way express my love for him. Just like I had shown cousin Greg so long ago.

So Monday, day one, no luck…one big 6 point had surfaced at about 8 o’clock but I shot and missed. Day two, driving rain that relegated us later that morn to some butcherin’ chores and early beer drinkin’! I stayed more intently focused on the third day into the mixed male/female deer season though. On day three, Wednesday, I stayed fixated at my watch primarily to my right in the direction of about 3 on the clock most of the morning, the direction where most of my previous kills had usually occurred. Yes Wednesday, November 30th was the day I thought hopefully, my moment in the sun, my time to shine.

As usual I had entered the edge of their lower cornfield down by neighbor Jones’ house on the way to my wooded patch and parked my truck near what my wife and I affectionately call Bill’s pet cemetery, the skull garden. The “garden” is a place where Cous’s animal trapping trophies used to hang in plain view, blanched and bleached alabaster white from the deadening sun. Skulls skewered on sticks and tree branches like some Lord of the Flies, South Pacific nightmare gone horribly wrong. The boy loves to trap, and I love, that he loves to trap…and it’s easier that way!

All was quiet as day three began to awake, a dense chill wore off early, dew glistened and thawed and nature began to roam and forage about. After donning my usual Real Tree hunting coveralls, blaze orange and accessories from the back of the truck, I carefully loaded the ole’ 300 Savage, an oldie but a goody as I headed cautiously towards my stand. The stand sits about 200 yards inside the woods due east. As always I entered the field and woods, carefully placing each footstep to be as quiet as humanly possible. A smell of decaying cornstalks and deep black earth permeated the air. My stomach was upset. I was nervous and anxious all at the same time. Would this day be my day? If an opportunity presented itself, could I prevail when necessary?

Quietly I stalked through the deciduous trees, quite cautious as I stepped on huge pin oak leaves that had blanketed the ground. I immediately glanced to the north down over the small, vertebral ridge to the cornfield that lay below. Nothing, nada!. Scanning my 360 degree area quickly I still heard and saw zip, so I continued to creep forward, getting eventually to my climbin’spot. I swung the Savage over my right shoulder as I arrived at my tree and began the slow ascent up the ancient pine to my loft. Going through my usual routine, I spun my frame up and over the cold, steel stand and relaxed momentarily. Being winded, I caught my breath and lowered both arms of the chair, firmly cinched my safety harness about my waist, and slowly set myself down. Man was I outta shape I thought, still huffin’ and a puffin’ to catch my breath…this will be a miracle if I pull it off in this condition!

Once seated I looked at my wrist watch 7:05 am, just getting light. It was about 30-32 degrees that morn, with a very slight intermittent breeze enough to easily sway me and the stand to and fro. Almost in freeze frame mode, I lay the cold old Savage over my lap, drew four rounds outta my chest pouch, slipped them quietly in place kissing the last for good luck and put my safety on. I scanned back and forth for about for two to two and half hours, each time spinning frantically from side to side thinking I heard something approachin’ though nothing ever materialized. I went though this ritual of second-guessing, ten or twenty times that morning. Then it happened… as it almost always did, in each previous year.

Though I’m fast approaching 40, my hearing is fairly acute and over my right shoulder I heard the old pitter-patter, stop, pitter patter, pitter patter and a slight rustling then a slow deliberate trot now creepin’ faster forward. It wasn’t no squirrel man, this I knew! As my adrenaline surged and the endorphins in my brain switched to “on”, I became almost intoxicated with the thought of the kill…are they does, might there be a good ole’ boy amongst the herd?! “Do it for the three Bills” the slight voice in my head whispered to me oh so faintly. My Cous, his brother and father-in-law are all “Bills” ironically and an unmatched hunting/killing trio tested the world over. These dudes can hunt man! A big herd it wasn’t, but when they got closer I spied a big 6 and an even bigger 8-point now trotting boldly together, one lookin’ in each direction as they methodically crept forward at a slight cautious angle, almost aware of my presence perched high above. Noses wet, nostrils turned out boldly, necks bloated with rage, the deer themselves were amped, fueled by their own testosterone and adrenaline. They were only now slightly separated with the 6 leading their slow methodical charge.

As I raised the 300 Sav at what I would estimate to be 150 yards, I cautiously glassed both in my scope. “The 6 would work,” I thought to myself, “Hey he’s a nice buck…but slow down man, the 8 is bigger, larger rack, nice bottom beam thickness,” besides the body appeared much larger. My heart was pounding furiously now, and then a faint ringing in my ears came on me. I tried desperately to overcome it, as I needed to focus and concentrate, and not make and sudden movements or noises especially. As I found my sweet spot of execution through the saplings where I was bettin’ they’d move to next, I adjusted the scope from 7 to 9 power, slowly eased the safety off, and set my index finger in its rightful place to firmly and deliberately squeeze at the opportune moment.

Sure enough, the 6, then the 8 came into the cross hairs and CRACK, BOOM…one deafening shot in the morning air, the abrupt smell of gunpowder and noxious sulpher, an instant horrific rustling of leaves. The 8 hopped straight in the air…a possible heart shot…but I saw no point of impact of the bullet through my scope as I watched and he certainly didn’t react like he was mortally wounded after I let em’ have it! In fact he and his 6 pointed pal, briefly looked back at me like “Missed you idiot!” then beat it outta there as fast as they both could bolt down over the knoll, through some hawthorns, and across the lower corn field. I watched all of this frantically unfold through my now clouding scope.

Damn it, I must have missed! First Monday, now today! I dreaded having to recount another missed opportunity to the boys. For a brief few seconds though which seemed to me like eternity, I watched them flee, scurry across the cornfield and pop into a dense riparian thread of a stream that bisects two sides of the cornfield. Now, I could only slightly see one of them. I saw only one white tail flickering in the scrub underbrush I thought, but no, there are two! The damn things seemed almost to be mocking me, givin’ me the butt end view and conspiring as to how they’d both make a last desperate dash to get out of harm’s way and off to safety. For a second I thought of just lettin’ a few shots fly in their direction, but abruptly came soberly to my senses. Then I thought I heard a dash, and actually saw one buck split one way and thought I saw the other continue to creep up the creek bed and out of my line of sight. Was my mind playin’ tricks on me, on sensory overload?! Did I really just watch this nightmare unfold before my eyes? I glassed everything twice, from point of impact, to leaves on the ground, down the hill, the field, the crick…no blood, hair or other tell tale convincing signs of success anywhere around. No more movements, only bleak and barren stillness as mid morning crept in.

I blew it! OK, but take it like a man and worry about what might present itself next, leave the detailed on-site reconnaissance till later. I was pissed and had failed myself and my bro…the gang would break my stones…once again, UGH! thought Charlie Brown! Sebby choked…again! So I chilled out for a few minutes, took one last “Where the hell did they go,” view and tried to collect myself as best I could. I had to gain composure and figure out what to do next. So then I decided to release the safety harness, fold up the tree stand arms and slowly, quietly swing my torso down and around the ancient pine to creep down out of the stand for a looksey about. When I touched down I was amazed to find that directly behind me glaring frozen in place were a small herd of does! They all stood motionless at about 100 yards, and must have been following the big boys along. Despite the single shot earlier I guess they had either been a little farther back or just decided to mill around, turning leaves looking optimistically for acorns. So I thought, “What the hell I got a doe tag,” picked out the nicest, largest one that I could get a clear shot off at and let her have it! KABANG! All my previous moment’s frustrations taken out on some unsuspecting gal! Just like a man! It was a textbook neck shot; she dropped immediately where she stood, lights out, game over. The other does got out of there as quickly as they seemed to be able to carry themselves.

When I approached her to make sure she was dead, my mind was still on “the buck.” So after fillin’ out the tag, pinnin’ and draggin’ her to the wood’s edge, and again being winded to the point of needin’ to briefly rest I found myself wonderin’ about the 8-point. With the doe secured, I immediately decided that until I personally had checked every square inch from where the two bucks were standin’ and I shot that I would not be satisfied.

I sauntered over now to the spot where I thought both bucks had briefly stood during the frey. I could only see leaves kicked up in some furor but no blood or hair anywhere around. Then I scoured every inch of that spot. The top of the hill, the hillside, down the hill through the hawthorn bushes fanning out in a 30-40 foot radius from the scene…nothing, no hint of success. Of course it figured that a nice long hawthorn spike right in the thigh pierced me as I cruised down through the bank. Now continuing through the scrub, ego bruised and leg throbbin’, I again found myself getting’ madder by the moment, but somehow held it together still hopeful of a possible reward. When I was done wrestlin’ my way through the prickly jaggers, I found a partial deer chute they both obviously had run down to get safely to the cornfield. It too was void of any sign and appeared normal with no hard evidence in view. No signs were still apparent as I searched frantically now in vain; not wanting to believe this had gone horribly wrong. “The Sav was dead on, had I bumped it on something?!” “Am I tryin’ to whack a deer with a faulty rifle?!” In the field now I walked north, looking right, then left, and then turned south also to no avail. For a few brief moments I stopped and looked at the stand now behind me at 12 o’clock and guessed at the shot’s trajectory, the probabilities and direction of travel of both deer. I saw fresh hoof scores in the ground down the hill to the cornfield, but it didn’t add that I had blown this one, it just didn’t. Coming back into focus now was the cornfield at hand, which I scoured now even more intently. Then it happened, a moment burnt forever now in my mind.

As I got closer to the small, meandering creek which was pumpin’ with the past evening’s deluge of water, through the maddening roar I saw a hint, just a small slight speck of pink on a bent over cornstalk mast. Then a dollop of red… jackpot man! Death and success were now both around me. The blood got instantly more intense and pronounced as I got closer to the near edge of the creek’s bank down under some briars. As I eased closer to the scene it now looked like a homicide had taken place under the boughs of the scrub brush. Where was this ole’ goat hidin’ out…ah, hah!

The far creek bank and broken flag stone rocks were tinged helter skelter with the print of death, deep red blood. Part of the rustlin’ creek water partially flowed like a Biblical red sea. I sawn faltering hoof prints now clearly obvious, cloven toes embedded in a muddy quag, the steps were deeper and also coming to a fast, and deliberate end. And there he was. Nature’s momentary nemesis, my rival, his hulking brown back towards me now, but no movement, not a twitch. I’m not gonna fib, when I first saw this hulk, I raised the 300 Savage with the safety off on approach. Now with a slight full body tremble I carefully crossed to the far side of the creek thinkin’ I might have to end the deed in full on 3-D if he wasn’t yet cooked. Givin’ him a barrel jab in the side I could see he was gone.

Stoically but certainly deliberate and beaming now, I entered his final resting place where he had slumped on his rear haunches, head and rack pointed towards the morning sky…to me it was hallowed ground. He was in fact as big, if not bigger than I had initially thought. Certainly bigger than I first had guessed. The nice thick bottom beam I had seen was instantly obvious, as I rudely now gripped the rack. 8 good healthy points with two 5-6 inch unusually long brow tines prominently displayed in plain view. The smell of lingering death, earth and water was overwhelming and yet ethereal and haunting at the same time. He was mine and hadn’t gotten away. The creek’s bubbles and gurgles were also an ominous and eerie backdrop when I approached him for the first time. I crouched down, now at ease, grabbing both lower beams and suddenly realized for the umpteenth time in my hunting career both the good and bad of what I had wrought upon such a majestic creature. Momentarily I sought out God’s forgiveness and at the same time I thanked him for my beautiful bounty. It is said that this was the old practice of many an early Indian, those indigenous who settled this land and might have even performed a similar ritual of thanks maybe even in this same area for hundreds of years prior to the arrival of the white man.

Again gripping his rack firmly, I now scanned his long snout, which was worn and partially graying. He had big, long whiskers and elflike long pointy ears another sign of some age beyond a year or two. His neck was swollen and thick the size of one of my thighs, body musculature was sharp, cut and defined and he had a hint of blood dripping gently from his mouth as I lifted his head to further survey him. I guessed he was at least 170-180 pounds or more as he lay and was glad he was no small fry with an average rack. The spread from point to outer point might have been 12-14 inches I guessed, but now cared little about a point spread…the brown was down! And another large doe lay just up and over the ridge, another doubleheader just like 2004, and two years in a row and these two in less than a few scant minutes! I must be getting’ better at this!

Yes I felt sadness and power, glee beyond words, but could only think of Bill. It was my special moment with the animal, a moment with the spirit as it passed on. My thoughts were on my buddy though admittedly and how he might react on first view. This would be my trophy, a verbal or non-verbal acceptance on some higher level. I will also honestly admit thinking back on that fateful first encounter with the buck, that I shed a few tears of joy anticipating Bill’s words and thoughts. It would be a moment I would and will now always deeply cherish.

The way Bill walked so proud towards me with his 30’s style red and black watch plaid Woolrich coat, stompin’ in the mud with another good friend of ours Capt. Dave from Florida, laughin’ and smilin’ as if it were his own trophy. Our laughter, my antics with the poor deer carcass, his signature rosy cheeks and angelic smile and finally as we posed for the ceremonial pics, the way he firmly put his arm around me, pulled me close and said good job. Yes, even hunters long for acceptance, acknowledgement of a job well done “in field”.

Maybe this sweet stuff ruins a story of men, of the quest for deer and prey like days of old, but this was a pure thing. Skilled sport, part religious and male bonding experience, and part inward reflection for me. It was a further coming of age, of family, and of a deepening love. It was a very, very special moment. I thought to myself, relish this time; it might never again be replicated in our relationship and time on earth here together. Just like the unsuspecting deer that lay in front of us, one never knows what lurks just around the corner. Yes, this was my trophy, my reward for my efforts, the true and undying love and admiration of my brother together with nature.