Well Dave is no Ansel Adams, but at least you can see the rack on this nice 3×3.

It’s a pretty, symmetrical 3×3.  I didn’t get the measurements yet, but it looks like a solid buck.  I’m hoping Dave will have some better pictures when he gets back to syphilization civilization.

There are four hunters still to go, and the weather is starting to turn up there.  Bad weather means the deer should start moving, but it also means the roads at the ranch will get sloppy fast.  Hope everyone does well and stays safe.

I’ll provide updates as I get them.

Now he’s sending me trail cam pictures of another really nice buck.  Of course, the best I could hope for would be to get back there after Christmas… and I can guarantee that if he hasn’t killed that deer by then, it’ll be long gone from the area.  Just my luck.

Oh well, a boy can dream…

And the other one trotting right along behind him, hollering, “He started it!”

The scene went briefly quiet as the sun rose over the woods, and the morning sounds began to filter in.  Cardinals sang their morning song.  A wren chirruped and flitted from branch to branch.  A woodpecker giggled insanely from atop a lightning struck pine.  A flock of resident Canada geese rose up from their roost by the highway and sailed overhead honking and cackling.  As full morning light filtered through the trees, a squirrel came out of his nest to chatter and curse at some intruder.  Crows joined the chorus with their harsh voices.  A neighbor’s dog began to bark… at the crows, the squirrels, or maybe just to be part of the cacaphony.   And over and through it all, cicadas put in their incessant buzz.

Then the Sunday traffic on Interstate 40 grew from the occasional rumble of a passing car to a nonstop roar, punctuated by the whine of Japanese motorcycles or the throb of Harley Davidsons.  The Wilmington International Airport began its daily flights and the birdsong was drowned by the drone of private planes, followed every hour or so by the roar of the big US Airways or Delta aircraft.  It was a harsh reminder that the weekend was over.  Folks were going home.  Tomorrow, I’d be going home too.

I forced the manmade chaos to the back of my consciousness, delegating the sounds to white noise, and tried to focus on the woods around me.  A pair of squirrels were browsing the ground below my stand, scurrying from spot to spot with quick, jerky movements.  Stop and start.  Stop and start.  Their bushy tails undulated like fluffy snakes as they alternately scrabbled for food and then sat upright to gnaw on their treasures, black eyes shining alertly.

Otherwise, the woods were relatively quiet except for the occasional falling of a leaf… each one hitting the ground in close approximation to the sound of a deer’s footstep and causing me to catch my breath and freeze.  I expect I must have looked a little like those squirrels, except they were tuned in to predators and I was tuned in to prey.

A couple of hours after sunrise, I was still on high alert.  The squirrels had quarreled their way back into the oaks and disappeared.  With the exception of the distant, barking hound and the ubiquitous cicadas almost drowning out the highway noise, the woods were quiet.  Quiet is a completely relative thing in this setting, but once you’ve established the baseline for ambient noise, everything else makes sense.  What you’re listening for is a change to the rhythm… a break in the white noise.

The break came.  It was behind me, over my right shoulder… in probably the most inopportune place.  I heard the crackle of leaves, or maybe the snap of a small branch.  Whatever it was didn’t belong, and it was close.  I tried to turn my stiff neck to see without moving my body.  In the extreme edge of my peripheral vision I saw a blurry shape.  No squirrel or coon… a deer.  My heart leapt, pounding up into my throat.  I’ve been in this position more times than I can count, but it happens the same way every time.  My ears start to hum, my heart buzzes like a rattlesnake’s tail, and my tongue gets kind of thick in my throat.  My face goes from hot to cold and back again.  And then everything goes into slow motion.

I eased around slowly, doing my best to appear motionless as I moved.  The deer didn’t seem to notice.  Finally, I’d turned my body enough to get a good look.  It wasn’t a single deer.  There were two.  Copper penny red in their summer coats, they browsed nonchalantly along the creek bank.  I’d ranged the area earlier, and knew they were both well within 20 yards.  If I could just turn enough to make the shot, I’d have no problem.  Unfortunately, the stand had arm rails on either side which blocked my movement.  The only way I could shoot would be to stand up.  In order to do that, I’d need the deer to move a little further, or at least bury their heads in brush.

I sat poised, hoping for the impossible when I saw the old doe following the younger pair along the well-used trail.  Unlike the reddish youngsters, she was obviously an older deer.  She didn’t quite have the swayed back, but her neck sagged a bit and her belly hung low.  Her hair was grey-brown, with pronounced grey and white around her face.  She’d be a good doe to take for management, even though the younger animals would probably make better meat.  Honestly, though, it didn’t matter to me.  I’d shoot the first one that gave me a good shot, and that’s the bottom line.

Unfortunately, with three pair of eyes less than 20 yards away, standing up and aiming the bow without creating a small stampede would pretty much be an impossibility.  I doubted I could even turn the bow toward them without standing, but making a shot in that position simply wasn’t going to happen.  All I could do was watch and hope.  If they’d cross the creek and head to the food plot, things would suddenly get simple.  All I needed to do was be patient, and then take the chip shot when it presented itself.  But first they’d need to cross the creek.

The youngsters stepped down the bank, and my hopes soared.  But just as quickly, the lead deer turned and began browsing back toward the recently cut woodlot behind me.  The other followed, and I watched in dismay as they slowly made their way in the wrong direction, steadily increasing the range.  My last landmark, a stump at 42 yards was coming up quickly.  Once past that, I’d have no shot.

The old doe was still close, though.  She wasn’t really feeding.  Some maternal instinct kept her alert, and while she never looked directly toward me, she was constantly looking in my direction.  Something beyond me had her attention, but as long as her eyes were turned in my general vicinity there was no way I could move.  Her ears swiveled, first toward me and then back toward the youngsters.  There’d be no fooling this old woman.

I stayed frozen, but the awkward angle was beginning to pull at my lower back.  Already aching from the long flight from CA to NC, the strain was too much.  I had to shift.  I tried to keep it subtle, but the metal stand gave me away with a slight creak.  That’s all it took.  The doe snorted and bolted as though she’d been hit with a cattle prod.  In a flash both she and the younger deer were bounding away across the cutdown, white flags flying as they disappeared into the distance.

I cursed, probably out loud, and eased back around in the stand.  I hung the bow back on the hook, and took a few deep breaths.  I think I’d forgotten to breathe through the whole experience, as usual, and my chest felt tight.  Disappointment threatened to darken the whole weekend, and I had to remind myself that these weren’t the only deer in the county.  Shut up and sit still, and wait to see what else comes in.

An hour later, nothing else had come.  The sun heated up the dense greenery, drawing out the moisture, and the humidity became oppressive as the thermometer rose.  Sweat ran down my face and trickled from my armpits down my ribs.  Hunger rumbled in my belly, reminding me that a breakfast bar at 07:00 is no replacement for a real meal at 10:00. The morning hunt was done.  The success of the weekend would hang on the outcome of one last evening hunt.

I guess it’s fortunate that, once the disappointment of the missed opportunity receded, I recalled that this trip wasn’t just about killing a deer.  Sure, hunting the archery opener with my little brother has become an annual tradition, but there was more going on here than the effort to poke an arrow through a whitetail deer.  It was about spending some time with my family.  In addition to hunting, I had the opportunity to see my mom for the first time since Christmas, and I also got to play with my great-nephew.  I probably won’t be seeing any of them again until the Christmas holidays.   It was good to visit, and venison or no venison, I had a great weekend.

But if it had only been about killing a deer, then the sun set on an abject failure as I climbed out of that stand for the last time that evening without so much as aiming an arrow at a North Carolina whitetail.

Which is just as well.  This morning was so slow, I didn’t even see the ubiquitous bushytails.  The turkeys didn’t pop out of the brush to get my heart racing, the doves didn’t swoop in and wood ducks didn’t squeal overhead.  In fact, except for the roar of I-40 in the background, it was a pretty damned quiet morning.

This evening started with promise.  The afternoon heat dropped out a bit and a breeze came up.  It was light, but between that and the Thermacell, it was enough to manage the starving hordes of mosquitos.  Hurricane Irene didn’t do a lot of damage here, but all that rain got the skeeter population up and running!  I can’t say it enough, but thank heavens for Thermacell!

About an hour before sunset, the squirrels showed up.  I get a kick out of watching their antics, even though they can sure get the pulse up when they hop on a branch during a quiet lull.  I kept waiting to see them scatter as the bucks came rolling in, but the deer never showed.

So day one is down, and the deer are quite safe and unscathed.  Thankfully, NC now allows Sunday bowhunting on private property, so I get another chance tomorrow.  I’ve got high hopes, although I’m pretty sure at this point that the “game cam” pictures my brother keeps showing me are actually taken at a deer farm down in Texas.

More to come…

Actually, it’s not in my mind at all… it’s for real!  With hurricane Katia pretty safely out of the equation, the way is open for me to fly back “home” for a weekend of family visiting and whitetail hunting.  Saturday is the NC archery opener down there, and my little brother swears he has a bunch of deer all staked out on his place.

By this time tomorrow, I should be on the ground and sweating in the southeastern NC humidity, and by this time Saturday, I hope to be skinning a fat deer (and also sweating).  Buck or doe… it doesn’t matter too much to me!

I’ve been warming up the Mathews, and feeling pretty good about my shooting.  I’ve sharpened up my Slick-Trick broadheads All I really need now is a cooperative deer (or two) to stroll under my stand.    I’d prefer that they stand slightly quartering away, between 17 and 22 yards… but I’ll take a slightly less opportunity should it appear.

And yeah, I expect that ol’ Murphy is kicking back, laughing his butt off at me right now.  But I’m stoked, and ready to break Murphy’s Law for a change… instead of the other way around.

Not sure I’ll have a post tomorrow or Monday, but I’ll bring updates as soon as I have them!

The article is pretty clear in setting out the hunters as proactive forces, calling for changes in the seasons and limits in response to falling populations.  That area of Georgia has a 12 deer limit and a season that runs from early September through the end of January.  Many hunters who have been impacted are suggesting a reduction in the limit, or changing the seasons so that less does are killed. 

Of course, there’s also a lot of speculation that coyotes are having a significant impact on the population as well as hunters.  Coyotes are relatively new in the southeastern states, so their impact on local ecosystems is still undetermined.  It’s certainly not impossible that coyotes are to blame, but I do think folks tend to dump a lot more blame on them than they deserve.  I’ll be interested in seeing what the research turns up. 

At any rate, the whole thing raises some questions.  Is this downturn in the deer population a good thing or a bad thing?  Is it the fruition of the wildlife management program working to reduce the deer herd to more realistic levels (and how do the biologists in GA determine what is “realistic”)?  Or is this a sign of a system out of order? 

It is worth noting that, along with the extended season and limits, Georgia has also implemented a quality management program to improve the “quality” of the bucks.  Of the 12 deer limit, two must be bucks, and one of those must be a buck with at least four points on one side.  The idea, of course, is to reduce the pressure on younger bucks by encouraging hunters to take does instead, and then only to fill the buck tag with large-antlered deer… allowing the younger deer to grow to maturity.  I can’t help wondering if this doesn’t somehow skew the population statistics, given the reluctance many hunters have for shooting does and the increased harvest of mature bucks.  Many of the commenters on the Chronicle story report seeing less fawns during the spring.  Could this be because less deer are breeding?

Of course there are tons of possible explanations, including the likelihood that the downturn is localized and not statewide.  It’ll be interesting to see if other states with liberal seasons and limits (AL, SC, NC) also see a drop in deer numbers. 

I’d love to read some of your thoughts on this.

I can’t thank Hank Shaw (Hunter Angler Gardener Cook) enough for facilitating the invitation… even if he did bail out on us at the last minute.  I’m also short on words to thank my hosts, Charlie and Vycki (did I spell that right?), over on Catalina.  The hospitality they showed me, a total stranger, extended all the way to giving up their bed and moving into a tent for the four days I was on the island.  Charlie’s eagerness to show me the island and some primo deer hunting also went well beyond my expectations.  There’s no way I could have asked for more in that department!

So what about the hunt?

It was a big transition, coming down from the frozen elevations of Coon Camp Springs and boarding the ferry in Long Beach in 75 degree heat, but I couldn’t ask for better weather for the hour-long ride across the channel.  I’d been to Catalina once before, as a stopover on a cruise.  That time, I’d only been there long enough to do a kayak tour around some of the island and stop into a local bar for a couple of drinks.  Even then, I couldn’t help but dream of getting a chance to hunt the interior of the island.  This would be my chance.

Charlie de la Rosa is one of the guides, and would be my host for the three day hunt.  Charlie’s regular role on the island is working on the invasive plant program for the Catalina Conservancy.  I never did think to ask how he went from that to guiding hunters.  However, I did learn that the Conservancy had taken on the hunting program after several years in the hands of a private outfitting company.  The plan, as I understand it, was to try to increase the take of does as opposed to the prior focus on trophy bucks.  This would help keep the population at a manageable level.  On this hunt, I’d have two tags, one antlerless and one either-sex. 

The new program includes significantly reduced prices for the guided hunts, but apparently there wasn’t much advertising this season.  Like many people, I was under the impression that the hunting program at Catalina was ending, so I was surprised to find out that hunting was going strong, with no end in sight.   I didn’t get as much info about the hunting program as I should have (where was my head?), but I intend to rectify that soon.  Stay tuned.

At any rate, Charlie met me at the ferry landing, moving through the crowd of sight-seers with the loping stride of someone who spends a lot of time walking in steep country.  Within moments of meeting him, I felt right at ease.  As Hank had mentioned before, Charlie is “good people,” and a pleasure to be around.   We tossed my gear in the truck and headed to the Middle Ranch, where we’d be based for the duration.  (Regular clients, by the way, stay in well-appointed wall tents on a high bluff, with a killer ocean view.) 

First things first, we headed over to the shooting range to check zero on my 30-06.  The Savage has been bouncing around in the back of the truck for a couple of months, and sure enough, my first two shots were about two inches left and an inch or two low.  I made the adjustments to get it back to dead-on (I zero at 100 yards), and we were ready to hunt.  I was feeling pretty confident with the rifle shooting so well. 

Charlie decided to start out along the area that had burned back in 2007.  The new growth was attracting a lot of deer activity, and sure enough, we started spotting deer almost immediately.  I wasn’t in a huge hurry to tag out, so we did a lot of looking at first.  There were deer on every single ridge we stopped to glass, including some pretty respectable bucks.  The catch was that this place was STEEP.  I am not exaggerating when I say that there wasn’t a level place to be seen… everything on that island is either up or down.  It’s important to consider carefully before you take a shot here, because the recovery is guaranteed to be challenging.  (Charlie later explained that he was taking me to some places where he doesn’t often take clients, because the terrain is too challenging for many people.  Great.)

As the end of the day got closer, we decided to go ahead and fill my antlerless tag if we could.  We’d then be able to spend the rest of the time looking for a good shot on a nice buck, or fall back on a second doe if the hunting got tough as time ran out.    On the very next ridge, we stopped to glass and saw a group of does and yearlings feeding near the top of a finger.  If they stayed where they were, we could possibly kill one on a relatively level spot. 

We snuck down the road, and crept out onto a knoll where we’d have a pretty good angle on the deer.  I set up on a ledge of dirt, and steadied the rifle.  We were still about 255 yards from the deer, but with the total element of surprise and such a solid rest, I felt pretty good about making the shot.  I waited for the doe to feed out into an open spot, asked Charlie if he was ready, and touched the trigger on the old Savage. 

I saw the bullet splash in the dust above the doe, and at first I thought I’d shot over her!  However, Charlie had the glass on her, and was already congratulating me on a perfect shot.  The bullet had passed through and hit the hill behind her, giving the appearance of a miss (this happens often with lead-free bullets, by the way).  The doe bolted at the shot and quickly disappeared into a clump of brush.  She didn’t come out, and after a few minutes we decided to drop down and collect her. 

In retrospect, this was not the best way to approach the recovery.  One of us should have stayed on the ridge, while the other went down to find the trail.  As it was, we missed the trail the first time and spent a lot of time casting around blindly for sign.  Fortunately, we finally got our heads together and Charlie went back up to try to re-acquire the landmark where the deer had been standing.  After that, it was a pretty simple matter to find the blood spatter and follow the trail for about 40 yards to the very dead doe.  The 180gr Winchester ETip bullet had blown right through the doe’s heart.  (If anyone has doubts about the damage this non-lead bullet can do, click here.  Warning, this is a really graphic photo.) 

I dressed the deer out, while Charlie went to retrieve his backpack.  Once he returned, he proceeded to load the whole doe onto the meat shelf.  I asked if he wanted to cut her up and split the load, but he told me he’d handle it.  Honestly, by the time we climbed back to the road, I was really glad he did.  I only had my tactical pack strapped to a frame, the rifle, and my shooting stick… and my lungs and thighs were burning when we finally reached the top.  Of course, Charlie has the benefit of working in this terrain almost every day, but I was still pretty impressed with his fortitude.

We rolled back to Middle Ranch, got the deer skinned and hung in the walk-in cooler, and went home to hot showers.  Once we were cleaned up, we were invited to Charlie’s dad’s house for a family dinner (his grandmother was visiting from Venezuela).  Again, I was the recipient of some of the greatest hospitality I’ve experienced in ages… along with some damned fine food. 

Monday morning rolled in, and we were up and out as the first blue light tinged the eastern sky.  Charlie had seen a really big buck in one particular canyon, and he wanted us to go after it.  I’d told him earlier that I didn’t really need to shoot a big buck, but I wouldn’t balk at the opportunity either.  

He hadn’t had a chance yet to really scout the area, so he made a best guess at an approach.  The plan almost worked, except for the fact that several deer were already feeding on the hillside we chose to descend.  They blew out, offering a couple of really easy shots on a big forkie and a nice 3×3, but these weren’t the deer we were after.  We continued moving down the steep hill, my old LL Bean boots slipping and skidding on the rocky ground, when I spotted movement on the summit of the next ridge.  A huge buck was cutting across the hill and about to disappear.  “Holy crap!” I exclaimed.  “That’s got to be the one you were talking about!”

Charlie didn’t get a good look, but when I described the wide rack that extended well past the buck’s ears, he agreed it was the one.  “Damn,” he muttered. 

We sat tight on the ridge hoping the big boy would come back out.  A group of does and yearlings slipped by about 100 yards away, another easy opportunity, but we were now officially buck hunting.  After an hour with no further activity, we moved on to do some more glassing and see if we could find another buck.  We saw plenty more deer, including one really nice 3×2 (at 1100 yards), but nothing we were willing to climb the near-vertical hills for. 

After lunch at the Catalina Airport (a pretty scary looking airstrip along the top of a ridge) and a break at the house, we were back at it.  Once again, we were almost immediately into deer.  Charlie wanted to check some places up past the burn.  The difference was amazing.  After seeing deer on every burned ridge, when we left the burn the deer sightings dried up.  Charlie spun the truck around and headed back to the burn.

The previous day, we’d seen a really nice 3×4 on one distant ridge.  Charlie said he thought we might get another look at him, so we walked out on a knoll to glass.  Sure enough, he was out there with a smaller buck.  The range was about 360 yards, which is outside of my comfort zone.  We decided to try to get closer.  

Getting closer would require a nearly vertical descent onto the ridge above the buck.  It was difficult to get down the slope quietly, and about halfway down, a doe on the opposite ridge heard us and blew out.  Her panic convinced the two bucks to start moving away from our position.  I didn’t think we’d close any more distance, but we decided just to go straight at them and see if they’d stop.  Finally, we ran out of ledge… still 300 yards from the buck.  I settled down and put my Stetson on a pile of rocks.  With this rest, I was pretty danged steady, and felt about as confident as I could be at that range.  (Anyone who’s read much of my stuff knows I’m not a big fan of long-range hunting, and I won’t try to justify here except to say it just felt right, and I was very confident after making such a nice shot on that doe.)  I waited for the buck to turn.

After a seeming eternity, the buck turned quartering toward me.  I found a mark at the top of his shoulder, and readied myself to shoot.  I asked Charlie if he was ready, but I didn’t hear his response.  If I had, I’d have known he didn’t have the deer in his binoculars and maybe I’d have waited another second.  I was too eager, though, after waiting all that time for the shot.  I didn’t take my time, and I felt like I had him dead to rights. 

As I pulled the trigger, the deer took a step uphill and the bullet passed harmlessly over his back.  Both deer hopped over a little rise and disappeared before I could get another round off.  We watched the spot, waiting to see if they would come out.  Finally, I saw the smaller buck peek out over the hill, but the bigger deer didn’t show.  Charlie was pretty sure I’d missed, even though I felt like it was a good shot.  I was picturing the buck laying dead over the rise.

From our perch, there was a really steep drop to the ridgeline about 100 yards below us.  I didn’t relish dropping down there, but it was starting to get dark.  We needed to make a move.  Remembering our over-eagerness the night before, Charlie suggested that he take his pistol down and see if the deer was there, or to look for sign if he wasn’t.  I was to glass during the approach, in case the deer took off.  About 50 yards down, he realized he didn’t have his pistol.  I handed him my rifle with minor misgivings.  Maybe I should be the one going to look. 

I watched as Charlie approached the last place we’d seen the deer.  The smaller buck ducked back out of sight, but nothing came out of the draw.  Just as I thought he’d pass the spot, Charlie stopped.  I saw him shoulder the rifle and saw the muzzle blast.  In my mind’s eye, I saw the buck laying there bleeding out with its head up, and imagined that Charlie had just put the finisher in him.  I waited for a wave or shout of jubilation, but instead I saw another shot.  A moment later, the big buck popped out on the hillside looking quite healthy and unharmed.  Through the binos, I couldn’t see any indication of injury.  The deer stood and looked at Charlie one more time, and then bounded down, off of the ridge and out of sight.

It turns out that the deer had been standing in some bushes when Charlie came up, and had offered only a slight bit of neck to shoot at.  Offhand, with a strange rifle, Charlie was at a disadvantage.  After almost an hour of looking for sign, we found nothing except tracks and scat.  Somehow, we’d missed that deer with all three shots.  The climb back to the truck was brutal… made worse by the disappointment and second-guessing that always follows a missed opportunity.  I should have known better than to try such a long shot.  I should have been the one down there on the trail with the rifle, since I’m much more comfortable with offhand shooting.  Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve… it didn’t matter now.  The deer was gone.

A little whiskey back at the house helped with the disappointment.  That was a tough shot, and the miss wasn’t anything of which to be overly ashamed.  We’d be back out in the morning for another go at that first buck… and if that failed, I told Charlie we’d take the first decent doe.  I was determined to let us all sleep in on Wednesday. 

Tuesday morning found us attempting a different approach into the big boy’s territory.  The wind wasn’t great, but it was light.  We’d been able to move fairly quietly into position, but just before we reached the spot we wanted, Charlie froze.  “I think I heard deer running off,” he whispered.

A moment later, he held up his hand and jerked his binos to his face.  “Dammit,” he hissed.  “There he goes, over the ridge!”

Busted again.

We regrouped and moved around the canyon to another position, hoping to be able to glass the buck up in his hiding spot.  After a couple of hours, though, we conceded defeat.  I told Charlie it was just as well.  His roomate, Tony, hadn’t killed a buck yet.  This would be an excellent first deer!  Neither of us was particularly fooled by my false altruism, but it was good enough to get us back out to the truck.  We drove around and glassed a bit more, and then headed to the house for lunch.

We headed out for an evening hunt as fog blew in from the ocean.  At this point, I’d take any decent deer I could get a good shot on.  We glassed a small forkie, but we didn’t want to kill a youngster.  Then, as we drove out to the far end of a high ridge, a big doe stood skylighted on a hilltop at about 250 yards.  We tried to get a little closer, but she walked over the ridge.  We abandoned the truck and took off in pursuit.  Unfortunately, she eluded us by following a ravine over to a steep hill. 

We moved on and glassed several more deer, but simply couldn’t get into position or range.  Darkness was imminent, and we were almost ready to pack it in, when Charlie spotted a group of deer on a hillside, including one really nice doe.  I bailed out and snuck along the road until I was within 200 yards.  I rested the rifle on the berm, and while I wasn’t completely solid, I felt like this would be a chip shot. 

It wasn’t. 

I missed. 

A whole bunch of deer exploded out from behind the bush, and I lost sight of the doe.  I thought I heard Charlie say, “there she is, right by the road!” 

I spotted a deer above the road and settled on it.  The deer was standing with it’s butt toward me, so I needed it to turn.  Unfortunately, I was looking at the wrong deer.  Had I seen the doe, I’d have seen that she was less than 100 yards away, in the open.  By the time I realized I was about to shoot a spike, the doe was gone.  To this day, I’m still not sure how I missed.

“Your rifle has got to be off,” Charlie assured me.  “It’s not you.”

I wasn’t so sure, but as we drove back to the house, he told me we could head out for a last minute hunt using his rifle the next morning.  I have a bad record of last-minute hunts.  In Texas, I almost missed my plane because I shot a blackbuck less than three hours before my flight departed.  I must have set a record skinning and quartering that animal.  In NC, I left my brother blood-trailing a little whitetail buck I’d arrowed under similar conditions.  And on a duck hunt, I stuck my truck in the mud with only a couple of hours to make a flight home for the Christmas holidays.  With all of this in mind, it was against my better judgement to try once more… but I did.

We set out to try a spot where Charlie assured me that we’d probably find some does, and maybe a big buck.  The recovery here wouldn’t be as bad as some of the other spots we’d hunted, which would help to make sure we got in and out with plenty of time to make my boat (1145) and to pick up his next clients (1100).  I was still pretty shaken up by the previous night’s miss, but I tried to shake it off as we drove along. 

As first light came on, we didn’t see anything at all from our glassing point.  After all the deer we’d been seeing, this seemed kind of strange and mildly disappointing.   We jumped in the truck to head for another area, but I was already consigning myself to coming in empty-handed.  At least I had one deer in the cooler. 

Then we rounded a bend and I spotted a deer standing in the open hillside.  A quick glance with the binos told me it was a buck with good, thick antlers that spread at least to his ears.  I couldn’t count points, but didn’t really care at this point.  Charlie couldn’t see him as well from his seat, but told me to shoot him.

I dropped out of the truck and crept over to a pile of rocks.  After ranging the deer at 182 yards, I rested the rifle, a sporterized Springfield ’03, and got a good bead on the crease behind the buck’s shoulder.  I took a deep breath, readied myself, and pulled the trigger.  The buck jumped straight up and it looked like he kicked his feet out behind him.  It was a textbook reaction to a heart shot, and I mentally cheered as he hopped over the hill and disappeared behind the rise.  Charlie hadn’t been out of the truck yet when I shot, so he didn’t see the hit or the reaction. 

At the shot, several other deer, two does and a spike scattered out of the area.  We waited to see if the buck joined them, and when he didn’t, we were both certain he was dead in the brush. 

He wasn’t. 

Not only was he not laying there, stretched out with a 150 gr Barnes hole in his shoulder, we couldn’t find a speck of blood on the hillside.  Not again!  The frustration almost overwhelmed me, but we started systematically following tracks when I spotted a dot of blood.  A few steps later, there was a good clump that looked like it may have come from the chest cavity.  My heavy heart lightened. 

We tracked the blood sign, not yet discouraged that it was very spotty for the most part, until it started to get very sparse.  The trail soon became a single droplet here and there.  The morning moved along as we followed the challenging track.  “Hey, Charlie,” I queried.  “Are you running out of time?” 

He glanced at his watch and the look on his face told me what I needed to know.  Time was up.  Now what?

We decided that I could stay on the trail and try to catch a later boat.  In the worst case, I could spend another night and leave the following day.  However, he had to leave right away to go collect his clients. 

The blood trail dried up shortly after Charlie left, but the direction and fresh tracks were pretty easy to distinguish.  After a while, I saw where the rest of the deer had regrouped, and before long I was following four sets of tracks.  The trail led to a hillside covered with the tangled limbs of burnt trees.  Under the trees and brush I found bed after bed, but nothing fresh enough to get excited about.  I continued on, as the day heated up.  It had been an hour or more since I last saw blood, but the tracks were still leading me along. 

I stopped for a rest, and glassed the distant hills.  The frustration of the last couple of days beat down on me with the blazing sun.  All I wanted at that point was to be back home.  Kat would be upset as it was, because I’d be a day late (especially since I’d been gone essentially for three weeks running).  The damned deer wasn’t showing any sign of letting up.  His tracks never stumbled or dragged.  He couldn’t be hurt that badly.  I should have left with Charlie, and I’d have been on the boat already… heading home. 

I took a breath and shut off the negativity.  I had to find this deer, dead or alive.  I stood up to take on the trail again when the bushes 40 yards above me exploded.  Two does and a spike bailed out and took off down the ridgeline.  The big doe stopped broadside at about 150 yards, and I was sorely tempted to take the shot.  However, I didn’t want to shoot her while I was still on the trail of a wounded deer.  Besides, the way I’d been shooting, I’m not sure my psyche could have handled another miss. 

I watched as she ran off, and then stopped on a distant ridgeline until the other two joined her.  Was this the same group that had been with the buck?  It made sense, and if so, then he was probably close by.  The hillside below me was too thick to see through, so I tossed a couple of rocks out of desperation.  Sure enough, I heard a deer get up and start moving.  I tossed another rock, and “herded” the deer around the hill until I was rewarded with the sight of heavy antlers coming out of the trees. 

I ranged it at 104 yards, and waited to see if this was the right deer.  The antlers were the right width and conformation, just about out to the ears and nicely squared, but I couldn’t see any damage around the left side of the animal’s chest.  He’d been standing broadside with his left side exposed to me.  His legs were also absent of visible blood.  The deer stood there, as if waiting for me to shoot, but I wanted to be sure this was the right animal.  I glassed more intently, and saw that the fur along his haunch was ruffed up, and there appeared to be something dark there.  Was that a bullet wound?  How the heck could I have hit him there?  If he’d just let me see his right side…

The deer walked slowly along the sidehill trail, and I noticed a slight limp when he turned downhill.  He was definitely hurting from something, but it seemed pretty mild.  The limp also appeared to be in the front shoulders, not his hind end.  Still, he wouldn’t show me that right side.  I kept watching, whistling a time or two to get him to stop and stand.  I was pretty sure I saw a dark, brownish stain on his chest under the right, front leg.  Was it blood?  That made more sense, because the blood I’d seen on the trail appeared to drip straight down, and didn’t rub off as the deer had brushed through limbs and branches.  That was also much closer to where I’d been aiming. 

I just wasn’t sure it was him.  I was pretty confident it was, but it was also obvious that he wasn’t badly hurt and would survive just fine.  I decided not to take the shot… a decision I regretted more and more after I’d climbed back up out of the canyon. 

I continued to watch as the deer slowly went back down, and eventually circled back almost to where he’d been when I jumped him with the rocks.  Sneaky bastard.  With the scar he’d carry, he’d also carry this lesson for a while.  He’ll be smarter next time.

Afterward, when Charlie showed up to collect me that afternoon, I told him what had happened.  “Why didn’t you shoot?” he asked. 

I couldn’t give a good reason.  I was just done. 

The hunt was awesome, and Catalina is a tough but beautiful place to chase deer.  I hope to get another chance someday.  There are a ton of deer, and the  hunts aren’t particularly expensive… especially compared to the costs of other fully guided and outfitted CA deer hunts. 

Finally…

I’m still not sure what brought on this streak of misses.  It’s not like I’ve never missed before, but three times in a row?  It’s shaken me pretty good.  Before I left, I took my rifle back to the range.  With not only Charlie, but head guide Kevin, as well as the two clients there to witness, I quickly proved that the rifle was still dead on.  There’s nothing wrong with my scope.

So I actually returned from Coon Camp Springs on Wednesday night.  On Thursday morning, as I prepared to catch up on the Wacky Wild Web, something hiccuped and my Internet connection went bye-bye.  Two hours of rebooting routers, modems, and computers didn’t do anything except get me really, really frustrated. 

Kat’s call later to AT&T only served to reheat that stew, and get her pretty riled up as well.  The best they could offer was to have someone out on the 16th… TUESDAY!  Boy, I’m sure glad they broke up the Bell monopoly and made life better for us customers. 

Anyway, enough venting on that topic.  Can’t change it.

I’m online now from a Holiday Inn Express in Lebec, CA.  Tomorrow morning at 10:00, I plan to be on a ferry heading for Catalina Island, where I’ll be deer hunting with a new friend, Charlie de la Rosa, thanks to another friend, Hank Shaw.  How this whole thing came about is sort of an extended tale for another day, but for now I’ll just say I’m tickled to have this opportunity… even if it does mean I’m out of the house almost before my laundry is dry from the last trip.

A full write-up of the Coon Camp hunts is in the offing, so if you’re curious it’ll be here before you know it.  Patience is a virtue.

Anyway, I am home, and it was hot.  

The plan for this weekend was to get out with Holly and a friend she met at the Women’s Hunting Camp.  Her new friend wanted to get a taste of deer hunting, so Holly must have figured the sadistic thing to do would be take her out on a mid-season, public land hunt.  One thing I can say with some certainty… if you come back for more after one of these trips, you’ve definitely got hunting in your blood.

Also along on the trip was my friend Dave Allen.  Dave spends most of his weekends working on the habitat projects up at Coon Camp Springs, and this would be his only weekend to actually use his B-zone deer tag.  In a couple of weeks we’ll have paying clients up at Coon Camp, which is sort of like hunting… only not quite.  It’s as close as we’ve been to actually getting to hunt the property since we started the habitat projects up there, though. 

The final member of the planned party was Payton, the 16 year-old son of another friend.  This would be Payton’s first time hunting big game.  He’s followed along with me a time or two, but on this trip he’d be toting a .270 and a valid tag.  It would be quite the hunting party.

Except for the party pooper… Holly.

As the weekend got closer, Holly emailed to tell me that, due to some things going on in her professional life she’d have to bail on the hunt.  With her out, her friend would also be pulling out of the trip (and who could blame her for not wanting to go out alone into the wilderness with three strange, armed men?).   That certainly put a bit of a damper on the plans, but Dave and Payton were set to go and of course I was chomping at the bit for any opportunity to get into the field.

We set up camp at the trailhead and proceeded to spend two and a half days swatting flies and sweating.  We saw a few deer, but no legal bucks.  By Sunday, as Payton and I sat on a high ridgetop overlooking a dense field of chemise and scrub oak, the temperatures were tapping the 106 degree mark.  My brain was boiling inside my skull when I finally decided to call it a day.  By the time Payton and I staggered back to the truck, my eyes were rolling and my head felt like someone was pounding from the inside out with an 8-pound sledge.  It didn’t help to find that we’d somehow gone through an entire case of water in less than two days. 

Dave had taken the “scenic route” back to camp (he’s a bit of a madman) and finally came stumbling in around 4:00.  We briefly debated heading out for the evening hunt, but without water, I didn’t want to chance it.  I’ve had a couple of real close calls with dehydration and heat exhaustion… no need to reinforce the lessons.

We relaxed in the little bit of shade that was left in camp until the shadows were starting to fill the canyon.  I decided we’d break camp and drive up to a lookout to do some glassing.  While I doubt anyone was up for a 500 yard sprint if we actually spotted a buck, it was a nice way to finish out the day.  Besides, I had the new 25-75x82mm Field Scope from Nikon that I wanted to try out. 

Of course, we were glassing the area that I would have hunted that evening, if we’d had the energy (and the water).  With about 45 minutes of shooting light left in the day, I spotted movement at about 900 yards.  Sure enough, a deer stepped out into the clearing.  Another followed, and then I made out the shape of one more in the bushes.  I put the spotting scope on them, and cranked up the magnification.  At about 40-power, I could clearly see that at least two of the deer were does.  The third wouldn’t show me a good look.  I cranked the scope up higher, but at about 60x, the tripod was too unstable to get a clear picture. 

I backed off the power and waited for the third deer to step into the open.  Just then, the largest doe looked back over her shoulder, into the dense chaparral.  Her ears pricked forward and her tail flicked.  Suddenly all three deer bolted across the clearing and into a draw.  I kept the glasses trained on the clearing, hoping to see that they were running from a randy buck, but nothing ever stepped out.  The shadows got deeper until it was nearly impossible to see anything at all. 

As we got back into the truck, I wondered aloud which of us would have been willing to make the dive into the canyon and across the meadows to attempt a shot if a buck had, indeed, appeared.  I got blank looks and then Dave, one of the most hardcore guys I know, shook his head.  “You guys could have him,” he said with a snort. 

I still wonder what he’d have said if a buck had shown up.  I enjoyed the mental picture of a breakneck race between him and Payton as they jockeyed to get into range and take the shot.  Me?  I’d have been there to shoot the whole thing on video… right from the truck.

On this hunt, I got my first real opportunity to try out some optics from Nikon.  In addition to the Field Scope, they also sent me the Monarch X, 10.5×45 binocular.  I used the binocular in NC, during my bowhunt there, but in that thick country you can’t really see more than 75 or 100 yards so it wasn’t much of a trial.  Out in Kokopelli Valley, on the other hand, there are sweeping vistas where quality optics are your best friend.

In short, I was pretty impressed with the Monarch X.  It’s probably unfair to compare them to my Leica Geovids, but they did actually compare somewhat favorably (and consider that they’re about one-fifth of the cost of the Leica).  The glass is clear and bright under all light conditions from pre-dawn to dusk.  I was able to pick out the subtle shades of a doe feeding in chemise at well over 700 yards, which I think is a good test of any hunting optic. 

The Monarch X is also fairly lightweight (don’t recall the actual weight, but you can find the specs on the Nikon website), and felt good in my hands during extended glassing.  I expect that with a tripod mount, these would be an excellent choice for most western hunting situations… especially when backed up with the Field Scope. 

I’ll be putting these glasses through their paces a lot over the coming months, both on my own hunts and while guiding.  I especially looking forward to using the Field Scope while guiding at Coon Camp Springs this season.  I expect it’s going to be a really useful addition to my gear. 

Up in Michigan,  Arthur’s (Simply Outdoors) nephew, Tyler, scored on a nice little doe to kick off his whitetail deer season.  According to Arthur’s account , while Tyler helped finish off a deer last year, this is his first solo kill. 

I still remember how that felt when I was a kid, so congratulations to Tyler!  Here’s to many more successful hunts!

Closer to home, my friend and fellow Skinny Moose blogger, John Martin has been keeping a chronicle of his 2010-2011 hunting season on his Western Wanderer blog.  So far, the mythical blacktail buck has eluded him, but he and his daughter, Erin, have been out there giving it their best.  On a recent hunt in Sonoma County, John and Erin had a couple of close encounters with feral hogs.  The first shot went wild, but a few moments later, Erin connected for the one-shot kill, and her wild hog was on the ground. 

Nice work, Erin!  Now your dad just needs to take a lesson from you and score his own critters!  Good luck over the remainder of the deer season.