I'm 9/10's of the way up Dan's Mountain, stamping around scaring wildlife. I decide to Still Hunt for 45 minutes. This is a nice way of saying that I sit down and don't move because I'm exhausted.
I hear a noise. It's way along and down the mountain (a mountain is a ridge, not a cone, you know). It's coming towards me. It gets louder. A trophy buck? Another hunter? It keeps getting louder. For 45 minutes I wait and hear it coming. Louder. Closer. A lot of leaf shuffling noise. I should be able to see it. Nothing.
I move up the mountain a little (a very little) for a better view. I eat a Snickers bar. It's still coming. I drink from my canteen. It's still getting louder. I start to get a little scared. It obviously doesn't care how much noise it's making. Maybe it's a black bear? Not unusual around here, I've heard. I relax. I've got a 30'06. What's to fear?
Maybe it's a line of hunters doing a drive? The sound seems to be
almost upon me. I start looking with my scope. There. The whole side
of the mountain is moving towards the top. Huh? I crank up the
magnification. Oh. Turkeys. About 20 of them. Are they in season?
What would a deer rifle do to a turkey? I have a big Tom dead to
rights. I don't shoot. Later, I walk back to my truck, and find
my hunter's guide. Turkey season ended when deer season began. I did
the right thing.
"Look, over there, see them sticking up?" I said. Walt, the Woodman, his wife Elaine and I were taking a Spring hike through the woods on a glorious Sunday afternoon. I stopped and pointed at a spot about 50 yards off the trail.
"How did you see it?" Elaine asked with a little amazement. My thoughts ran back a ways...
It started my first season hunting deer. After missing a nice shot, I returned to the farm a few days later and stalked up to the same place. It took a half hour to cover the last few yards. There it was... an huge eight point rack to be proud of, sticking out of the grass. He was lying down to take advantage of cover, I thought. I'd had the experience of, after a five minute conversation near a log, having a six point buck jump up from behind it and run away. Well, the rack gave this one away.
I was proud of my stalking technique. I was close, real close, and I got closer. I covered his spine over the vitals with my crosshairs. I held the big shotgun steady and began to squeeze the trigger. Then I nearly fell over.
The breeze had just brought me the stench, it was overpowering. I hung the unfired gun on my shoulder and stamped up to the buck in disgust. The whole underbelly was already rotted away. Some of the pelt might be worth saving, but I didn't have the stomach for it.
A quick look at the brush caught in the horns, the hoofprints, the trail told the story. Hit by a car on the nearby road, it tore straight through the brambles and collapsed here.
After that, it was dead deer on pre-hunt scouting trips, dead deer during turkey season, every outing seems to yield another.
Elaine poked at the ribs sticking up so oddly above the otherwise flattened skeleton. "How did you see it?" she repeated her question, breaking me out of my revelry. "Just lucky, I guess," I replied. But I'm not merely lucky. I'm the King of finding dead deer.
While I was living with the Woodman, I was awakened at an ungodly hour by a most horrible noise. It sounded like something dying loudly and painfully. I recognized the noise, but refused to believe it until I saw it. I was right. It was a rooster.
The scrawny little thing was between our row of rental townhouses and the next. It made what could barely be recognized as the usual rooster morning cry, but punctuated with gaps and ending in a sort of strangulated gasp.
I am not a morning person. I'm not angry in the morning, I'm just slow, thick, and pretty useless. I'm not in any shape to deal with noise or distraction. I treasure sleeping in on Saturdays. There was no sleeping after sunrise to be had now.
We saw the rooster, or heard it, most mornings for several weeks. It had a girlfriend, a big, fat Rhode Island Red by the look of it. I wasn't getting any sleep past 5:00 a.m. Something had to be done.
I borrowed a high power German-made pellet gun from a friend. This was no Crossman or Daisy. I won't deny it. I wanted that rooster bad. Also, the chicken looked like it might make a nice dinner.
One Saturday morning, the Rooster was in rare form. It sounded close-by, but we couldn't see it. I sent the Woodman out to herd it past the window. I tried to be subtle. I opened the window just a little, and pulled down the shade. He flapped his arms and tried crowing a little himself. No luck.
Another day we heard it again. It was right behind the house! We both grabbed airguns and took aim. I nailed it right on the butt. You never saw a bird move so fast. It took off running in a straight line. We leaned out the window. It ran straight off into the distance, like a RoadRunner cartoon. We had a conversation while we watched it run. We talked about what we would have for breakfast. We finally pulled our heads in, when it was just a speck near the horizon.
It survived our encounter, but hung out more behind #29 That's where they lived, according to a little girl speaking to the Woodman. #29 was right by the woods, and the road, too. I saw it one afternoon there driving home. I hopped out of my car and took off after it. It outcornered me and went into the underbursh.
A friend dropped by looking befuddled. "I just saw a chicken!" "Really?" I replied. "How long have you been seeing chickens?"
When the weather got colder, they disappeared. Maybe they went back to the coop they escaped from, where there was warmth and food. Or, maybe someone borrowed a more powerful air gun then I had.
It was my third day hunting in the short Maryland Fall season. I left my truck and started a long, quiet hike up the inclined trail, trying to be quiet and look around a lot.
I was about a quarter mile along, being careful where to place my feet, when I stopped suddenly. I realized it had been at least 5 minutes since I looked behind me. I straightened up slowly, and even slower turned around and looked behind me.
Sure enough, a buck was walking across my path about 70 yards behind me. As soon as I saw it, it picked up the pace from a walk, to a trot, then to a run. I watched it bound into a grove of trees as fast as a thought.
I stood there stupidly for a minute. As long as I was quiet and staring at my feet, the buck had been willing to let me pass. As soon as I saw it, it decided I had violated its social etiquette.
I turned around and resumed walking up the trail.
Also, if the temperature is below freezing, the squirrels don't come out to play.
Even the lightest rifle can be improved by adding a sling.
Four thousand acres looks even bigger in person than it does on a map.
Even real men bring Aspirin with them.
Don't cut between trails without observing some landmark at that point.
I learned all of these things simultaneously. Don't ask.
I might get lost here, I think I'll go home.
Let me tell you about a time. . .