Coming Up Short

There is a lot of planning and preparation that go into a successful whitetail hunt. Some of this takes place in the months and weeks leading up to the season, while some simpler tasks are left for the night before. I compile a mental checklist of things that have to be done, without exception, before entering the woods. Are my clothes clean? Do I have my lures, grunt tube, and rattling bag? Did I load up my bow, release, and arrows? (Arrows are now on the list since I left my quiver behind on a picnic table once) Also important are in season adjustments that need to be made based on in season observations of deer movement. I once was told that success is the at the intersection of preparation and opportunity. On Saturday my lack of preparation left me a block short of my destination.

When the alarm pierced the silence at 3:15 am, I instinctively hit the snooze button. If I left my house by 5 am I could be in my stand a full hour before first light. Than it hit me, did I put my clothes in the dryer? I shook off my slumber and stumbled into the basement. Of course not. Now I'm unloading a washer full of wet camo in hopes that it will dry in time. As I am waiting for the clothes to dry, I load up my gear with a pessimistic outlook for the day. I was going to be late, very late. After 45 agonizing minutes I threw on my damp camo and raced for the stand. By the time I got situated the dim light of dawn was upon me with the sun rapidly approaching the horizon. Lucky for me, this is not a great morning spot, but still a gaff that could have unknowingly cost me.

My second misstep was a week in the making. In the previous week I noticed the deer were gravitating more towards the perimeter of the property. I do not think they are educated on my location as much as it is the pre-rut and the deer prefer traveling the tree line more than the brush. I had loaded up a new tree stand and some climbing sticks last Sunday, but for one reason or another they spent the last 6 days in my truck bed. So it was no surprise to me that when the deer began to move, they moved directly along the trail I had intended to be sitting over today. 

On a positive note, all was not lost today. I had a new mature buck show his face in daylight for the first time. He is a Big 6 pointer, with one wide sweeping side, and one side that stopped growing out in July. I only have 5 trail cam pictures but I was able to study him for a while at 75 yards. Had I been in the other tree, chances are I would have tagged out on him. I tried a playful rattling and grunting sequence to bring him in, but only a curious 4 pointer answered the call. As I stood up for a better look, I noticed an old adversary to my left. The 9 was back, and looked to be fine. He too wanted to see what the commotion was about. When the young fork came into the clearing, The 9 took one glance at such an over matched opponent and meandered back into the thicket. He had what seemed to be an entrance wound and exit wound on his right side. Since he was quartering towards me when I shot him, the arrow must have deflected off a rib, resulting in a flesh wound with all his vitals untouched. I was happy to see The 9 was alive and well. It just proves how amazingly resilient whitetail deer are. The fork circled my tree for about 15 minutes before he too lost interest and wandered off. 

As the day turned into dusk, a doe busted out of the brush being chased by the same fork. A small 6 pointer popped his head out a minute later, followed by the Big 6 to round out the bunch. By the time the sun had set all 4 deer had spent about 15 minutes running up and down the trail that I had anticipated, which left me 80 yards away counting squirrels. Poor preparation, no success.

Fueled by my most recent failure, and the fact that the rut has arrived in Southeastern Pennsylvania, I stepped up my preparation exponentially. On Sunday morning I practiced shooting for 3 hours. I headed over to the wood lot with Mike and we picked out a great tree to finally hang my new stand. Lastly, I washed and dried all my camo so there will be zero excuses this week. The full moon on Tuesday should usher the first does into estrous. I will be in the woods Friday, Saturday, and possibly Tuesday night. This is setting up to be a great week for bow hunting, and with the preparation completed, all I am looking for is the right opportunity.                             

Black Monday

Ask me when I won my first bass tournament, and I'll give you the month and year. What was my worst tournament? June 28, 2009. I remember my wake up text, the Boston Creme doughnut, the sunrise, the fact that no bass would even look at a green pumpkin senko when 24 hours ago they were lining up around the shoals of Oneida Lake for a chance at that alluring soft bait. You never remember all the fish you caught, but you never forget the one you did not. Hunting is no different. I remember my best hunt because it was with in the last calendar year. The deer that I did not harvest, haunt me in my dreams for years and years. I was hoping this year would bring me good memories, achievements, and accomplishment. It still may, the season is young and the rut is rapidly approaching. One thing the early season has given me is another date I will never forget.

Monday, October 5 2015 was going to be a memorable day. The previous Saturday's hunt was inspiring to say the least. My pattern of my two target bucks, G2 and The 9 was spot on. I felt I could not wait till next Saturday to get back in the woods, so I made arrangements at work so I could leave early to get a rare Monday evening sit in. The temperatures were cooling off and it was the second day of high pressure after a weekend cold front blew through. On top of that, I had a light WNW wind that is perfect for my stand location. The table was set. As I walked to my stand I was filled with anticipation. There was no doubt in my mind I was filling my Pennsylvania Buck tag tonight.

I was not in my stand for 10 minutes when I heard a buck grunt faintly to my right. I noticed a doe appear 15 yards behind me. She was hurried out of the brush looking anxiously over her shoulder. With that, she walked into the open and G2 emerged right behind her. A mere 15 yards stood between  me and my top targeted buck. And a 40' chestnut tree. I watched as he made a scrape at the edge of the brush, gave one more glance in the doe's direction, than bounded out of view. What an encounter. He never presented me with a shot, but he was closer than ever. It wasn't even 4 pm and I had a solid buck sighting. I knew I was going to get an opportunity tonight.  

An hour and a half had passed and I noticed some movement in the brush about 25 yards away. I could see antlers shaking the saplings, coming my way. If this deer continued down this trail, when he entered the clearing he would be down wind of me. I grabbed my bow and readied for a shot. As the buck came closer, I could tell it was The 9. He was very cautious, repeatedly sticking his nose high in the air trying in vain to catch my scent. As he ducked under the last pin oak I came to full draw and focused on my target. There he was, 18 yards away, slightly quartering to. I put my pin behind his left shoulder, exhaled, and released my arrow. Upon impact I recall seeing my lighted nock glowing red behind his shoulder, exactly where I had aimed. The 9 did an about face and raced back into the thicket. I checked my watch, 5:35 pm. I hung my bow confidently on its' hook, beyond satisfied with my shot. I texted some friends to help me track my trophy, and celebrate a successful hunt. I had created a great memory tonight, or so I thought. 

It was close to 7 pm by the time the cavalry arrived. I reenacted the shot for everybody, and we inspected the arrow which had passed completely through, Mike, who has 25 years experience in tracking deer took one look at the arrow and said, " That's a dead deer." As we tracked the first 30 feet, the blood trail was widening. We were all giddy with anticipation, but at the same time I was trying to temper my expectations. Call me a pessimist but I have seen this before. I could not breathe easy until I had my hands firmly around The 9's chocolate rack. By the time we lost the blood trail some 300 yards later, my fears were becoming a reality. We decided we should resume the search in the morning. Tiered eyes and dimming flashlights had did all they could. Hopefully the daylight would lead us to The 9.

After a sleepless night, Mike and I resumed the search. We followed the blood trail from the beginning, nothing. We crisscrossed through the thickets on our hands and knees, nothing. We walked the perimeter of the property, and through neighboring properties, nothing. In all we spent 6 more hours walking in circles trying to forensically retrace The 9's last steps. In the days that followed, I tried to drive around the area looking for any signs, hoping to see turkey vultures in the sky circling the carcass that would give me closure, but nothing. How could a day that started out with so much promise turn into such a nightmare? I had no answers, only questions that may never be answered.

My final assessment? The 9 is dead. Somewhere. When the brush dies down and the woods thin out, I may find him. When I search the property for sheds come February maybe he will turn up. The worst feeling a hunter can have is feeling that he or she wounded an animal. I feel terrible about this, but I do not believe that The 9 is wounded. All indications point to a fatal shot. The arrow, the blood trail, my recollection of the shot itself. I pray some day I will find The 9 and give this story the proper ending it deserves. Until than all I have is questions, and another date that I will never be able to forget.              

Flip Flop Season

With the 2015 archery season reaching its 3rd week and the calendar turning the page to October, there is no doubt that Fall is upon us. This last week we experienced the seasons first low pressure system that brought heavy rain, gusty winds, and overnight temperatures in the 40's. The hot and humid days of summer are becoming a distant memory to most residence of North Eastern United States. Most years I will take a Sunday afternoon and pack up some t-shirts, swim trunks, and other summertime essentials to make room in my dresser for hoodies and flannels. One item I will not be packing up just yet are my flip flops, their season has been extended.

An earlier post explained my situation with two shooter bucks, G2 and The 9. After seeing G2 in the field, I wanted nothing else but to shoot him or my season would be a loss. The last few sits I have had some very good encounters with The 9, and he has changed my outlook on the season. I still think G2 is an older buck with more mass and a larger body. For me he is a no doubt about it shooter. The 9 is a very respectable deer, with sweeping main beams that come within 5 or so inches of each other. The difference to me now is G2 is there on the property, but The 9 is in my head.

My first encounter with The 9 came last Saturday evening. With an hour of shooting light remaining I decided to stand up and stretch one last time before things got serious. When I looked between the fork in the tree, I saw The 9, 25 yards behind me moseying along. My first instinct was, "That's a nice Buck, get ready" so I forgot about G2 and grabbed my bow. I waited for him to take the 3 more steps needed to give me a shot, but he back tracked. I watched him for another 20 minutes, trying to predict his route. I had ranged a spot in between 2 shrubs at 32 yards that would have given me a shot. As the 9 approached the 1st shrub, he paused, and took two steps backwards instead of the required two steps forward. This dance continued till well after sunset. I waited and waited until I was sure he was clear of my stand so I could climb down without spooking him. Once I got out of the woodlot I set down my pack to find my keys and noticed a black cat 6 feet away. Being very superstitions I wanted nothing to do with a black cat and any associated bad luck he may bring me, I quickly adjusted my gear and began to leave so he would not cross my path. That is when I realized the black cat had a thick black stripe down his back, prompting me to sprint 60 yards to my truck.

Encounter #2 was last night. After being in the stand for less than a half hour, I saw a rack emerge 100 yards to my right. It was The 9, working the edge of the thicket without a care in the world. With a strong north east wind in my favor, I was excited that this could be the night I tag out. I had over two and a half hours till dark and my target buck was on the move. The blessing and the curse of the property I hunt is how thick it is. The deer feel very safe in the thickets and can roam freely without detection. Combine that with a stiff 15 MPH wind, and you can not hear them until they are on top of you. As The 9 disappeared into the tangle of pin oaks, I patiently waited. After two hours and advice from a fellow hunter, I reached into my bag and pulled out my bleat can. The idea being The 9 my be curious enough of the bleat to come in and investigate. After the third bleat, I saw him at 25 yards looking dead at me. His view was obstructed, so after a brief stare down that lasted seemingly hours long, he continued unfazed. I grabbed by bow and readied for a shot. He bypassed my 25 yard lane and continued into a clearing. I ranged him at 46 yards, quartering away. The wind continued to whip through the brush and I decided the shot had a better chance of injuring the deer, than being lethal and ethical. The last thing I want to do is drive the deer off of the property with so much time left in the season. As I watched The 9 walk off into the distance, I hung by bow up and sat down. As I put my face in my hands a black walnut came loose 10 feet above me, striking me square on the head, adding unwanted salt to the fresh wounds.          

So now it has become personal with The 9. He has out smarted me on two separate occasions. G2 is not forgotten, but no longer a must. The important thing for me is to remember to always pay attention to the lessons I learn in the woods. Doing so will enable me to harvest a mature animal at some point this season. Like I said, I never packed up my flip flops, so I can go back and forth on which buck I eventually wrap my tag around.