Everyone has their own opinions when comes to the best
way to hunt whitetails. Factors that dictate this include which methods prevail
in the region where you are hunting, the distinct deer hunting subculture in
which you were forged, and on what is effective in bringing game to the table.
Folks in south Texas bang antlers, the deep south has a history of hunting with
hounds, westerners glass to set up a stalk, Midwesterners post up in frozen
treestands, and the bigwoods hunters of the northeast have made a name for
themselves as trackers. Each one of
these traditions is rich with history and has its droves of acolytes—faithful for
reasons of nostalgia as much as anything else.
As for me, I am a still hunter. Still hunting isn’t quite a
lost art, especially in the traditional archery community. But, it is probably
the least successful tactic of those previously referenced. Still hunting
requires us to disassociate ourselves with every modern, hard-wired habit. Instead
of waltzing noisily across the landscape, the still hunter moves through prime
territory at the pace of an unfurling curtain of fog. Instead of relying on
technological solutions to the challenges we face, the still hunter pares his
kit down to only the most crucial elements. Put simply, the still hunter moves
through the environment like a natural predator.
This is where the average hunter finds failure in the approach.
He or she often doesn’t know how to move in the woods in a manner that doesn’t
send every squirrel to a chattering perch and every jay to a cacophony of warning.
Collectively we are guilty of moving too often and too quickly. Still hunting
at the rate of a leisurely stroll isn’t still hunting: it is a one-man deer
drive. Good luck shooting at those bounding deer as they disappear over yon hillock!
In truth, much has been made about how we locomote but I’m not sure any of it
is useful. Do you step heel-to-toe? Toe-to-heel? If the conditions are wrong
then it doesn’t matter. A forest floor of dry leaves is going to betray your location
immediately. This is why still hunting is optimal in conditions that are often
suboptimal for other tactics: rainfall, wind, snow. Each of these elements can
help mask your approach, reveal deer sign, or both. Because of this, I often
reserve still hunting for when the conditions and location merit it.
If there is a key to still hunting it is pace. My old axiom
was to take a step and wait one-to-two minutes before the next step in ideal
territory. That doesn’t sound like a long duration, but bring a stopwatch with
you sometime and you’ll realize that two minutes can feel like an eternity.
When the quarry is close at hand this rate slows dramatically and I will often
crouch or go prone for an indefinite period if there is the possibility that
the game will come to me. Always better for the quarry to move than for you to
move. Movement is often the source of a hunt’s ruination, but sound can be as
well. To correct a misstep or a branch slapping against me noisily I force
myself to pay penance.
It goes like this. When I clumsily snap a stick underfoot I
consider myself to have violated the peace of the landscape. Were I to do this
amidst a congregation of forest denizens they would immediately take offense as
if insulted their closest kin. Although their reaction is in actuality a
response of fear, I treat it as a response of indignation. Thus, my violation
of the peace requires penance. My penance is to then halt, take stock of
myself, assess my surroundings, and contemplate my sins. Applied, this means
that I immediately slow my progress. Instead of a one-to-two minute pause I may
take a four-to-five minute pause or longer depending on the severity of my
transgression. During this time, I plan my route, scrutinize the environs for
game, attempt to identify any surrounding trees, and focus on restorative
breathing. This allows the woods to settle and for me to make more educated
decisions. Often this is the time when game chooses to reveal itself. When this
happens the art of still hunting seems nothing short of mystic. It is as if you
conjured the creature by your solemnity, quietness, and belonging in the
natural world.
Such was the case for me last Saturday. My state offered a
three-day antlerless rifle season in early October that allows a person to go
afield with gun in hand in during the first blush of autumn—not during the
harsh December conditions of the regular season. My initial plan was to set up
at the base of an oak overlooking a meandering creek bottom where I had jumped
several deer over the summer while looking for lobster mushrooms. This was not
to be. Friday night was an endless stream of rain and Saturday morning was loudly
pronounced by rolling thunderstorms. I stayed up until about 1:00 AM refreshing
the National Weather Service’s website, but the forecast was resolute. Being
sane, I opted instead to drink coffee, eat biscuits and gravy, and read one of
Bill Heavey’s excellent books at the local Perkin’s restaurant.
I arrived at my hunting location around 10:30 AM when the
thunderstorms had metamorphosed into intermittent showers. After cranking the magnification
of my scope on the .338 to 3x I crossed a broad hayfield and entered the well-worn
trail that paralleled the creek bed I had previously intended to hunt. Here I swore
an oath: I will still hunt the RIGHT way and I will not rush it. Perhaps surprisingly,
I maintained my fidelity. After an hour-and-half or so of furtive and
calculating advancement I cut fresh tracks in the mud. They looked to be of a
smallish deer, probably a young doe. This is exactly what I was pursuing. As I
contemplated the tracks and considered the flora around me (black oak, elm,
honey locust, red cedar, hickory, Japanese holly, buckbrush) I became aware of
the slightest disturbance to my right. The low-growing buckbrush was rapidly
parting as an utterly silent coyote rushed at me headlong. The oblivious prairie
wolf yielded within spitting distance: certainly no more than five yards away.
We then momentarily locked eyes and I read this in them: “What in tarnation!?”
The coyote then wheeled and ran like the proverbial scalded dog. This was the
closest I had ever been to a living coyote and I was actively hunting, clad from
head-to-toe in blaze orange. Proper still hunting is sorcery.
