Thoughts from a Country Gent

Tuesday, April 30, 2019

A Sportsman's Upbringing

At a community pregnancy support event this week I came across Jery, who coordinates a group to help new dads transition to a lifestyle that they were previously completely unfamiliar with. Jery brought up to me the fact that many new dads also undergo stress or depression associated with the new baby. What will I do now? Can I still be me? Will I ever get to do my thing again? I suspect that these questions are doubly compounded when you become the father of a little girl, as I am. American society may respect little girls getting involved in all manner of organized sports—but what about the outdoors?

As I have aged and moved off from my family’s region I find that I spend an increasing amount of my outdoor recreation time alone. I don’t mind it either. Although hunting can be wonderfully social, it can also be much more productive when you are by yourself. When I go afield with only my mind to keep me company I don’t have to explain tactics, listen to complaining, divvy up the day’s take, or admonish someone to be quiet. Conversely, if I am wet and cold I can just hike back to the truck and go buy a Coke and a bag of peanuts. Solitary hunting is fruitful, but even moreso it is wonderfully selfish. So in spirit of selfishness I pondered Jery’s points: are my days of wanderlust coming to an end?

As someone who has never previously participated in child-rearing the initial inclination would be to say, “Probably so.” But, this is ignorance of my own history. I was not born into the wilderness, gifted with an innate sense of woodsmanship and hunger for vension roasting over a smoking fire. We surely do possess a primal lust for the hunt, but without kindling and guidance it would die of sheer abandonment and failure. Rather my love of the outdoors is a product of stewardship by my parents—both of my parents.

There have been many joys in my life but few I count as dear as the times spent in the wilderness with my mom and dad. I hope that I can give my little girl a fraction of such joy as I teach her what it is to be a citizen of the natural realm, not just a disconnected office-worker occasionally glancing a bird in a park from her 10th story window. These are snapshots into the moments that defined my life as an outdoorsman. I pray that I can share something akin to this with my little girl when she is of age. Thanks to all of my family who ensured that my childhood was rich, steeped in nature, and full of adventure.

November, early 1990s. I am between four to six years old when dad shows up in an old blue truck with a tall Oklahoma eight point riding in the back. I don’t remember much about this, but I remember being ridiculously excited along with everyone else. The buck was killed in a stand cobbled together with 2x4s and a plastic five gallon bucket; the “Bucket Stand” takes its place in our memories and is thought of as a regional landmark.

Spring-Summer, mid-1990s. Mom, dad, and my dad’s twin Uncle Dan take me fishing as soon as I am able. Since mom and I get to spend the summers together she is my constant companion. On one particular trip, I cast a “as seen on TV” helicopter lure into a farm pond behind our house and manage to catch a 6 lb largemouth. This is the biggest fish I’ve ever caught and my parents get it mounted. Uncle Dan follows up on a promise he made and gives me a new fishing rod.

Winter, mid-1990s. All of my cousins own coonhounds and after watching Where the Red Fern Grows I am immersed in this too. Sometimes with dad, sometimes with just my cousins, I follow baying hounds in pursuit of raccoons all over Creek County, Oklahoma. Bo, Jamie, Michael, and Red take me out under the freezing stars through the woolliest spots on the Deep Fork River as well. We get lost, accidentally trespass, and cuss hounds that won’t come back. At one point I wind up chest deep in quicksand on the Deep Fork and honest-to-goodness think I am going to die.

November 1999. Lightning strikes twice. Dad shoots the buck of a lifetime a few hundred yards from our new house which is just across the section from the trailer house where we celebrated the harvest of the eight point. This deer, though, is different. The dark-horned buck has antlers that span nearly two foot and is bigger than anything any of us have ever seen. I’m not really into deer hunting yet and I believe I was asleep or eating breakfast when the shot happened but mom swears she heard the shot and dad yelling with pure ecstasy. Our neighbor Monte later confirms he heard dad yelling as well. Monte was all the way across the section! We load the buck up and drive to to town to check the deer in. Everyone at the check station is amazed too; they take a photo that hangs on a brag board at the convenience store for years. We drive all about the country with the deer in the back and show it to everyone we know. Later Dad tells me that he sheepishly made a “deal” with God that he would quit smoking if God gave him a big buck. God gave him two, despite the fact that He had no need to strike a bargain with dad. Dad gave up smoking altogether.

Sometime after 1999. Having been fully bit by the deer-hunting bug, I start going out with dad a lot. I had hunted with him prior to this, but it was in spurts and fits. Now I’m more serious and am hunting with him in every season: archery, muzzleloader, and rifle. My archery escapades are laughable failures but I love them.

In one hunt I actually managed to call in a doe to my stand only to contract such a case of buck fever that I shake enough that the arrow falls off its rest and plummets to the ground. During the same hunt, a raccoon climbs up the stand that dad is sitting in and tries to become friends. I hear this commotion from my tree and wonder what the heck is going on.

Dad and I sit on a large hillside and he asks me if I would want to shoot a deer if one came out. I say yes and then promptly fall asleep. I am awakened by the thunderous roar of dad’s .270 Winchester: some 300 yards away a whitetail doe is in her final throes. I’m a bit miffed that I didn’t get to shoot (not that I could have made a 300 yd shot at the time) but am overjoyed that I get to drag the deer out of the woods. This becomes “my job” when dad and I hunt together and I relish it.

I kill my first deer while sitting with dad next to a post oak tree. The buck fawn seemingly manifests out of nowhere as if it was meant just for me. After the smoke from the muzzleloader is cleared we don’t see the deer but we follow a blood trail that ends unexpectedly without a deer in sight. Dad eventually finds the deer, which has been the recipient of a perfect double-lung shot.

Uncle Dan, learns that I have killed my first deer and passes down my grandpa’s hunting rifle: a Remington 760 Deluxe Carbine in .30-06 Springfield. The rifle kicks hard even to grown men but I feel as I have somehow just pulled Excalibur from the stone. Dad and Dan mowed lawns all summer when they were 12 years old and gave grandpa $100 to buy this rifle. Grandpa takes them to a pawn shop in Tulsa (Second Hand Rose, I believe) where dressed in his shabbiest clothes he buys the rifle and a Weaver K4 scope for a single century note. The rifle was used on my grandpa’s last deer hunt with dad and comes with the same Winchester Silvertip ammo that he carried with him. The rifle (“Grandpa’s Gun”) is later equipped with a $75 3-12x40mm BSA scope that I saved up for and becomes an extension of myself. I take dozens of deer with it and to this day it is the sporting arm that I have the most confidence with.

Having taken my first deer and possessing my own rifle I am now obsessed beyond description. Our neighbor Monte offers to take me hunting at his place. We sit in a wooden box blind that Monte has built overlooking a wheat field. When a group of deer come out I have trouble finding the spike buck in the scope (I only have a buck tag) but eventually settle in and make the shot. I can see the deer is down but Monte is having trouble untying the string that keeps the door to the blind latched. I tell him, “Monte, get out of the way, I’ll kick it down!” This phrase lives in infamy. Monte and I both are on cloud nine. Monte shows me how to gut the deer which we do with dad’s old Buck Sharpfinger skinner—a knife that has cleaned 100’s of deer in its day.

A Christmas, 1999 or After. My parents give me a Mossberg 500 pump shotgun in 12 gauge. We shoot clays with it a bit but I don’t think much of it until one snowy day after chasing critters with my bow my mom says “Why don’t you take the shotgun out?” I had never realized that this was even a possibility. I destroy countless pairs of jeans on greenbriars and barbed-wire fences while pursuing my new favorite game animal: cottontail rabbits. Once single day afield with the shotgun turns into a lifelong obsession with shotgunnery. Shortly thereafter one of my dad’s uncles (Don) gives me a MEC 700 shotshell loader and I am beyond redemption. Monte shares load data with me and I learn about the best 2 3/4” shotshell load ever to be developed, the Activ 1 5/8 oz load. Using this overpowered load (1 5/8 oz shot at 1330 FPS!) I chase every legal furred or feathered game animal in Oklahoma for a number of years. My mom kindly takes me squirrel hunting in the creek-bottom where we previously lived and later drives me to duck ponds to jump-shoot them.

Winters Thereafter. My cousin Roger takes me along with him when he goes duck hunting and we set the world on fire. I managed to buy a Benelli Nova the first year that they came out via Gunbroker for $265 and $15 shipping from New York. The shotgun hook is set deep and Roger and I shoot clays and duck hunt year round. In some years I killed well over 100 birds per season by jump-shooting. We eat a lot of duck jerky. My best friend Andy gets in on the duck hunting gig and once we are old enough to drive we wear out the county roads in the “Duckmobile”--Andy’s white Toyota Corolla with a massive hole in the rear due to a run-in with a round-bale spear.

Springs Thereafter. Dad and I begin turkey hunting. My first experience is brutal. Dad called in five jakes to within 10-15 yards and I somehow manage to miss. A few days later we take a hike to look for morels and I bring along a shotgun just in case. We encounter a gobbler and I kill it at 50 yards with promotional 7/8 oz target loads from Wal-Mart. Maybe turkey hunting isn’t so tough? Dad and I hunt turkeys hard after this and at one point make a double on turkeys during a thunderstorm. The birds gobbled every time it thundered and we belly-crawled out of a creek bottom to get close enough to take a shot. We manage to kill a bird apiece and are surprised to find that one of them is an Eastern subspecies and the other is a Rio Grande subspecies.

Summers Thereafter. Mom, dad, Monte, Roger, Andy and I all sweat it out each September dove hunting. We burn truckloads of shells, eat endless plates of grilled bacon-wrapped dove breasts, and generally have the time of our lives. At one point I make the longest shotgun shot of my life after just winging a bird and wind up killing a dove at 107 yards with the third shot (no guff).

November 2003. Dad, Monte, and I draw out on a lottery hunt for whitetails at the Cherokee Wildlife Management Area in Oklahoma. During a summer scouting trip to the location we see a nice buck and decide to hunt that spot. Opening morning the buck walks out at 265 yards and I unleash a fusillade from the pump-action Remington. The buck falls and dad and I celebrate. However, during the drag out we are forced to confront a very deep ditch. Dad climbs up the embankment and I heave the deer up to him. We then discover that he could have just walked around the cut-bank but finally make it to the truck, exhausted. We sit on the tailgate, admire the buck, and eat summer sausage, cheese, and crackers. Passersby gawk at the 9 pt and you can see that they are in fact jealous the 15 year-old. When we check the deer in at the station the attendant says, “Dang, did you throw the gun at him when it was empty?” I keep this as a mark of pride but eventually realize you don’t have to shoot every deer multiple times.

Saturday, December 1, 2018

Winter Wonderland

2018 has been a fantastic year for deer hunting. To begin with, my mom harvested a three point buck during Oklahoma’s muzzleloader season. Later in November, dad and I drew out on a coveted lottery hunt for McGee Creek Wildlife Management Area in southeastern Oklahoma where he harvested a six point buck on the second day of hunting. To boot, we picked a passel of delicious smooth and cinnabar chanterelle mushrooms. Oklahoma’s regular firearms season found us taking another four deer as a family, including a nine point buck that walked my way on opening morning. Yet, I’m compelled to relate the tale of the smallest deer that I harvested this year.

After a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday in southeastern Kansas we drove home to settle in just in time for a statewide blizzard that howled with 55+ MPH winds and dumped a fair covering of snow on the Kansas prairies and croplands. While snowbound and putting up Christmas decorations, the worst sensation possible settled on me: I was getting sick before the Kansas firearms opening day. Nonetheless, the night prior to the fateful day I had assembled a frame pack of 30 lbs or so of gear and pulled out my most weather-resistant rifle. I was going to kill a deer, cold or no cold. The alarm sounded way too early but I made a stout cup of tea and downed cold medicine before heading out the door.

NWS Recap of the Blizzard

I arrived at the public hunting area 50 minutes away from my house to find the accumulated snow relatively unmolested by other foot traffic. One other hunter was parked there, but his tracks peeled off early and I knew he wasn’t going to ruin things for me. We were going deep! Some weeks before I had attempted to jump-shoot wood ducks on a creek on the property and had found a thrilling amount of sign—countless tracks, numerous rubs, and at least 17 scrapes. The highest concentration of sign was far into the area, some 1.5 miles pasts the parking spot and scattered along a creek bordering a field of soybeans and corn that had a newly placed highline clearing cut through a piece of timber. It was the sort of area that a deer hunter dreams about, featuring edges, transition zones, and funnels. When I discovered it I placed a waypoint via Google Maps and said, “Yea, verily, here I shall hunt!” Probably, I did not say this—but I thought as much!

Numerous Deer Sign Promised Good Hunting

The walk in was not fun. I had the pack cinched on tight, was plodding through snow in neoprene-rubber boots, and a chest full of mucus was not helping things. Somehow, I arrived on site around 6:39 AM and did not lay down and cry in the snow. Since there was minimal cover on the creek-side I elected to tuck myself into a little brush and sat upon a folding stool that I had packed in with me. Given my vista of open fields and a highline clearing I knew that a longer shot was a possibility. This was a little bit unnatural for me. From 2014-2017 I had killed seven deer and the average shot distance was a mere 76 yards. What is more, I don’t exactly own a “long-range rig” but I do have a couple rifles certainly capable of stretching shots out a bit further that what I had been making. In light of this, I packed along a modified camera tripod that I had painted OD green and to which I had affixed a y-yoke instead of a camera adaptor. This allowed me to set up a field rest that was very solid.

A Steady Rest, A Trusty Rifle

After getting my chair and rest set up I immediately noticed that there was a deer silhouetted against the snowy field several hundred yards away from me. I hurriedly grabbed my rangefinder and lazed the deer at 330 yards. However, when I looked at the scene through my rifle scope things were a bit discouraging. The deer was a really long ways off (further than I had shot one since the early 2000s), the morning sky was still pretty dark, and the deer had reversed course and was returning to the timber edge back to the south. I chose to wait.

The deer vanished but another reappeared around 6:55 AM. At this point the sky had noticeably lightened and the snowfield had practically illuminated the quarry. I adjusted my tripod and prepared to make the shot. There was only one problem: my safety was frozen. I slowly worked the bolt and tried again. The safety unfroze enough to function again. Even at 22 F, excess lubrication of your rifle can do dastardly things! Once I acquired my target I lamented my optics a bit. I had a fine Leupold VX2 3-9x40mm scope, but I had opted for a German #4 reticule which is normally perfect for my hunting style but less than optimal for gunnery at extended ranges. Nonetheless, I had a solid rest, had checked my rifle’s dope with my .338 Winchester Magnum handloads (250 gr. Nosler Partition, Hodgdon H4381SC powder) and felt comfortable making the shot.

.338 Winchester - 250 gr Nosler Partition (G1 .473) - 2,700 FPS

When I squeezed the trigger I heard the unmistakable thump of the heavy Partition striking flesh. After I recovered from the recoil it was evident that the deer had not even made it out of its tracks. I was elated. As a crossed the soybeans I remarked to myself regarding how blessed I had been this season. Upon arrival, I placed my hands on a humanely harvested yearling doe and thought of the many fine meals to come. I applied my tag, dressed the deer, and then looped a length of paracord around the deer’s neck to make an expedient drag system. The snow parted easily and I felt myself warmed as a returned to my overwatch, overjoyed with the day’s success.

How excited can you get over a small deer? Very.

“But why quit now, I thought?” The day had barely begun and I still had an either-sex tag in my pocket! I fished an extra blaze orange cap from my bag and placed it on the deer which I had tucked away in some brush so as to ensure that no one else considered shooting it. Just minutes later a murder of crows descended on the entrails and made a raucous feast. As I watched the crows on and off in the bitter cold I decided that if I was going to stick it out I had better redouble my resolve. I swapped my Stormy Kromer hat for a full face mask, opened a pair of hand-warmers, and retrieved an extra pair of fleece pants for use as a blanket. By the time I had these accoutrements assembled I noticed another animal crossing the field. It was a bobcat! Surprisingly, it didn’t seem to care the least bit about the crows, or the gut pile, or the weird furrow stretching across the open field. It walked with purpose. Just as it reached the opposite edge of the field I fell in disbelief when its mate emerged from the other side—two bobcats! I rarely encounter these secretive cats while hunting so I enjoyed watching them but they disappeared as quickly as they made an entrance.

I then did what stand hunters do. I watched and waited, waited and watched. Geese cackled. Crows cawed. Turkeys yelped. The whole world seemed to be filled with potential and all of God’s creatures had business at hand. Hunting is always a pleasure but when the world is alive and there is snow on the ground it is exceptionally enchanting. When you are afforded the opportunity to view wildlife in their natural environs and without their knowledge of your presence you occasionally get to witness odd comedies. During my wait I listened to a hen turkey for most of the morning. When she appeared on stage she immediately noticed the crows and I could practically hear her say, “What are those guys up to?” She made a direct line for the crows, flushing them off of their buffet, and annoying them to no end. She inspected the pile, probably decided that she preferred frozen soybeans, and marched off satisfied.

In the course of dragging the deer back to my truck I encountered another hunter. Normally I politely nod, ask if they have seen any game, and move along. This gentleman, however, was quite chatty. He not only engaged in conversation but also walked with me out of the public hunting area. What remains a point of pride with me is that upon seeing me drag the deer out he muttered an expletive and said, “You’d better buy a cart, I can’t believe you are going to drag a deer that far out of here.” I think that was just about the best compliment I’ve ever received in the deer woods.

Snow Days are the Best Days

Friday, November 9, 2018

Christmas Gifts for the Woodsman in Your Life

I'm an unapologetic Christmas and gift-giving enthusiast, especially for other outdoor folk. Every year several outdoor publications produce gift guides for sportsman and they vary in quality. If you are shopping for someone who spends a lot of time afield, allow me to offer a few suggestions.

Original Stormy Kromer Cap - $45

https://www.stormykromer.com/the-original-stormy-kromer-cap/

This hat is handsome, functional, and warm. It might have a little too much personality for some, but a cap in old-school red/black plaid is a real looker. If your gift recipient is a big game hunter, pick the blaze version and they are guaranteed to use it every year.

Muck Boot Company Edgewater II - $100

https://www.muckbootcompany.com/collections/tall-boots/products/mens-edgewater-ii-tall-boots-brown

These are great boots for trudging through the snow, muddy fields, or a barnyard. Extremely waterproof, warm, just watch out for barbed wire fences.

Carhartt Chore Coat - $80

https://www.carhartt.com/products/carhartt-mens-outerwear-big-tall/Duck-Chore-Coat-Blanket-Lined-C001

Universal ranch attire. If I had a dime for every deer killed by someone wearing a Carhartt Chore Coat I'd buy many more Carhartt Chore Coats.

Case Mini Finn Hunter Knife -$40

https://caseknives.com/products/leather-mini-finn-hunter-w-leather-sheath

I have carried a version of this knife for well over a decade. I own a lot of hunting knives and this is consistently the most useful pattern. It is perfect for small game and performs big game skinning tasks admirably as well.

Mora Companion - $12

https://morakniv.se/en/product/companion/

This is the best value in the knife world. Period. Full stop. The fit and finish is not great but the 12CR27 steel takes a wicked edge and hones miraculously on a ceramic rod. They can occasionally be found on Amazon for $8. When that sale happens you should buy them by the gross.

2Hawks Woodsman Tomahawk - $125

http://www.2hawks.net/tomahawks/woodsman

I am lucky enough to have a friend who gave me this tomahawk for Christmas several years ago. Since that time I have used it to butcher deer, build brush blinds, set up a tent, and cut enough saplings to build a makeshift road so that I could get my gutless, non-4x4 truck out of a boggy public hunting area. These are gorgeous, functional items.

Frost River Shell Bag - $65

https://www.frostriver.com/shell-bag/

People may call this a man purse or 'murse'---those people have never rambled the countryside with a scattergun in pursuit of game and adventure. These are honest-to-goodness made in Duluth, MN and are invaluable as a lightweight tote. I've filled these with 12 gauge shells, flyfishing gear, persimmons, handguns, and mushrooms.

Messermeister 5 Pocket Padded Knife Bag - $20

https://www.messermeister.com/collections/knife-luggage/products/5-pocket-black-padded-knife-bag-2066-5b

I love this handy knife roll for storing my butchering tools. If I go on a trip, my Messermeister is always in the truck.

Suunto M-9 Wrist Compass - $25

https://www.suunto.com/en-us/Products/Compasses/Suunto-M-9-Black-Black-NH-with-velcro-strap/

I always forget to pack a compass, but this one can be on your person or strapped to a pack with little aforethought. This compass has 'sights' for shooting landmarks and glows in the dark after brief exposure to light.

Petzl Tikka Headlamp - $30

https://www.petzl.com/US/en/sport/classic-headlamps/tikka

In the outdoors headlamps trump flashlights every time. Whether you are working on a knot or gutting a deer you need both of your hands---and no---clenching a Maglite in your mouth does not work well enough. The red light mode does not spook game and is excellent for walking into your hunting area.

Simply Rugged Real Man's Belt - $50

https://www.simplyrugged.com/ecommerce/Real-Man-s-Gun-Belt-Single-Layer-of-Leather.cfm?item_id=171&parent=670

This is quite simply the best belt I have ever owned. I wear one every day and I don't foresee the need to ever purchase a different belt from someone else. This belt works equally well for dress wear or concealed carry.

Buck, Buck, Moose by Hank Shaw - $22

Hank Shaw is arguably the best wild game chef living today. I've had the pleasure of attending two of his cooking seminars and I walked away enriched both times. This book features some of my most favorite recipes of all time: Venison with Cumberland Sauce and Venison Steak Diane. If you decide to purchase a copy of this book, please do it directly from Hank at scrbblr@hotmail.com. By doing this you'll put more cash in the author's hands.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Still Hunting: A Higher Art – Part I

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.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Good Medicine

By the 29^th of November, 2017 I had already been deer hunting hard for twelve days. On the first day that I was able to take rifle in hand I met with a wide 7 pt. whitetail buck amidst roaring winds in Oklahoma’s Northern Crosstimbers. This was the first time that I had shot a truly mature buck on opening day since 2013. Yet, satisfied as I was with this harvest, I was not about to recline by the stove just yet. I was determined to stock the freezer with deer—even if it took hunting hard in two states. Though the first deer came easy, the second proved a greater challenge. Several hundred miles north, I had hunted riverbottoms, oak ridges, and bare-dirt fields with no sight of deer. All of this had been done on dearly-earned vacation days too. Then, on Thursday, the 29^th the nature of my fortune seemed to shift on the wind.

For the evening hunt, I settled on a public hunting area where I had success a few years prior—hoping beyond hope that it had not already been occupied by a blaze orange army of public land hunters. To my surprise, it had not. The frontage of this property was a cut cornfield nearly a half mile deep, which bordered thick timber. I intended to hunt a bottom where I had placed a ladder stand the year before, but my initial survey of the landscape revealed that although the cornfield had long-since been cut, there were two remaining patches of standing corn separated by a mowed channel approximately 50 yards across. I slinked several feet into the woods, bracing against a large oak, and proceeded to weave pliable saplings into a sort of makeshift cross-fence in front of me. I sat at this location for approximately 30 minutes, just long enough for the woods to settle, when I became aware of the din of machinery. “What on God’s green earth is that?”, I thought to myself. Then it hit me—the sound was coming from farm equipment. Caddy-corner from my location and under a mile away was another corn field. It sounded like this one was just now being cut.

Abandoning my brush blind, I took long strides back to my truck with full intent on pre-empting the imagined droves of deer that were hearing the very same corn harvest that was. A farm crew of an unexpectedly high number of pickups, semis, and combines were buzzing around the scene like so many bees. As I hoofed it into the area another semi came up behind me and I couldn’t help but give a sheepish grin when the driver waved at me, bedecked like some sort of gargantuan day-glo orange pumpkin. But, they all knew what I was about. I quickly positioned myself away from the ongoing work and facing a safe shooting zone amidst the double row of standing corn that is often left when public land agricultural fields are harvested.

As the work tapered off and the crew began to head home, animal life seemed to manifest itself from thin air. Birds of all manner descended on the field in cackling, scratching, squadrons. There was so much crop residue on the ground that they had a veritable cornucopia all for the picking. As soon as the last truck pulled away I heard a decidedly mammalian rustling behind me. My back was to a slim finger of timber that separated two forks of the field and I couldn’t believe that something larger than a squirrel had waited out all of the whirring, smoking Fords and John Deeres. But, there it was again—the distinctive rustling of corn stalks just behind me! It was in the worst possible position. I had expected the deer to emerge about 200 yards in front of me and browse towards me; I was in no position to take a shot behind with the .338 rifle laid upon my lap. Instead, as a rustling grew louder, I eased my .44 revolver from the pancake holster on my right hip and prepared to take a one-handed, gunfighter-style shot at the approaching deer.

No such thing happened. As I craned my neck to the right I immediately saw the bushy tail of Canis latrans—the coyote. Coyote and I have come to a little bit of understanding as of late and I’m a bit less prejudiced against him than I was once was (thanks in no small part to Dan Flores’ excellent book American Coyote). Perhaps more importantly, I was not about to ruin what could turn out to be my last best chance. As he sauntered away obliviously I knew that we had reached magic hour. If you’ve spent much time deer hunting you know exactly what I am talking about. Magic hour is the period of last light approximately 30 minutes before sunset to 30 minutes after sunset. Deer, being crepuscular animals, often move about at this time.

Beyond magic hour, however, there was something special about the moment I was experiencing. It wasn’t just the combination of habitat, weather, and timing. It was medicine. Good medicine are those extraordinary moments and places where you are truly immersed in nature and get to see behind the veil. You are able to witness ongoings that seem either too private or too incredible to be experienced by ordinary people. In Tom Brown Jr’s biography Tracker, the conceptualization of medicine is laid out based on Tom’s world-class tracking and his instruction from Apache tracker Stalking Wolf:

Good medicine is any experience so memorable that it just has to be a gift from the spirit-that-moves-through all things. Good medicine announced its presence in marvelous sights, wondrous happenings. Good medicine was also any mystery, no matter how small, whose solution opened to larger, more wondrous mysteries

The cacophony of birds and the close encounter with coyote had me convinced that I was in the middle of good medicine. Yet, strain my eyes as I may in the fading light I was unable to make out the dancing forms of whitetails in the field. The oversized and glowing full moon gave them ample opportunity to wait for the cooler hours of night. I would not put knife to hide this day.

Sunday, December the third was another atypically balmy day for meteorological winter. I returned to the area around 3:30 PM after several hours of still-hunting a few miles down the road. Given that I had expected to shoot a deer resting against a blowdown I was packing an entirely different type of rifle: a Winchester 1885 in Theodore Roosevelt’s favorite .405 Winchester. It wouldn’t allow me to take a deer at 400 yards, but it would anchor a fleeing buck with authority. It was an atavistic arm to choose and being equipped with only iron sights it was probably foolhardy to take it on a public land hunt. But, I enjoyed carrying it and its charisma couldn’t be matched. I walked in with it and a much smaller ditty bag than usual. Instead of a frame-pack full of paraphernalia I simply had a leather belt slide full of .405 rounds that was made by my local leather shop and a waxed canvas parcel which included a headlamp, a spare knife, and surgical gloves. Something about a lighter kit is freeing. It makes you want to walk farther and hunt harder.

At the field’s margin I scanned the perimeter with my binoculars and noted for the first time a fresh-looking rub in a location that I had not hunted since 2015. Since the corn field was immense and I had no real way of knowing where the deer might emerge I figured that a setup near the rub would be as good as any. Thus, I wedged myself against a small cedar and began to wait. My view over the field was limited by the terrain to about 100 yards, but that was perfect for the old .405 rifle. Behind me another large corn field stretched for close to a half mile.

The first unexpected incident occurred when a very confused cottontail rabbit ran into my outstretched boot. It downright jolted me and I said “hey rabbit” far too loudly. At this point I thought that I had probably ruined my chances for a deer but sat it out nonetheless. About 4:50 PM (just the beginning of the magic hour) I turned to examine the field behind me and witnessed two deer walking into its cut rows. The deer were not yet aware of me and were about 100 yards away at this time. However, when I raised the rifle I was unable to make them out in the tang sight. I had not counted on the height of the surrounding prairie grass, which made accurate sighting impossible.

I decided to take a chance. I belly-crawled a few feet past the tallest grass and sat back up. One of the deer had obviously seen the movement and was leaving the scene with a small degree of discomfort. The other yet remained and I was able to place the big brass bead of a front sight on it before it departed. I remember nothing about the shot—neither the trigger breaking nor the heavy recoil lingers in my memory. Yet, the deer was down instantaneously and I rushed over to it, overcome with gladness and a sense of blessing for being able to live out this moment. As I field-dressed the deer and dragged out the half-mile back to my truck I couldn’t help but think that this place was good medicine indeed.