Went to the country; nothing memorable

I kept the "crutch" that got me out of the woods last year

Bowhunting Madness

Archery overwhelms me, starting about the middle of July. It’s time to start practicing with my bow and to begin scouting for fall deer- hunting. I got started in this game a half- century ago, with homemade bows fashioned from blackjack vine. Over the years, I progressed through dime-store models and on to the solid fiberglass bows which could fling a real arrow. I recall that we punched a lot of holes in the tin garage; set a target against the wall and back up, all the way to the fence. No one ever explained that it would be better to stand close and put every shot into the target, gradually working for more distance. I finally managed to buy myself a “real” hunting bow, must have been 1965 or’66. My left- hand model had to be special- ordered; dealers in this part of the country were barely aware that such things existed. I am right- handed, with left eye dominant. It took me a long time and much trial- and- error, with emphasis on error, to figure out my difficulty with aiming. I just kinda bungled along, read what I could find, and worked things out as I went. If formal lessons or even a pro shop had been available back then, I might have saved some frustration. My new hunting bow was a state- of- the- art recurve, laminated fiberglass with a beautifully grained wood riser. A Ben Pearson make, seems they named the model a Javelina. My new bow was a short 52 inch length, and had a draw of 50 pounds. That draw was a bit heavy, I knew, but I would surely become a great hunter. It would be powerful enough to bring down anything in this country, and only a little light for grizzly and moose. Some years ago I practiced too much and stress- injured my drawing arm and shoulder; I had to stop shooting, though I had gotten pretty good and could really plunk them into the bullseye. As a result, I went out and bought one of those bows with “training wheels”. With compound bows, the greatest pull is at the beginning, rather than at full draw, so the different mechanics made it manageable. Also, I fitted it up with sights, so that I could maintain accuracy with less need for practice. I have used the compound for several years, but it doesn’t have the light weight, clean lines, and romance of the stick bow. I keep coming back to the old bow, although the compound is obviously more efficient. My old recurve bow was leaned across my backpack when I crashed that ladder last October; I strapped it to the pack and dragged it out of the woods.

Wow, that was an exciting Friday afield

I went to the camp Thursday; got off work at 9 pm and it was midnight before I finally crawled into my fart- sack. I must make a check- list; I forgot the cell phone and have come to depend on its alarm- clock feature. I got out before the sun rose, but it was already light. Walking was quieter since the rain, though it was not nearly enough; still dry. I hunted through the flat along Tunica Bayou and found a likely spot to place my tree- stand (seat). I had a good backdrop; there was a scattering of sizeable trees, and sparse undergrowth. Vines and brush have turned my arrows before. It felt cold after the record 85- degree highs a few days ago, but it was still, and there wasn’t as much frost as I expected. I saw fresh deer droppings in several spots near the trail, so I knew that deer had fed through the area during the night.

I am very angry about the highway department moving to get more of my land. They played games with me for years, and have not yet satisfied their agreement from the last time. Then the power line has the same brand of games and lies and underhandedness and attitude. They have me terribly upset, I am losing sleep, and they are eating at my leisure moments.

Things were quiet until the light grew and the squirrels started thrashing branches and gnawing nuts. Then the crows started cawing and the chipmunks were scurrying around. Amazing how something so small can stir up such a racket in the leaves. Things got quiet again when the hawks started circling, real quiet! There were three big ones, rounded bodies with small heads, and rounded wings. The breezes kicked up about 8:30 and I got cold. It was about 25 degrees and 10 to 15 mph gusts were cutting into my too- light clothing. The winds were variable, carrying my scent first one way and then another and I threatened to give it up and go make coffee. I stuck it out, and it eventually warmed up. About 11 am, I heard walking in the leaves and a doe was following along the same trail I had taken into the area. She didn’t seem alerted, but had direct view of me. I leaned back close to the tree and held still as she turned to my right. Staying seated, I got my bow up as she crossed behind some bushes. She stopped, quartering toward me, obscured by brush. However, I had a clear view of her neck, and that’s my preferred rifle target. I could just taste a Thanksgiving roast. Hunkered and slumped against the tree, I couldn’t draw the bow. It took three tries to come to full draw, and it got worse from there! Her angle was bad, my position was awkward, my composure was shot, and the wind might switch around any time. I let fly at that neck, misjudged the range, and made a poor and noisy release. I have long felt that a neck shot is either a clean kill or a clean miss. Experience has taught me that there is a lot of empty air around a deer’s neck. When that arrow zipped over her, she bolted about 10 yards, stopped again behind some bushes, then strolled leisurely away. She stepped down into a gully and out of sight, never knowing where that big “hornet” came from. It was a miss, reminding me that I need practice and preparation, but it was exciting; I get the shakes from telling the tale.

I headed back to camp for lunch and needed a nap, too. Deciding to hunt the same spot for the afternoon, I scouted and found where the doe had come out of that gully and crossed Tunica Bayou. I went far out of my way and through some difficult terrain, to return to my stand from downwind, but I could have saved the effort; nobody else was home there. I set up on the same tree again. The wind whipped and game was scarce, and I was feeling discouraged by the morning’s outcome, but I gritted my teeth some more over my anger with the highway department, and hung in there. I heard a power transformer burn up in the distance, followed by chain saws running.It was getting late and the light was fading, but the winds were finally laying down. I heard him walking before I saw him. A fine young buck, maybe a 2- year- old, his dark reddish- brown color was obvious, even in the dim light. He passed behind a tree, and I must have made some sound when I stood, because he stopped and looked straight at me. He had a nice rack, moderately sized, but evenly shaped. I couldn’t make out antler tines in the dim light, but would guess about a six- point from the size. I was hugging the tree. They require hunter’s orange during gun seasons and I was sorely missing my camouflage. He couldn’t make me out, but knew he didn’t like it. He kept sticking his snout up in the air, but I had the wind advantage on him. Finally, he continued on his trail. As his head went behind the next tree trunk, I drew and held on the spot where he would step out. Only he didn’t step out; he disappeared! My draw blocked sight for an instant, as he stopped for further consideration of me. He was hidden from me by the extended bow and the tree trunk, and the dim light didn’t help. I stood there, at full draw, studying the situation. I don’t believe in ghosts; he couldn’t just vanish. Then I picked him out! I could make out his body and a leg. He was broadside, and I had the range. My 20- yard sight pin was just right. But whether that was a front leg or a back leg would make a world of difference! So I stood there, at full draw, looking for a head or tail or leg angle to orient me. I was confident of the range, and had a clear shot at the portion I could see. I couldn’t confirm the target before my arms started quivering and, by that point, I couldn’t have made an accurate shot. When I had to let down the draw, he snorted once and trotted off. That was his chest! I had blown a second opportunity today. He stood off in the gathering dark and snorted and stomped several times, to mock me, I suppose.

But that’s OK. I still beat them at their own game. I was up close and personal; I was inside their defenses.