Is it just me or does some sort of time warp occur during deer season? As I sit here delicately gnawing on a venison steak and recalling the many events of the past month, I’m trying to decide just where to start. I last posted about a month ago during bow season. At the time, I was seriously bummed about the doe I had shot but was unable to find until the next morning. It was warm that night so the meat had spoiled. I felt really bad about the doe. I felt even worse because it was a really nice doe and my freezer was getting empty.
I had one more day to bow hunt after that, and I ended up spending the day looking at … turkeys.
It’s nice to know there are turkeys around, but come turkey season you know I‘ll see nothing but deer. Ha. That’s just the way it goes.
Here’s the empty field – as you can see, no deer.
Perfect shooting lane – if a deer was in it.
In the end, this year’s bow season left me empty-handed and down an arrow. Which leaves me with two. Oh, Santa? Care to bring me some Parker crossbow arrows? I’m used to bringing home at least one deer during bow season, but it seems like ever since I traded hunting in the Blue Ridge Mountains for the flatlands of the Northern Neck, I haven’t had much luck. At least it’s warmer!
And no matter where you are, it’s always pretty when the sun goes down.
So, muzzleloader came in the first Saturday of November, and ever since then the month has been a flurry of activity — driving back and forth to the country, into the office, and then back to the country. And then back to the office. Throw in raking leaves, mowing the grass, and all that other home maintenance stuff that needs to fit in between, and yeah — you got it. I’m tired!
The Friday before opening day of muzzleloader season, I left work a little early and drove down to the country. Even though I left early, traffic sucked, so I got there a lot later than I had anticipated. After loading my muzzleloader, getting my hunting gear together for the morning, and finally laying my head on the pillow, 5:00 am seemed to come very early.
The next morning, I headed out to hunt while my other half stayed in bed. I know this picture seems a little backwards, but that’s okay with me — I wanted to hunt, he wanted to sleep. I figured if I was lucky, breakfast might be ready when I got back.
I was fortunate to be able to get dressed in a relatively warm garage, then walk a short 15 minutes across a field of winter wheat to my tree stand. The only thing between me and the stand (that morning, anyway) was a very large, very loud and very angry dog that threatened to rip me apart on my way. I had permission to hunt on this land, and the angry beast was in a pen, but it sure looked to me like he could easily fly over the top of the fence if he wanted to. Why do dogs wag their tail while they’re threatening to kill you, anyway? And why is it so much scarier in the dark, even when you have a gun in your hand?
Okay, so I made my way through the wheat field — going the loooooong way around the nice doggie — and arrived at my stand. I was surprised that I was able to find it so easily in the dark, given my notorious lack of directional skills. But still, I found it, made my way through the mess of brambles surrounding it (OWW), climbed up the ladder, then quietly settled in about 30 minutes before sunrise. I was PSYCHED — opening day of muzzleloader, my favorite season — WOO-HOO!
Given my recent lack of hunting success, I wasn’t really counting on seeing much other than the house I had just left across the field. But I kept watch on the field laid out in front of me, thinking that if any deer were to appear, they would come out of the woods on the other side of the field and across the road to bed down in the woods behind me. Since I knew that’s where they liked to bed down, that was the most likely direction I expected them to come from. If they came at all.
It was a beautiful morning and the sun was just beginning to rise. A rooster crowed. A dog barked (not the scary one). A flock of geese flew overhead in a V-formation, honk-honk-honking. Periodically, I’d scan the fields through my binoculars. Nope, nothing. At least it’s not cold, I remember thinking. I really hate hunting in the cold.
And then, just a little after 7:00 a.m., a doe suddenly appeared a mere 20 yards to my left. As so often happens, she appeared out of nowhere. She hadn’t made a sound and I hadn’t seen her approach. She had to have come out of the woods behind me, not in front of me, which just goes to show you never know where they’re going to show up. It was still so early — the sun was barely up — and I wasn’t ready!
As I tried to sloooooowly raise my gun into position, she must have heard it, because she stopped in her tracks and looked around. I swear she looked right at me. Thank God for camouflage clothing and a brief stint in mannequin modeling (really). But the doe had been spooked and she headed back into the woods. Damn. Once she was back behind the trees, she stopped and turned, considering that field of tasty, tender winter wheat, and once again walked out and into the field.
It was like watching one of my teenage sons making a really bad decision. Not that they ever made a bad decision. Ever.
Having frozen in place when the doe first bolted, I tried to quietly get into shooting position again. I thought I was being pretty stealthy, but again she heard me, turned around and started to slowly step back towards the woods. We played this song and dance one more time before I finally had my gun where I wanted it and she was finally set on heading away from the edge of the woods and into the field.
Okay, so she was about 30 yards in front of me, a perfectly easy shot, but I struggled to sight her in between the branches in front of me — they made for great cover but a lousy shooting lane. Up a little, down a little, to the right, to the left — what the hell? Where’s the damn doe? ARGGGHHH. Stupid tree! (I know, its not the tree that’s stupid.)
FINALLY, I had her in the crosshairs, got a firm grip on my muzzleloader, pulled the hammer back, TRIED to slow my breathing down (thump, thump, thump), and took my shot. BOOM! I prayed she wouldn’t take off for the woods like the last doe. As the smoke cleared, I saw that my aim had been good and I’d hit her just behind the front shoulder. I couldn’t believe it, but after she was hit she ran straight towards me and then landed right in front of my stand. Talk about convenient.
Well now, that was easy. And it wasn’t even 7:15!
After saying a prayer of thanks to God for providing this food, I quietly apologized to the doe. Sorry, girl. I don’t know if there will ever come a time that I don’t feel bad after harvesting a deer. Harvesting. Killing. I know it’s all the same, but “harvesting” sounds so much kinder, so much more removed.
I guess I could be like my girlfriends and just say that I caught a deer. Every time I come back from hunting, they ask, “Did you catch anything?” Really? I’m pretty sure they understand that I use a gun, but maybe they think I run after the deer with a giant butterfly net or something. As you might guess, my friends don’t hunt. They think I’m strange.
A few minutes after shooting the doe, I got the text message I was hoping for. “Hey, coffee’s on and breakfast is ready — bacon, eggs and toast. Was that you that shot?” Um, maybe. Like I said, this picture may be a bit backwards, but it works for me!
COMING UP: More deer hunting, processing deer meat, an unwelcome guest on my way to the stand, baby raccoons, squirrel hunting and gutting my first buck. In the dark. Alone.
Shedding Suburbia 