I was uneasy but excited heading back out alone in the dark to look for my deer. I’d finally outsmarted the old doe that’d given me the slip on several hunts, but she didn’t drop at the shot like the one a couple weeks ago had. Things seldom go the same way twice in the outdoors.
A warmup to the upper 30s melted some of the deep snow and allowed for easier access to food, so the deer were out early. I’d been watching five that were out of range (for my skill at least) when two small does crept up from the hill leading to the creek. This time I was ready, with rifle resting on the edge of the blind, when she customarily peeked her head over the crest and stared directly at me before ascending to feed.
After an eternity, she was almost broadside, but a quick turn put her slightly quartering away. The shot felt good and she bucked, but turned and ran low back down the hill, out of sight and crashing. Such an emotional and uncertain time when they run off out of sight. But the hit seemed good enough to walk to the hill’s edge 75 yards away to see if a finishing shot was necessary.
That’s when my heart sank. Dark blood meant liver, and possibly stomach, and while I was hopeful the bullet exited through the far-side lung, I decided to give her some time and retreat the quarter mile to a friend’s house for advice, extra batteries for the flashlight, borrow his jet sled, and shed some clothing; if I found her, it would be an arduous drag out.
Hunt anything long enough and you’ll deal with loss — from loss of an opportunity to the actual animal. I lose a few ducks each year despite being proficient with a shotgun and having a very good retriever, and while it always bothers me, it doesn’t compare to losing a deer. Maybe it’s the size or majesty of such an animal, but it haunts me. I’ve lost two so far since taking up the sport in 2010, and though I had a lot of initial blood and felt the deer was dead, I feared it would become number three, food for the coyotes that live in the area instead of my family.
But my friend prayed with me, as did my wife and daughter on the phone, all of which worked because the track job was easy, with dark blood giving way to brighter color indicating a lung had been hit, and up ahead, a beautiful old doe lay less than 100 yards from where I’d shot.
The borrowed batteries and jet sled were life savers as I performed my first “in-the-field” dressing of a deer, preferring to bring them home to take care of all that business with a few more amenities, but given the hit was a little farther back, I had no choice. My knife was not as sharp as I’d wanted, and I didn’t have a bone saw for the pelvic region, but I made do, cleaning off with warm-ish snow and hearing the coyotes getting closer and enjoying just being a part of the night with each heave of the animal up the steep slope leading to the corn field.
That experience taught me a lot about deer hunting, like being prepared for any contingency: packing extra batteries, a better drag rope, two sharp knives, a sled to assist in dragging to the truck, and being willing and able to dress the animal in the field. And when I hung the deer in my garage, it was clear I needed to skin it then instead of leaving it on for a couple days like I’d done with every other deer I’d ever shot. I will always skin them the same day from now on — it was infinitely easier when the animal was still warm … not even comparable, frankly.
While you’re no doubt nodding your head and saying, “Duh, Smith,” I admit to enjoying the whole learning curve, and have never assumed I have hunting and fishing all figured out; talk about boring! In fact, it was a year of learning in many respects, from deer to ducks to fish, some or all of which you might continue to say, “duh” to, but I’d still like to share anyway, sort of a “year in review.” So, without further ado, I learned:
… to stay out much longer during the rut. I shot my six-point at 11:15 a.m. when I normally would have been home for at least an hour.
… that at least in my small area, deer move early and often during a warmup when food is more accessible compared to adverse and ultra-cold conditions.
… that wind direction supersedes scent control, even though guys who routinely shoot huge bucks are hyper conscious of scent. I’m sure it helps — or at least doesn’t hurt — but wind discipline is more important. I shot that six-point at five yards, and had a number of other deer within that range all season while wearing a wool sweater that smelled like a combination of cigars, my dog, and last night’s dinner.
… that we need more does harvested, period. The state has made it as easy as ever to take a pile of antlerless deer, but sportsmen need to change their perspective to really see the benefit of managing the herd by taking more does.
… for the fifth time that the best deer hunting camouflage I know of is a black F-150 because they can’t stop running into my truck.
… that my safety harness doubles as a crude toe rope. I also learned not to forget the darned tow rope in the first place.
… ducks are more calendar migrators than I originally thought, and to hunt the spots on the same days each year when I’ve had success, despite wind direction. Every waterfowler — me included — wants a northwest wind and cold temps, but at least for the first half of our northern season, ducks will move through certain spots on certain dates, often regardless of wind direction. Knowing this will help concentrate hunting efforts and days off from work.
… that I love exploring the UP in a truck loaded with canoe and decoys and finding little floodings to hunt. I also learned that my dog, who loves to cuddle with me on the couch, feels like the back seat is her own personal bedroom and is completely unwilling to share space with me and my sleeping bag.
…how to streamer fish for trout more productively by giving action to the fly with the rod tip and stripping in the slack line instead of stripping in to impart action. The results were instantly positive.
… that steelhead fishing isn’t near as good as it used to be, and I’m not sure why.
… that some salmon fishermen are incapable of picking up their own trash, and again, I’m not sure why.
… I can hit every merganser flying by at mach two but miss a mallard hovering over the decoys … a lot.
… that the two-day duck season split is a complete joke. Our boat launches are typically inaccessible and most bodies of water have frozen over, which concentrates ducks — and therefore hunters (many of whom are from the southern zone, by the way) — into very few places. Until the state is willing to realistically consider an extended split like so many other states employ, this will continue to cause friction among hunters and create competition out of a sport that should be anything but.
… the older I get, I enjoy more “alone” time hunting and fishing, and the buddy who rarely hunts but calls for an invite when the greenheads are in or the steelhead are biting doesn’t get an invite anymore. In a nutshell, I like spending time with hunters and fishers, not shooters and catchers, if that makes sense (introducing new folks to the sport is something completely different).
… to always be grateful to the Lord for simply being able to go. One of my favorite hunts this season was a cold, deer-less sit for one hour, where the air was as fresh as I’d ever breathed, and I could listen for miles.
I wonder what I’ll learn in 2025.