Winter Kill

With the trees bare and the snow plentiful, it was easy to spot the three deer moving in a single file line through the woods towards my stand.  

I slid my cell phone into my jacket pocket and reached for my bow while slipping my finger tips out of my mittens.  With my release secured, I lifted the bow level to my chest and turned my head ever so slightly towards the incoming trio.   

The group, completely unaware of my presence, was led by a doe, followed by a spike buck, and presumably a fawn bringing up the rear. I watched them intently, ensuring that my movements from the tree were obscured by the underbrush below.

With little noise to betray her, the doe had quickly reached the edge of her cover, pausing mid-stride to survey the open path before her.  The bows of a fallen pine temporarily obscured her body, but after a few seconds of deliberation she stepped forward into an opening and paused yet again. 

As she stood there completely exposed, her two companions followed silently behind, both animals now obscured by the same fallen pine that a moment before had been her refuge.  With the pin of my sight perfectly illuminated against her body, I hesitated and considered waiting for the trailing buck. 

As I questioned my target, the doe turned her head and looked directly toward me.  With the bow fully drawn, my face was largely obscured and fortunately for me I must have melted into the tree.  The doe moved her head in a circular pattern, possibly trying to focus, or maybe attempting to draw me out.  

I've never sat so perfectly still. 

Confident that I was not a threat, she turned her head back in the opposite direction.  Without any further hesitation I pulled the trigger of my release.  The arrow flew forty yards and sliced into her with a loud ’thwack’.  Seemingly hit, she turned 90 degrees to her left and flew back into the underbrush with the buck and fawn trailing close behind. 

I sat motionless in the stand, 99% certain that I had hit her.  The adrenaline was coursing through me with the satisfaction of a dead deer just beyond my field of view.   

I decided to stay put in the tree for the next hour, hoping she would bed down relatively close by and bleed out before nightfall.  In all honesty, that 1% of doubt mixed with an hour to contemplate ones shooting prowess is agonizing.   

With the hour nearly up, I was about to stand when I spotted three more deer emerging from the woods.  I was reticent to alert these newcomers of my presence, so as before, I sat motionless watching this new group perform the same ritual movements as the group that preceded them. 

As before, the lead doe approached the fallen pine with two fawns in tow.  Just as she was about to reveal herself, she stopped abruptly and turned her head to the left, scanning the landscape behind her.  I assume it was the presence of the previous group still lingering in the woods, but instead of moving on, the three newcomers decided to stop and feed. 

So I sat and waited.    

What had been a relatively sunny day had slowly transformed into a gloomy afternoon with the prospect of nightfall less than twenty minutes away.  I watched patiently as the new trio foraged back through the woods towards my hopefully fallen doe.  Fearing the oncoming darkness and the prospect of leaving a deer overnight, I started to descend from my stand. 

Turning on the ladder, I immediately focused on the outline of a deer and realized yet another doe was attempting to cross a path directly behind me.  Hesitating for a moment, I took in the scene and discovered it was not one deer, but in fact four were attempting to silently pass through. 

While amazed at their numbers and proximity, I was less patient with this next group. Intent on getting out of the tree, I descended the ladder swiftly spooking these latecomers back into the woods.   

I approached the spot where I thought I had hit the doe, and was discouraged by the lack of any blood on the freshly fallen snow.  I surveyed the area for a few minutes until I stumbled across the arrow, which was covered in blood and tallow from the tip of the broadhead all the way to the fletching, appearing to have bisected her completely.

Without any blood to lead my way, I followed the tracks that best matched the direction she had retreated.  My spirits had been buoyed by the discovery of the arrow, and about fifty yards from its resting place, I was rewarded with my first spot of blood.  

Shortly thereafter I found several larger areas where it appeared she had laid down and then several areas of spray, indicating that she was aspirating blood from her lungs. 

As I followed the blood, the trail seemed to all but disappear.  Both panic of a lost deer, and the darkness of nightfall began to creep in swiftly.  I continued forward on the path, and to my relief, blindly stumbled across more blood.  

At that very moment, three deer spooked up to my right and ran deeper into the darkening landscape.  Assuming one of them was my doe and hoping to keep her close to this area, I conceded my quest for the evening leaving the woods empty handed.

The next morning, accompanied by my wife and son, we made our way back to last spot of blood that I had found the night before.  From there we criss-crossed the forest floor following a single path of blood.  For nearly forty-five minutes we trudged through the snow until finally, having passed two larger patches of crimson, I spied my fallen quarry.   

It appeared that in the doe's final moments she had circled around a small outcropping of trees and had fallen over with her legs outstretched.   

Kneeling beside her, I was grateful that she was not wasted to the woods and I let out a victory cry of satisfaction.  My son asked if I wanted to do it again, and I asked if he wanted to join me, and together we yelled our victory cry into the woods. 

With her discovery, in those precious woods in Fairfield Township, my two year drought for a deer as well as my 2016 hunting season had come to a triumphant end surrounded by those that I love the most.  

The Fast & Furious

I had just finished setting out the decoys and was tucking myself in, when I heard the faint cluck of a lone goose drift airily from the drainage pond to my east.  Her lone call was a stinging reminder of an errant shot that had brought her down but just out of reach the day before. 

As I do most mornings when in the field, I promised myself that today I would shoot better than I did the day before.  In preparation for the morning hunt, I had purchased a box of HEVI-Metal BB.  While more expensive than others, I’ve always had a soft spot for the brand and fantastic results in the field.  Hevi-Metal's tagline says it all, "I didn’t come this far to miss”. 

Nestled into my blind with a perfect cover and a perfect view I was ready for the days hunt to begin, eagerly awaiting the first birds to approach. I waited quietly.  And waited.  And waited some more.  I laid there idly for nearly four hours, and with the late season hunt seemingly a bust, I was hesitant but ready to concede the day.   

Standing for the first time in hours, I stepped out of my blind into the field and was rewarded almost immediately with motion to my right.  Flying in from the west, a pair of Canada’s finest made their approach toward the decoys as they sliced silently through the afternoon sky.   

I did my best to crouch, run, and leap simultaneously back into my blind - I was grateful to be hunting alone at that moment.  The pair of geese flew past my spread well out of range.  The lead bird flew diagonally between my decoys and the drainage pond to the east.  The second goose, however, unexpectedly broke away from its partner and with a hard turn landed in the north end of the pond.  
   
Surprised to see the second bird land, I figured it must have spied my missed quarry from the day before and felt it was a safe resting place.  Knowing the lead bird could turn around and join its brethren, I held out hope that my day was not finished.  In one swift motion I pulled the shotgun to my chest as I lowered myself into the blind and shut the canopy doors. 

Within minutes I was rewarded for my vigilance with a familiar hail echoing behind me.  Seconds later, two geese emerged into my periphery headed due south between me and the drainage pond.  The lead bird in the duo turned in a large arc to the west toward the outer edge of my spread, flying in a path directly in front of me from left to right.   

With its wings cupped and quickly descending I sat up, cognizant of the trailing goose but focused on the first.  With the bird forty yards out and looking in a different direction I chose to not rush the shot. Pulling just in front of the bird I gently pulled the trigger and watched it topple to the ground. 

I quickly pivoted to the second target, the wearier of the two, which had already managed to pick up speed and altitude in an effort to evade me.  I lined up on her and pulled the trigger twice, coming up short with the two remaining rounds.  With the chamber empty, I watched helplessly as the second goose flew westward towards the greenhouse, honking angrily as if to alert any potential witnesses.     

With the bird out of sight I regained my focus on the first bird that had been dropped, it was struggling to make its way to the drainage pond.  As I began reloading my shotgun, the second goose made a miraculous reappearance. Flying a little higher and moving quite a bit faster this time around, she skirted the outer edge of the spread heading away from me.   

I sat up and swung the barrel nearly a full birds length in the lead and pulled the trigger.  Her body went instantly rigid, and with her wings motionless her 40 yard fall to the ground was punctuated with a hard crash. 

This last volley of shotgun fire had proven too much for the geese hidden away in the drainage pond.  What I had thought was a pair of geese turned out to be a flock of seven.  Emerging from the water, they flew in a v-formation to the left of the decoys, weary but completely unaware that their current trajectory would take them directly overhead.   

As they approached, I threw open the canopy doors once more and took aim at the lead bird.  I waited for a moment and pulled the trigger.  The lead bird was hit nearly instantly and spun to the ground like a helicopter crashing not five yards away. 

And with that, what had been a dismal day in the blind, ended in a blaze of gunfire and a limit in hand. 

Morning Fog

As I stepped out of the cabin to load our gear into the truck, I was taken aback by the change in temperature from the morning before.  At 32 degrees, the mercury had plunged nearly 30 degrees in less than twelve hours.

Crossing the driveway, Moose hurried past, anxious to take her spot in the truck. While my own enthusiasm was tempered by the early hour, it was clear Moose was ready for birds on the wing. “Settle down”, I cooed to her, my breath rising into the morning air, illuminated by the light of the full moon overhead.

My little boy, barely awake sauntered past, his head hung low and tilted drowsily to one side.  Despite the morning chill, he sat there with his coat strewn over his lap.  “Buddy, we have a half-hour 'till we get to the boat, take a little snooze.”  He didn’t need much coaxing. With his jacket quickly whisked over his chest and his chair eased back, he was off to sleep.

The path to our boat is a series small county roads that grow continually smaller as they snake around the Whitefish chain of lakes.  As we drove by the Manhattan Beach Supper Club, I was surprised to see a thick bank of fog sweeping over the building closest to the road, enveloping the entire top floor in a complete haze.

“The path to our boat is a series small county roads that grow continually smaller...”

The sight was so impressive, that having reached a clearing in the woods, I stopped the truck to take a longer look. The fog, or possibly steam, extended across the bay creeping into the fringes of Trout Lake.  It was a remarkable sight, hanging low like a blanket, silhouetted against the predawn sky illuminated by the ethereal light of the moon.

Continuing on, Charlie and I made our way to our little lake off of our little road.  The moon was our companion for the better part of the morning, allowing me to load our boat and cross the lake without any need for a flash light.  The sky was so clear, the moon shown so bright, and not a breath of wind to rock our little boat.

Navigating to a little pocket in the back corner of Arrowhead, the water emanated that familiar steam.  It was a gentle reminder that the mornings temperature was colder than the water below.  While not as impressive as the fog blanketing Manhattan Beach, our little lake steamed for hours as the morning sun dispatched our strident moon.

And while our routine was so normal, so practiced in a tradition from years before, it was somewhat different.  The unfamiliar whine of emergency sirens driving hurriedly in the not so distant countryside pierced the typical silence that would otherwise consume us.

Other than the sirens, our morning slipped by without any other disruptions.  In spite of all of our good intentions, the birds had decided to take the day off or had seemingly vanished from this part of Crow Wing County.

Conceding that the birds were not to be, Charlie and I stood up and started packing up the boat for the journey home.

Charlie surveyed the lake before him, “Daddy, how did you even get us back here?”  I could not help but laugh aloud. While push-pulling the boat has always been a daddy activity, Charlie slept most of the morning and missed our venture through the rice.  Looking around Charlie said, “Daddy, we’re gonna have to wiggle a lot to get our boat out of here”. And wiggle we did.

“Daddy, we’re gonna have to wiggle a lot to get our boat out of here.”

Driving back to civilization, we retraced our mornings route back to the cabin.  As we came to a bend in the road, we approached Manhattan Beach Supper Club.  This time, there were policemen in the road slowing traffic.  I assumed a car accident, but as the Supper Club came into view we were shocked to find the majority of the Villas attached to the main building had been ravaged by a terrible fire.

A gaping whole in the roof exposed what was left of the multi-level structure.  I knew instantly that what I had seen earlier that morning was not fog, nor was it steam. It was smoke billowing from a raging fire within.

I learned latter that day via news reports that no one had been injured in the fire.  I was so very grateful.  Charlie and I had driven past Manhattan Beach forty-five minutes before first responders received their first call for help.

Other than the moon, I never saw the flicker of a flame nor did I smell the acrid stink associated with a fire.  For me, that morning was only a blanket of fog and moonlight.

When given the opportunity to make a difference, I could not help but see the beauty instead of the danger.  Rather than questioning what I saw, my head was lost in the stars above, with little thought to the realities below.

Boy & Bird

The morning was clear, calm, and unseasonably cold. What Charlie had mistaken for fog, was actually steam rising from off the lake.  Tucked in our boat in small niche of rice and water lilies, the birds sliced through the predawn light, mere shadows and phantoms, made real by the air thundering through their beating wings.

Shortly after day break I had managed to connect with a lone hen Mallard.  While Charlie was only able to watch, his excitement and happiness was palpable, setting the tone for our morning hunt.  “Can you believe it Daddy, we already have a bird!”

A short time later, a hen Wood Duck flew in from the east and landed with a crash in our bay, coasting to the outer edge of our decoy spread.  Instinctively, I tightened my grip on the Beretta braced against my shoulder.  Moose, no stranger to the rustle of wings on the water, let out a soft whine and sat up quickly to survey our spread.

As I reached out a hand to calm our eager retriever, Charlie leaned in and with hushed excited tone asked, “Daddy, can I get this one?”  My little boy has been patient all season, and his anticipation for his first bird has grown a little more with every outing.  Today was no different, and the opportunity before him could not be any better, “Sure, thing buddy, he is all yours.”

In my experience Wood Ducks are notoriously difficult to decoy, and I have learned first hand that when they realize they have landed amongst imposters, they will not stick around for very long.  Time was not on our side.

I drew my gun on the bird as a precaution while Charlie slowly stood to take aim.  It is amazing how time can virtually stand still in situations like this. I sat there watching, waiting, hoping that my little boy would shoot true.

Our hen surveyed her surroundings, making small, gentle circles in the rice. Then, just as quickly as she had landed, she burst from the water retreating to the skies.  She quickly gained speed and altitude, reaching the edge of our niche just as Charlie’s 20 gauge erupted beside me.  

With his quarry hit square, she buckled and plummeted lifelessly from the sky.  Carried forward by her own momentum she crashed with splash just out of sight.

Charlie has been by my side for many years, watching, waiting, hoping to be a duck hunter.  Today, just like his Daddy 15 years before him, Charlie brought home is first hen Woodie and in doing so, came home a duck hunter.

Birds of a Feather

I was cleaning a bird we had taken earlier that morning, and came across two pellets. While encountering shot is not uncommon, what was unique with this bird, is that one of the pellets was old and healed over.  The luster of the older pellet had long since faded away.  

It was apparent to me that this goose was not new to the fall hunt. While it had managed to survive a previous encounter with a previous hunter, today was not its day. 

I wonder how many times I’ve shot at a bird and swore I hit it, only to watch it fly off into the horizon?  What this encounter has taught me, is that there is another hunter out there, we birds of a feather, who could swear they too hit a bird, only to have watched it fly off into the horizon. 

Begin Anew

I'm tired and ready for bed. Just the same, it is nearly impossible to shut down for the night. This of course is an annual ritual of sorts— when it comes to the night before opener. Like a child before Christmas, the anticipation for the coming weekend is palpable.

With my gear finally packed and my son dreaming of birds on the wing, I'm grateful and ready for the hunt to begin anew.