Post by BEA on May 16, 2007 13:02:43 GMT -4
..it may be too long for this forum but I've received a couple "thumbs up's" from folks who check out my blog so I thought I would post it at here as well. I've got a few longer stories on there as well if anyone has the time to read them ! sorry bout the odd lines in the middle-don't know what happened.
www.skinnymoose.com/bearsnbows/
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Slipping gently out the camp’s back door and into the damp air and velvety cover of the pre-dawn darkness was reward enough for rising so early I immediately decided. Just a hint of decomposing autumn leaves to tingle my olfactory senses and the melodious gushing of a nearby brook seemed to set my hunters heart in harmony with the environment.
Somewhere down river a coyote serenaded a farewell to the murkiness of another eve’s hunt. Dawn would soon be arriving in it‘s ritualistic manner. In an peculiar way, it was soothing to know I wasn’t the only hunter nomadically roaming the river valley. I wondered how the song-dog fared with his hunting - and indeed - how would I ?
Reaching the end of the dew soaked field a verdict had to be reached on which path to take. To the east, down to the river where a carefully hung tree stand awaited over a well used trail which outwardly appeared to ramble aimlessly through a quarter acre of alders? But I knew it led to where the deer spent their days avoiding detection.
The other option was to ascend the steep hill which compromises the Western Ridge of the valley? Up where the deer’s movements have not been as painstakingly patterned as where the comfortable aluminium stand hangs in a large cat spruce?
Seconds turn to minutes…..a decision must be made. The Eastern horizon is beginning to turn crimson…a pair of Black Ducks whistle overhead…squirrels and songbirds begin to chatter. My heart quickens it‘s pace.
Quietly setting down my recurve….I remove the heavy wool sweater I had on in anticipation of sitting for several hours and turn towards the ridge. The lure of the unknown, of roaming over that steep hardwood hill was strong and I succumbed to it’s influence.
Today I would hunt as my father, and forefathers. This day, I would practice the time proven art of still hunting and if lucky, the opportunity to attempt a stalk on an unsuspicious buck.. A monumental task at best. Complicated by the traditional bow I was using. The need, no wait - responsibility - to get especially close would be the principal factor to overcome if I was to release one of my cherished cedar arrows made for me by my son..
Climbing the hill, the lack of deer sign is discouraging. I stopped for a rest while watching a Grouse search for it‘s breakfast. It’s a big male bird and in just a few days he will be fair game for one of my arrows. But for now the season is closed and so rightfully he is spared. The longer I watch…the more I realize just how magnificently beautiful those game birds are.
The hardwood ridge is at long last within sight. For many years the deer have travelled this secluded ridge top. More often than not, a scrape line appears about mid November. Usually buck rubs scar the trees.
On this day however, there is no scrape line. No rubs. I think back to past hunts, on this very ridge, that I’ve shared with my father. I recall with fondness the many deer we drug off that rim together and long for another successful hunt with him and wonder where all the deer have gone. I double check the wind and head to another area.
Approaching a sizeable cutover I pause ahead of where the tree-line ends and judiciouslydissect the edges. For deer are creatures of the edge. And so should a wise hunter be.
Particularly a hunter who desires to arrow a deer with a traditional bow with it’s limited
range.
The meagre cover was disconcerting. To stalk a buck here would necessitate a near
flawless opportunity. I chastised my decision to come here. Unquestionably there were
better choices. The terrain lent itself more towards a rifle than the stick and string in my
hand.
Would this be another unsuccessfull hunt I wondered. Would my goal of taking a
Whitetail with my recurve go unanswered once again? Determined to fulfil my objective
I decided to circumnavigate the cutover, staying just outside it’s perimeter in the
camouflage of the wooded area . Hoping upon hope that I’d catch a break, I doggedly
moved on.
Great rivers of sweat poured off my body contaminating my carefully cleaned and stored
camo clothing. Stopping, by good fortune, in the vicinity of a large blow-down I sat . An hour
passed fleetingly and agreeably . While not the best stand for a bow, the view before me
was brilliant. I’m not sure how long I would have stayed if not for the burning hunger
growing in my gut.
I went about 50 yards towards camp, and breakfast, when I noticed movement in the
cutting. Instinctively I hit the ground hopeful that my actions had gone unnoticed. A
second look confirms that my eyes had not deceived me.
Two bucks were engaged in sporadic sparring. They were identical as best I could
distinguish. Both looked to be 8 pointers and one could be easily mistaken for the other.
The first component of my two step plan was straightforward and uncomplicated.
The distance between us needed to be cut in half just for starters. I would come up with step two if I
make the first 100 yards I tell myself.
Half crawling and half duck walking I began step one with my heart racing and blood
pounding in my temples..
The undertaking seemed unachievable but since I had no other strategy I continued onwards.
When I could suppress my impulse to look no longer, I snuck a momentary peek over
the little rise of a knoll that was between us. To my immense surprise and relief the
bucks were just over the mound about 20 yards distant. The proverbial icing on the cake ;
they were still squaring off against one another and were wholly unaware of my presence.
Rising to one knee I selected the buck I would take. It was a no-brainer as both were the
same in body and antler size. One of the bucks presented a slightly better shot . The draw
was effortless. The wooden limbs bent, storing their energy . The instant my fingers
came along side my jaw to my anchor I let the string slip .
The arrow slipped home like I had envisioned so many times in my daydreams. The
startled buck sprinted like a race horse to his final resting place a mere 50 yards from
where he stood split seconds ago.
I sat down on the spot, emotionally exhausted. I sought to relish every instant of this.
Never had I toiled so hard, for so long, to accomplish what was now laying there mere
yards away. Enjoying the moment I began to reflect on my journey as a bow hunter.
Numerous Whitetail, Black bear, and even a Woodland Caribou had fallen before
me with my various compound bows . And since my foray into traditional archery even a
couple black bear were tagged. But the whitetail always won the game. Many times I was
close to filling my tag with the recurve but it just never came together in my favour.
But today was my day. My turn to win.
I reached into my pocket and did something I had dared only dream before this moment
….. I punched my deer tag on my first traditional bow killed deer.
Some days are diamonds .
www.skinnymoose.com/bearsnbows/
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Slipping gently out the camp’s back door and into the damp air and velvety cover of the pre-dawn darkness was reward enough for rising so early I immediately decided. Just a hint of decomposing autumn leaves to tingle my olfactory senses and the melodious gushing of a nearby brook seemed to set my hunters heart in harmony with the environment.
Somewhere down river a coyote serenaded a farewell to the murkiness of another eve’s hunt. Dawn would soon be arriving in it‘s ritualistic manner. In an peculiar way, it was soothing to know I wasn’t the only hunter nomadically roaming the river valley. I wondered how the song-dog fared with his hunting - and indeed - how would I ?
Reaching the end of the dew soaked field a verdict had to be reached on which path to take. To the east, down to the river where a carefully hung tree stand awaited over a well used trail which outwardly appeared to ramble aimlessly through a quarter acre of alders? But I knew it led to where the deer spent their days avoiding detection.
The other option was to ascend the steep hill which compromises the Western Ridge of the valley? Up where the deer’s movements have not been as painstakingly patterned as where the comfortable aluminium stand hangs in a large cat spruce?
Seconds turn to minutes…..a decision must be made. The Eastern horizon is beginning to turn crimson…a pair of Black Ducks whistle overhead…squirrels and songbirds begin to chatter. My heart quickens it‘s pace.
Quietly setting down my recurve….I remove the heavy wool sweater I had on in anticipation of sitting for several hours and turn towards the ridge. The lure of the unknown, of roaming over that steep hardwood hill was strong and I succumbed to it’s influence.
Today I would hunt as my father, and forefathers. This day, I would practice the time proven art of still hunting and if lucky, the opportunity to attempt a stalk on an unsuspicious buck.. A monumental task at best. Complicated by the traditional bow I was using. The need, no wait - responsibility - to get especially close would be the principal factor to overcome if I was to release one of my cherished cedar arrows made for me by my son..
Climbing the hill, the lack of deer sign is discouraging. I stopped for a rest while watching a Grouse search for it‘s breakfast. It’s a big male bird and in just a few days he will be fair game for one of my arrows. But for now the season is closed and so rightfully he is spared. The longer I watch…the more I realize just how magnificently beautiful those game birds are.
The hardwood ridge is at long last within sight. For many years the deer have travelled this secluded ridge top. More often than not, a scrape line appears about mid November. Usually buck rubs scar the trees.
On this day however, there is no scrape line. No rubs. I think back to past hunts, on this very ridge, that I’ve shared with my father. I recall with fondness the many deer we drug off that rim together and long for another successful hunt with him and wonder where all the deer have gone. I double check the wind and head to another area.
Approaching a sizeable cutover I pause ahead of where the tree-line ends and judiciouslydissect the edges. For deer are creatures of the edge. And so should a wise hunter be.
Particularly a hunter who desires to arrow a deer with a traditional bow with it’s limited
range.
The meagre cover was disconcerting. To stalk a buck here would necessitate a near
flawless opportunity. I chastised my decision to come here. Unquestionably there were
better choices. The terrain lent itself more towards a rifle than the stick and string in my
hand.
Would this be another unsuccessfull hunt I wondered. Would my goal of taking a
Whitetail with my recurve go unanswered once again? Determined to fulfil my objective
I decided to circumnavigate the cutover, staying just outside it’s perimeter in the
camouflage of the wooded area . Hoping upon hope that I’d catch a break, I doggedly
moved on.
Great rivers of sweat poured off my body contaminating my carefully cleaned and stored
camo clothing. Stopping, by good fortune, in the vicinity of a large blow-down I sat . An hour
passed fleetingly and agreeably . While not the best stand for a bow, the view before me
was brilliant. I’m not sure how long I would have stayed if not for the burning hunger
growing in my gut.
I went about 50 yards towards camp, and breakfast, when I noticed movement in the
cutting. Instinctively I hit the ground hopeful that my actions had gone unnoticed. A
second look confirms that my eyes had not deceived me.
Two bucks were engaged in sporadic sparring. They were identical as best I could
distinguish. Both looked to be 8 pointers and one could be easily mistaken for the other.
The first component of my two step plan was straightforward and uncomplicated.
The distance between us needed to be cut in half just for starters. I would come up with step two if I
make the first 100 yards I tell myself.
Half crawling and half duck walking I began step one with my heart racing and blood
pounding in my temples..
The undertaking seemed unachievable but since I had no other strategy I continued onwards.
When I could suppress my impulse to look no longer, I snuck a momentary peek over
the little rise of a knoll that was between us. To my immense surprise and relief the
bucks were just over the mound about 20 yards distant. The proverbial icing on the cake ;
they were still squaring off against one another and were wholly unaware of my presence.
Rising to one knee I selected the buck I would take. It was a no-brainer as both were the
same in body and antler size. One of the bucks presented a slightly better shot . The draw
was effortless. The wooden limbs bent, storing their energy . The instant my fingers
came along side my jaw to my anchor I let the string slip .
The arrow slipped home like I had envisioned so many times in my daydreams. The
startled buck sprinted like a race horse to his final resting place a mere 50 yards from
where he stood split seconds ago.
I sat down on the spot, emotionally exhausted. I sought to relish every instant of this.
Never had I toiled so hard, for so long, to accomplish what was now laying there mere
yards away. Enjoying the moment I began to reflect on my journey as a bow hunter.
Numerous Whitetail, Black bear, and even a Woodland Caribou had fallen before
me with my various compound bows . And since my foray into traditional archery even a
couple black bear were tagged. But the whitetail always won the game. Many times I was
close to filling my tag with the recurve but it just never came together in my favour.
But today was my day. My turn to win.
I reached into my pocket and did something I had dared only dream before this moment
….. I punched my deer tag on my first traditional bow killed deer.
Some days are diamonds .
