The eerie howls of a tracking coyote or wolf started just after I scared the forest-cloaked deer off it’s hidden bed. It was slightly unnerving and part of me wondered if the second hunter would have better luck than me. It seemed pointless to stay where I was (with all the howling in the area). So, I slowly walked off the watch we call the ‘Grand Canyon’ and began to plan where I might hunt until dark. I picked up the pace of my slow retreat (and planning session) when the four legged hunter’s shrill voice began to change direction.

It sounded like it was getting closer. There was a quickening silence across the frosty beech leaves I was walking on as I stopped to listen.

I remember muttering under my breath, “No way. There is no way that wolf is coming my way.” The freezing air made my whispered words come to life as they were whisked away in wintry condensation. Instinctively, my finger reached for the safety on my rifle as I waited for another howling volley from the beast.

It came sure enough and it sounded closer. Much closer and more excited.

I shrugged it off as coincidence and continued my hurried walk towards a tree stand at the ‘Evergreen’ watch. The homemade tree-stand, that dad made for this upcoming hunting season, was still a ridge and swampy ‘gut’ away. It did NOT feel close enough as I trudged through the frozen forest – with a potential bogey on my ’six’.

The animal’s next howl was close and loud. It was on top of the ridge I had just left and I hoped it would continue along the top of the ridge (dad if you are reading this – the mad howler was on the hydro line heading toward Aspdin) away from me. This would put me at the bottom of a capital “T” with the howling hunter in a travel line the same as the top of a capital “T”.

I stopped to catch my breath and hoped to confirm that the ‘following’ hunter would continue his tracking across the top of the ridge away from me. The sound of crunching leaves and another hair raising howl confirmed that my follower was coming off the ridge on MY trail and heading towards me!

I had become the hunted, and to be honest, fear began to trickle into my mind and my rising heart rate. I must have read ‘Peter and The Wolf‘ too many times as a kid. Quickly, I picked my way across the muddy low spot (known as the root gut) and hit the logging trail leading to the fortress on Mt. Evergreen Watch.

Now, I know what you veteran hunters and bushmen (and Dad) are thinking. You are thinking, “Bill…you were armed with a .308 rifle. Whatever is zeroing in on your trail is about to open up a can of lead ‘whoop’ butt from the barrel of your firearm. Suck it up!”

You would be right – but I wanted to pick ‘the ground’ this epic ‘hunter vs. hunter’ battle was going to happen on. My under pressure shooting has not always yielded great results.

When I hit the logging trail, I bolted for the tree stand some 75 yards away. Under the circumstances, I quickly debated whether or not I should unload my gun before I scampered up the tree-stand’s ladder. I had visions that a snarling, sharp-toothed, frothing-at-the-mouth creature could lunge at me at anytime. You will be proud to know that I decided to empty my magazine before I began my ascent up to the welcoming fortress.

Once at the top, I reloaded my gun and braced my arm against the the trunk of the tree and picked a spot on the trail through my scope. I could hear the sound of four legs splashing and struggling through the mud and water of the low spot I had just crossed.

I took a deep breath and waited.

A howl echoed across the snowy ridge I was fortified on and I knew the tracker was close.

I clicked off the safety on my gun and began to visualize the shot to a wolf’s front shoulder…

What happened next made me relieved and somewhat sheepish. A small beagle materialized on the trail. His wild sounding howl was nothing like the hound noises I was used to. I sat down with my back against the tree and laughed wondering how I was going to explain this one. The little hound came to the tree stand and began to paw at the wooden ladder. Looking down, I saw a beagle shaking and soaked to the core. I climbed out of the tree stand and clipped him in to a free strap I had on my back pack.

We walked back to camp together both slightly more happier to have a partner to walk with in the fading light. Dad listened to my ‘official’ story as we waited for the dog’s owner to pick it up. I left out the brisk run from the ‘root gut’ to the tree stand because I thought the little beagle (sleeping at my feet) was the big bad wolf.

I guess I’m no Peter.

The picture writes the post better than I could. The fact that I find this humorous makes me wonder if I fit the redneck stereotype…

The coyotes came within feet of dad and I. It was too dark to see them – but we could hear them walking!

It all started late into a week of deer camp. While walking from different directions, dad and I were returning from our evening watches on a cool, crisp November evening. The walk back to the cabin was dead quiet until a few hundred yards from the cabin. That was when our ‘new to the neighborhood’ coyotes started filling the still air with their eerie howls. The hair on the back neck tingled as I picked up the pace to catch a glimpse of the the cabin’s porch light.

This was always welcome sight on the lonely walks back from an evening deer stand.

During my brisk walk to the cabin, I theorized that the howling brush wolves were somewhere near Spier’s swamp. Fortunately, that location was opposite to the direction I was heading in. I released the grip on my rifle slightly in response this prediction about the coyotes location.

After several minutes, I made it back to the cabin and sat under the inviting glow of the porch’s dim light and listened more closely to the wild orchestra now playing before me. Within minutes of my arrival, Dad returned to camp and after we unloaded our guns and put them in the cabin (legal shooting time was over) we returned back outside to the porch.

That’s when dad whispered, “Why don’t you give them a howl?”

Hesitantly, I put my hands to my mouth and tried to mimic what I was hearing. The rustic music paused for a few moments. Then, silence.

Then…

Mom’s chili kicked in! Just kidding.

Then, surprisingly, one of the coyotes responded. After a few more minutes, the concert began again. Only this time much closer.

Dad said in a low voice, “Again.”

I let out another sudden solo and abruptly the music ended again.

Time passed.

Like the first time, it started up again even closer. Much closer.

Dad didn’t have to ask me a third time. I ripped out a howl and waited with baited breath for the results. This time we could hear the coyotes breaking and snapping branches within several feet of myself, dad and the old cabin porch. It was too dark to see anything but their they were – walking amongst the black tangled mess of the forest’s undergrowth.

Unfortunately, as soon as we noticed they were there – watching us. They silently crept away back into the night. The night time sounds of the forest returned with the wolves’ backstage exit. Dad and I retreated to the cabin in silence.

We both knew it would be an uneasy walk to the outhouse.

*coyote photo from wikipedia

“Well…down him!” Was all I remember hearing over the next few moments as the slot machine of ethics spun in my mind. I could tell from the inflection in the responder’s voice that he did not believe me. I was amazed over the temptation that was unfolding from withing  the confines of the bunker.

The effects of ‘buck fever’ were becoming quite evident as my hands began to tremble in concert with my increased breathing rate. I quietly stood up from behind the tree root and placed my scope’s cross-hairs just behind the young buck’s shoulder. He was now 10 feet from me.

I think it is at this moment (if others care to admit it) that can really get many hunters into huge trouble. The kind of moments where good hunting ethics are replaced with the flip of an internal slot machine arm as hunters take a chance that what they are about to do will not be noticed by local wildlife authorities. The kind of bad ethics that make hunters think that game shot after a few minutes of legal shooting time is ‘ok’. The kind of ethics that makes hunters convince themselves that an animal can be killed ‘now’ and a tag purchased later. The kind of ethical debate that made me think that I could plead ignorance to not knowing the exact legal size of a spikehorn’s rack if I got questioned about this buck.

These are the type of ethics that have the ability to destroy a proud hunting heritage and reputation. These sketchy decisions erode relations with government regulators and an observant public. Antics like these help create and propogate cycles of bad stereotypes of the hunting sportsmen – the ‘keepers’ of conservation.

The thought of trying to explain to my father how I felt I was justified in harvesting this potentially illegal buck made slip back into reality. I took my finger of the trigger and relaxed my grip on my rifle.

I blurted at the buck, “Next Year, Punk!” and it bolted quickly into the forest depths. the imaginary clang of its shiny horshoe echoed quietly, in my mind, as it fell of its neck .

Back at the cabin, Dad took me aside and said something like,  ”Good call not shooting that spike buck. You need to be sure.”

I said to myself, “Jackpot!

There is a spikehorn buck running around Aspdin forest with an invisible horseshoe dangling around his neck. Besides noticing the horseshoe, the buck can be easily identified by his lack of antler growth and a lack of survivor mentality. You know you are looking at him when that ‘decision making slot machine’ in your head starts spinning while you decide if he is a legal deer to shoot.

I would suspect we all have seen a horseshoe buck.

I first saw my horseshoe buck about 3 years ago at a deer watch I call the ‘Bunker’. It get its name from the cover it provides from within the trio of uprooted trees that have fallen over and kept the interlocking root system intact. The root end of the trees is high enough to rest your rifle on while taking a standing shot. All that is visible is your head and your rifle. The three trees are lying in an inverted triangle formation with 2 trees at chest height (front and rear) and one at perfect sitting location below. The body coverage is phenomenal.

Bears also like the ‘Bunker’. Sections of the wind-felled trees have claw marks and bear hair from frequent undetected visits.  I may have to borrow and post the ‘occupied’ sign from the outhouse in order to share one of my favorite watches with these mystery bears.

Getting back to my encounter, we were approaching the end of an unsuccessful deer hunting week. Deer sightings were few. After a completing a deer drive, the guys had started to make their way back to the cabin for coffee. My radio cackled to life as the news of the break traveled around to all the watches. As I was about to leave the confines of the tree bunker, a spikehorn materialized out of the swampy cover about 15 feet from the root end of the tree. I slowly brought my rifle up to the natural shooting bench and tried to confirm the length of the buck’s antlers before putting my eyes up to the scope.

I could see short spikes but I could not remember how long they had to be to qualify as legal deer for my buck tag.

A silent slot machine began to spin in my head as I considered my options. I could shoot first and measure later and explain to the game warden that I thought the spikes were the right size (illegal). I could shoot and borrow a doe tag from a friend in town if the antlers were too small (also illegal). I could shoot and hope that nobody asks any questions before I got the small deer to the butcher (very illegal).

Frustrated, I dropped down behind the root and pulled my orange jacket over my head and whispered on the radio. I felt like I was calling in an artillery strike.

“Does anyone know how long deer antlers need to be?!”

Silence.

I quietly stood up and peered over the roots to see where the deer was. It was now 7 to 10 feet from me and my rooted bunker. His silvery horseshoe flashed and shimmered in the mid-morning light like a ‘naner-naner’ beacon around his neck.

I dropped back behind the root and asked my desperate (low-volume) request for recon again,

“Guys, there is a deer 7 feet from me and I can’t remember how long the antlers need to be!”

Finally, somebody answered back,

“Well…down him!”

-To be continued-

*bunker photo from Webshots News

In every hunting or fishing trip there comes a moment when you sit around the wood-stove feeling defeated. While you watch the flames flicker through the blackened glass doors it becomes a time of internal reflection. It is mutually understood that these somber moments are all part of the process in becoming better hunters and anglers.

The factors that contribute to these stove-side vigils are usually a negative mix of poor environmental conditions, hard work, and a reluctance from wild game to co-oporate – despite the best laid plans. In our camp, we knew when we were getting close to a camp wide meltdown when grandpa would storm into camp and exclaim, “The country is ruined!”.  This usually meant that (figuratively) there was no wild game (or fish) to be found within a 1000 acres of our camp. We have since modernized our description of this phenomenon and have called it a ‘lull’ in our hunt or fishing trip.

They can be dark times despite the dancing glow of flames from an iron stove.

Dark, but not defeating.

This is what we must remember during these dark days of economic uncertainty in North America. We have all heard those around us say ‘figuratively’ that the economies in our countries are ruined. There is a negative mix of economic conditions and a huge reluctance from the markets to co-operate. This is happening despite our best laid plans, hard work and government spending.

Friends and visitors who read this blog post let me encourage you all by reminding us that this is just a ‘lull’ in the hunt. The fish have stopped biting for a day or two.

That’s all.

In the uncertainty and frustration that our economic situation causes, remember that there is still a fire burning deep within the heart of the World’s economy. True, it is not currently burning as bright as it had been previously, but take some time to pause and reflect in the warmth of the glow that IS there. It is all part of a process that will makes us better individuals, members in society World neighbours. You may come up with something that will change your entire outlook on your darkened circumstances.

My job has been impacted by the recession. When I recently got the news that I would have to cut back on the hours I worked, Grandpa’s words about the “Country being ruined” immediately came to my mind. His immortalized slogan reminded me to remember some of the things I have learned while spending time around our camp stove. They are (I’ll let you make the real life parallels):

1. Tomorrow brings new weather. It could mean more of the same OR it could change just enough to make yesterdays challenges non-existent
2. Don’t stay in your bunk. Big fish and big deer will change their habits eventually. You’ll never know if you are in your bunk. Be prepared to work hard to find them.
3. Try something new. Somebody once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Maybe that big ole’ buck has you patterned.
4. Review your attitude. Many factors are outside our control, but attitude is not. Your time on the water or tree stand will pass much more quickly when you are positive. When things do go your way, you’ll be much more ready to make the most of it.
5. Remember those around you. Sometimes, its not about the fish you catch or the game you shoot. Its about the people you are with. When you do catch the world record bass – who will be on the dock to celebrate with you? When you can, help some out. You will never know when that person will be needed to net YOUR fish.

We are on the same lake together people. Don’t let a bad day fishing wreck your entire outlook on an exciting future…