Muskoka Outdoors

It’s a fitting name. I bestowed this name on a huge buck that should have secured my entry into the ‘Legends’ of Rip and Tear Hunt Club’s history. I guess my chapter was yet to be written.

It started out harmelessly enough. All of the gang had returned from a long afternoon on the deer stands and we were anxiously awaiting supper to hit our stomachs. It became quickly apparent that one of our guys, Kevin, had not arrived yet. I forget exactly why the ‘old-timers’ in the camp felt it was so important that Kevin made it back in good time, but they delegated to me the task of his evac.

Then, the debate started.

I remember it quite vividly. Not wanting to tell the ‘Ole Guys’ that I did not want to agree to their request, I threw on my hunting vest and headed for the closest atv.

“You better take your gun.” dad said.

Grandpa and Bill Billingsley piped up with similar sentiments and I think went into story mode about some long lost time forgotten.

“I’m just going down to Spiers’ field. Besides, the atv noise will scare any deer off before I even get there.” I replied. The dice of probablity began to spin in my head.

Grandpa and Bill stopped talking for a second and looked at me with a puzzling look. I could have heard a .22 shell drop on wet leaves. They grinned, looked at dad and went back into their story. Dad ‘encouraged’ me one more time to take my firearm. Stubbornly, I said “I’ll be fine” and fired up the atv and tore off down the camp road to the field.

The dice were still rolling.

Somewhere in the distance a hound started on a deer scent. A feeding buck planned his escape route.

When I reached the field location where I was to pick-up the hunter I turned off the atv’s engine and waited.  That hound was getting closer.  Out of instinct I reached for where my gun pouch would be and remembered it was sitting on my bed listening to 3 men chuckling about the rookie who left it behind.

A buck picked a path down a ridge to Spiers’ field.

The dice in my head stopped rolling.
“Snake-eyes.”

After another minute, the hound sounded very close and then I saw a massive buck briskly walking across the field. He was 75 yards from me at full broad side. I watched with a broken heart as the deer continued his perpendicular path in front of me for another 30 seconds!

Moments later, Kevin walked out of the bush and asked if I saw anything. I said “Yup!”

Then, he asked, “Where’s your gun?

“Back at camp.” I sheepishly whispered.

When we got back to camp the smell of supper welcomed us inside the cabin. 3 heads turned towards me and asked me if I needed my gun.

The dice in my head started rolling again. There was not much chance of dodging that question.

Four old-timers jeered about what had happened that day. Three were in the cabin and the other was somewhere west of Spiers’ field.

Hunter orange. It is not exactly good camouflage. I mean, if it was, I would think you would see Mossy Oak and Realtree (and many others) producing rack fulls of the latest in Hunter Orange ‘stealth-ware’.

You know its rifle season when you start to see orange vests, orange hats, and orange jackets light up our forests like citrus-colored beacons in a wild ocean of grey, brown, and green. It can be a bit of an identity crisis for many hunters. It’s tough heading out into the wilds as the man trying to be stealthy – yet still seen by all.

This conflict would begin every time I would ‘suit-up’ and make the trek to my favorite deer stand. I would laugh inside over the irony of my hunting wardrobe when I would try to find a group of evergreens to mask my ‘presence’. Once there, the observant hunter would notice that green does not hide bright orange. Try it for yourself!  Attempt to hide an orange on an evergreen branch.

Sure, I have read the ‘science’ about the physiological make-up of a deer’s eyes. Researchers claim, that orange is not seen by deer. I am not buying it. If that is the case, somebody better tell the camouflage companies.

To resolve the conflict that exists in so many hunters, I have developed a hunting system that can be easily followed and adapted to any hunting camp scenario. I call it, The Art of Non-Camouflage.

Don’t be something you are not.

It begins with the principle that any hunter will be visible to man or beast when wearing hunter orange.

All components to my system flow from that one simple principle:

• It does not matter where you store your orange hunting gear during your hunt. Wear or hang it by the fire during breakfast. You might as well head out to your watch with a warm jacket smelling like bacon because the deer are going to see you anyway.
• Scents and other lesser animal urine sprays won’t hide your orange garments. Save your money.
• Become more visible at camp. Wear your coat whenever you venture outside. It will let your camp buddies know where you are during target practice and an orange coat hanging on the outside of an outhouse door can be seen from miles away. Everyone will appreciate knowing that the ‘Biffy’ is occupied before they make the long trek out there themselves.
• Tree stands are now optional. Orange is as glaringly obvious up high as it is down low. Again, save your money folks.
• Blue jeans are allowed. The staple of many deer hunting clothes, blue jeans are thought to attract a deers attention more quickly. I say, if they are going to see the orange anyway, what does it matter if your pants are blue? We have all seen Blue Jays. Blue is a ‘natural color’. The denim stays!
• Meet the safety requirement and enjoy the moment. In Ontario, you need 400 square inches of hunter orange on your upper body. Brand name, or generic name, or new, or old it does not matter how much the orange costs. Buy it or borrow it – the obvious nature of hunter orange is still the same with a $2 price tag as with a $200 price tag. Just get out there and enjoy the view – and bring a kid with you.

In case you were not able to determine if I was serious or not. I am totally kidding. That being said, my initial post today triggered some other train of thought that I hope we all can take ‘to heart’.

I think that in our everyday relationships with the people we come in contact with, we frequently wear camouflage. We are afraid to be honest with people who ask our opinions, thoughts, and ideas. How many times have you responded with a, “Everything is fine in my life.” when a concerned person asks?

It’s just like camouflage. It hides what really is there. Unfortunately, hunter orange is not a requirement in everyday relationships with people. How many times today have you camouflaged your answers? I wonder if we would be better friends, workers and employers if we more honest in the relationships we nurture every day?

I would propose to you that one step on the journey to being a better person will taken by those who understand the Art of Non-Camouflage.

*My reloaded blog posts are some of my favorite previous posts made current again.

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 7 yards 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 off 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!