Author's note: We are still in the midst of a snowstorm. About 14 to 16 inches blankets the ground outside. The deer should be moving well when it lets up. Just before this bad weather hit, one of our group (Duane's brother Larry) got a nine-point buck. I've been busy with snow removal and related chores. The cold weather got me thinking about past hunts I've made trying conditions. Here is a story that took place on a December hunt.
THE OWL AND THE BUCK
By: Ray Hansen
Over the years I’ve had occasion to sit out in the cold many, many times: for the sake of chasing fish through the ice; in the hopes of catching a buck unawares; simply to enjoy the transition from darkness to daylight; and for innumerable other reasons.
A frosty December morning in a cedar swamp in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula comes to mind. The primitive firearms (muzzleloader) season just started, and would run the first ten days of December.
Swaddled in layers of insulated coveralls, vests, sweatshirts, and longjohns with a knit cap under a full face mask, I must have resembled an overstuffed sausage. Moving around was not an option. No wind howled to conceal the sounds I would make. The surrounding cover was too thick, and my best alternative was to sit while watching a small clearing within the dense swamp.
When creeping into place earlier that morning, I hung felt pads saturated with rut scent, hoping to convince a buck that had survived the gun season that an un-bred doe was hiding nearby. And it worked! I heard occasional movements through the green wall of cedar branches, and even saw the silhouette of the buck passing through some alders forty yards distant. Getting him to step into the far end of the clearing where the pad hung was proving difficult. Having been hunted non-stop for the previous two-weeks, he was wary.
Drinking water carried in a pack was now frozen in the bottle. I slid it into the pocket of my coveralls, but after an hour, only a small trickle of liquid could be coaxed from the cold plastic container. Breathing in the frigid air dries your throat, causing thirst nearly as intense as that experienced while working outside in the summer.
The buck kept moving slowly around, trying to catch a scent trail that would let him pinpoint the source of the smell, but the swamp was dead calm. No breezes helped out. It would be a waiting game. After an hour elapsed I could not track the deer by sound, and I thought he had moved on. An owl began to hoot however, and the sounds very slowly circled the clearing.
I began to realize the owl was following the deer. Why? The answer came to me when I visualized what the bird of prey would accomplish in this way.
The only thing moving in the swamp was the love-struck buck. The owl wanted a tasty breakfast of squirrel, partridge, rabbit, or some rodent, but they were not moving. The only chance was to follow the deer. It might kick up something while slipping through the cedars. So that’s what the bird did. He was hunting just as I was.
Whether it worked or not, I don’t know. After four hours, the arctic conditions got the best of me. Leaving the swamp, I followed an old logging road ran toward a warm camp where fresh, black coffee brewed. I walked slowly along, reviewing the few glimpses I had of the swamp buck. Had I learned anything? After writing notes about the day’s experiences, one nugget of truth emerged: I’d pay more attention to owl hooting on the next hunt.
Copyright Ray Hansen, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
BONES IN THE RIVERBED
Author's note: We had our first good snowstorm on Monday and whether that knocked out my internet access, I don't know. I was not able to log on for a couple days. I'll have a report about the deer hunting season as soon as I can write one up. In the mean time, here is a true tale about the river that runs past my house.
BONES IN THE RIVERBED
By: Ray Hansen
The inspiration for this blog came from something I observed this summer while wading in the river behind my house and casting for smallmouth bass: deer bones lay scattered in certain sections of the riverbed. Moving slowly along, I’d spot part of a ribcage here, and a hip bone there. Longer leg bones often lay oriented with the flow of the current, and smaller bones sat wherever the high and roiled water flow during the spring would fling them.
Later in the fall I went to a place more than twenty miles upstream and found even more evidence – old and new – on the dry bed of a reservoir that had been drained. I had some hunches about how they got there, but I haven’t lived here very long so I decided to consult the Mystic Oracle, otherwise known as the Past President of the Old Partridge Hunter’s Society. He lives a grouse flush down the road from me and has spent many years on the river. I found him out in his workshop, tinkering with reloading press.
“Ah yes” he said, mulling the question over on a warm October night. “Bones in the riverbed. Well… a few come from coyote kills during the winter, and maybe a few more from deer that make it to the river after getting hit by trucks on the road. Most though, are put there intentionally.”
“Put there intentionally” I repeated, somewhat surprised.
“Yup” he replied, picking up a twelve gauge hull from his reloading bench and examining it under the light of a sputtering lantern. “Do you feed birds in the winter” he asked?
“Sure” I answered.
“And what do you feed them?”
“Seed mix, suet, dried corn, peanut butter”, I said while thinking about supplies I’d buy for the upcoming cold months.
“Great for jays and juncos” the President postulated, “but what if you wanted to feed eagles?”
“Aha” I exclaimed, grasping the significance of his calculated question.
“People here watch for roadkilled deer once the river freezes over. Pick up a small deer if you’re alone, or a bigger one if you have help. Toss it in the back of the truck. Skid it across the snow and slide it over the riverbank”, he explained, staring out past the lantern light.
“Eagles, sometimes four of them, strip the carcass fairly clean and ravens get the rest. Once in a while a pack of coyotes scare the birds off but there is usually not much left for them. Mice and small nesting birds carry off the hair, and the river claims the bones.”
So the river flows along unceasing. New water constantly keeps the current moving. Each time I look at the surface, it really is a new river. The bones I see are the only sign that some particular deer ever existed, but they don’t last forever. Maybe the words on this page are the only thing that can ever lend them any kind of permanence…
Copyright Ray Hansen, 2008
BONES IN THE RIVERBED
By: Ray Hansen
The inspiration for this blog came from something I observed this summer while wading in the river behind my house and casting for smallmouth bass: deer bones lay scattered in certain sections of the riverbed. Moving slowly along, I’d spot part of a ribcage here, and a hip bone there. Longer leg bones often lay oriented with the flow of the current, and smaller bones sat wherever the high and roiled water flow during the spring would fling them.
Later in the fall I went to a place more than twenty miles upstream and found even more evidence – old and new – on the dry bed of a reservoir that had been drained. I had some hunches about how they got there, but I haven’t lived here very long so I decided to consult the Mystic Oracle, otherwise known as the Past President of the Old Partridge Hunter’s Society. He lives a grouse flush down the road from me and has spent many years on the river. I found him out in his workshop, tinkering with reloading press.
“Ah yes” he said, mulling the question over on a warm October night. “Bones in the riverbed. Well… a few come from coyote kills during the winter, and maybe a few more from deer that make it to the river after getting hit by trucks on the road. Most though, are put there intentionally.”
“Put there intentionally” I repeated, somewhat surprised.
“Yup” he replied, picking up a twelve gauge hull from his reloading bench and examining it under the light of a sputtering lantern. “Do you feed birds in the winter” he asked?
“Sure” I answered.
“And what do you feed them?”
“Seed mix, suet, dried corn, peanut butter”, I said while thinking about supplies I’d buy for the upcoming cold months.
“Great for jays and juncos” the President postulated, “but what if you wanted to feed eagles?”
“Aha” I exclaimed, grasping the significance of his calculated question.
“People here watch for roadkilled deer once the river freezes over. Pick up a small deer if you’re alone, or a bigger one if you have help. Toss it in the back of the truck. Skid it across the snow and slide it over the riverbank”, he explained, staring out past the lantern light.
“Eagles, sometimes four of them, strip the carcass fairly clean and ravens get the rest. Once in a while a pack of coyotes scare the birds off but there is usually not much left for them. Mice and small nesting birds carry off the hair, and the river claims the bones.”
So the river flows along unceasing. New water constantly keeps the current moving. Each time I look at the surface, it really is a new river. The bones I see are the only sign that some particular deer ever existed, but they don’t last forever. Maybe the words on this page are the only thing that can ever lend them any kind of permanence…
Copyright Ray Hansen, 2008
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