Sometimes You Just Need to Get Away
Remember that one place you had as a kid where you went to be alone? Maybe it was an old oak tree in the backyard or the crawl space above the garage, but we all had one of those secret places as a kid. Well, these woods are my adult version. A place we all need from time to time even as adults.
Time To Deer Hunt
I smirk watching the white puff from the wind initiator drift off to the North. I know from years of experience, once I top over the hill and begin into the valley, the air currents will shift and push my human, scares deer scent, off to the south.
The whitetail rut is here and I have found a way to escape for a few hours and deer hunt the local farm. With nothing but a handshake between me and the farmer, I have been permitted to hunt his farm for many years.
My largest buck was taken off this farm. Here is where most of the venison that fills my freezer originates. Others do hunt the farm, but I rarely see them. I leave the freshly cut corn field and enter the woods. The slope is filled with honeysuckle, green briars and few trees tall enough for a treestand. I follow a deer trail through the thick vegetation. The smell of fall surrounds. I pass the tree were I once hung a ladder stand. I missed a good buck from that stand. I once shot two does with the rifle during one hunt from that stand. My daughter used to hunt that stand.
A few feet away, I attach my climber stand and settle in for the afternoon. It sure feels nice to be in my favorite woods.
The winds do not play fair this evening. One minute I feel the breath of air on my neck, then in a few minutes, it turns and I feel the cool air hitting my face. The drifting of a hunters scent can and will make or break a hunt. A deer lives and dies by its ability to smell danger.
Even with the bad winds, I talk myself into staying in my woods. It is the rut, and maybe a love sick buck will not notice or care about the human in the area. He is chasing love.
The highlights of the bright sun filters through the trees, altering the perspective of my surroundings. Shadows deepen then disappear with the moving sun. Falling red and yellow leaves glimmer in the bright light, only to disappear falling into the shadows. The same place takes on many different looks over the hours.
Two does sneak along the slope through the honeysuckle. I stand and grasp my bow with the anticipation of the buck sure to follow. He does not arrive. A few minutes later two more does run at full speed under my feet. They stop within bow range and look back from where they came. Again I wait for the following buck. He does not arrive.
From another direction I hear the grunt of a buck. I turn and look. A small buck slowly meanders in my direction. He would make great steaks and burgers, but this is the one week of the year were I hold out for large bucks. This is the time even a hunter like me has the chance to luck into a monster racked buck being dumb.
Before he is within bow range he is alerted by my drifting scent and leaves. Later in the evening, two small bucks do enter into my effective bow killing range. I resist the strong urge to shoot.
The sun fades in the west ending the hunt. I miss these woods. The traffic hum from the state road can be heard while sitting on stand. The wind often swirls spooking the deer. The does far outnumber the bucks. The bucks rarely grew trophy size antlers. But for some reason, this little patch of thicket and knurly stunted growth trees bordered by farm fields and highway is my comfort place.
