Jeff Hoover
Blackhawk
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2009
- Messages
- 919
A few weeks ago was Md's early black powder season. It is 3 days long and occurs on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Thursday was an unusually warm day for fall. At 76 degrees, and rain in the forecast, it was hard to get excited about the hunt. Around 1 O'clock in the afternoon, sitting in my Lazy Boy, I pondered awhile about hunting that afternoon. The rain could get the deer moving. Watching cable hunting shows up to this point, looking for inspiration, I pondered some more. The hunting shows have become 30 minute commercials for every gizmo and gadget known to man. Soaps, deodorants, cover sprays, scent killers, trail cameras, camouflage, knives, skinners, gutters, draggers, ATV's, you name it, the hunting industry has it.
Now I'm no Ned Ludd, and don't fight progress, or innovation, but I wondered what happened to the simple way of hunting which pits man against animal with the basic gear of a good gun, a sharp knife, and the most important item, a hunters skill. Sure, these products can make life easier. I chose a piece of paracord, tied in a large loop, to help with the drag, should I be lucky enough to be successful. I also had a cherished old barlow knife that was given to me from a favorite uncle that has gutted many deer for me in the past and I believe seems to bring me good luck.
I was dressed in a pair of Wrangler jeans, Slate grey Carhartt T-shirt, and wondering if it would be worthwhile to go out. I had recently lost access to a farm I had permission to hunt the past 10 years. If I went out, it would be on public land. After thinking about the commercialization of the sport of hunting, no real place to hunt, I was feeling sorta ornery. This orneriness was a motivating factor, and I jumped out of my chair and said the hell with it, lets go on a farmer hunt and get a deer. This is not to knock farmers, but the total opposite. I have a deep respect for farmers, especially dairy famers. My family on both sides are mainly dairy farmers in PA. They are the salt of the earth. Hard working, frugal, non sensical , and get the job done day in and day out. When they hunt, they hunt hard. No fancy store bought gadgetry for them. They hunt the wind, know when and where to hunt, and always get their deer. One of my favorite quotes from them is "I don't care how much cover scent, scent killer, or fu fu stuff you put on, if the wind is wrong, a deer will smell you, and if it is right, they won't. "Followed by, "don't move! Sit still!" Simple, but no truer words spoken.
So, decked out in Wranglers, slate grey T-shirt, unwashed in the latest, greatest invisible disappearing soap wash, I grabbed my muzzleloader, knife, and piece of paracord tied in a loop, along with my blaze orange vest and hat. My blaze orange hat is classic. Given to me from my grandfather, a farmer, it is about 20 years old, made of foam, and has a high front to it. I love this hat! It has an embroidered 10 point buck on the front for good luck! I also brought my fanny pack, which was the only camo I was wearing, which carried my license, bottle of water, paper towel, and muzzleloader possibles bag, i.e. reloads. My '97 Tahoe was loaded and off to the public hunting grounds.
The drive to the public game lands was short. I knew of a place not far from the road, that most hunters overlook, thinking you need to go far for success. This is usually the case, but if it is right, and close, so much the better. The spot I was headed to is a thick brushed hill, overlooking a creek bottom. Deer usually use the shallow creek as a travel route, and this particular spot was also a main crossing.
I snuggled in against a large oak to break up my silhouette, and give me something to lean against. My muzzleloader was capped off, and the hunt was on. It doesn't take long for the thousand year old hunter mode to kick in. Your senses are sharper. Stone deaf ears to your wife's demands are suddenly like a parabolic reflector dish, capturing every leaf crunch, twig snap, or brush rustle. Your eyes pick up any movement, be it from a leaf blowing in a breeze, or the flip of a squirrel tail. Makes no difference. Each stimuli invokes an adrenalin rush . This is hunting! It's when these simple things fail to stimulate, or excite us, we should consider hanging up the boots. When one of those cues does pan out to be a deer, lookout. The heart accelerates to a pounding pace as our good old friend adrenalin makes his appearance again, stoking our fight or flight response.
So here I was, nestled against a tree, overlooking the creek. Soon after, I hear a crashing of branches above me, and a splash. A great blue heron has decided to fish the creek below me. I must be doing a good job of staying still for these extremely shy birds to land so close. Duck hunters often use a blue heron decoy when hunting ponds to instill confidence in any wary ducks looking to land. The decoy is saying all is ok here. A while later, I watch a squirrel swim across the creek, out of reach of the heron. A pretty good show was unfolding before me. These are the memories we all take home with us that we cherish and reminisce about later as we smile to ourselves.
Then it happened! I hear a crashing above me! I let it continue to my right without turning my head. This is partly so I don't spook whatever it is, and partly because I can't turn like that anymore. I finally pick up the movement in my peripheral vision and make out a deer. By its posture, nose to the ground, I know it is a buck. The brush between me and the deer makes seeing it difficult. Thru breaks in the brush I make out some antlers. I scan ahead for an opening, and put my crosshairs there, waiting. The buck stops, with just his neck and head in the opening. I get the crosshairs on his neck and they seem to lock on him pretty good. From here, I'm not sure what happens. The decision to shoot or not is a personal one. Most times, I pass on a deer like this. Given the time, place, and potential of deer on public land, the brain calculates this all in a manner of microseconds.
Boom! The muzzleloader goes off without a hitch. Trying to peer thru white smoke, I hear a plop and splash. The buck was about 80 yards distant, and about 5 feet from the creek. I sit for 20 minutes, then reload my muzzleloader. As I rise on shakey legs, always after shooting any animal, I walk to where the deer was standing at the shot. I look around, and nothing. This is when panic sets in for a second. I know I hit him. I look across the creek. Nothing. I look up the creek, down the creek, nothing! There is a large blow down in the creek, with its root ball near the creek edge. This creates a space of about 3 feet, and there he was. He made it about 5 feet.
I pull out my trusy paracord loop, looped it around his antlers, and pulled him out of the creek. He was then gutted with the barlow and drug to the Tahoe. He's not the biggest. He'll be a good eater. But this is real hunting, and what it is all about. I enjoyed a great afternoon, and was reminded of my roots.
Sure, I have a lot of the stuff I mentioned above, but it seems every year I use less and less of it, and wear regular clothes, and less camo. Maybe it reminds me of simpler times, when it was more the man than the products that made the hunt. I don't know. It is something to ponder while sitting in the woods the next time around.
Now I'm no Ned Ludd, and don't fight progress, or innovation, but I wondered what happened to the simple way of hunting which pits man against animal with the basic gear of a good gun, a sharp knife, and the most important item, a hunters skill. Sure, these products can make life easier. I chose a piece of paracord, tied in a large loop, to help with the drag, should I be lucky enough to be successful. I also had a cherished old barlow knife that was given to me from a favorite uncle that has gutted many deer for me in the past and I believe seems to bring me good luck.
I was dressed in a pair of Wrangler jeans, Slate grey Carhartt T-shirt, and wondering if it would be worthwhile to go out. I had recently lost access to a farm I had permission to hunt the past 10 years. If I went out, it would be on public land. After thinking about the commercialization of the sport of hunting, no real place to hunt, I was feeling sorta ornery. This orneriness was a motivating factor, and I jumped out of my chair and said the hell with it, lets go on a farmer hunt and get a deer. This is not to knock farmers, but the total opposite. I have a deep respect for farmers, especially dairy famers. My family on both sides are mainly dairy farmers in PA. They are the salt of the earth. Hard working, frugal, non sensical , and get the job done day in and day out. When they hunt, they hunt hard. No fancy store bought gadgetry for them. They hunt the wind, know when and where to hunt, and always get their deer. One of my favorite quotes from them is "I don't care how much cover scent, scent killer, or fu fu stuff you put on, if the wind is wrong, a deer will smell you, and if it is right, they won't. "Followed by, "don't move! Sit still!" Simple, but no truer words spoken.
So, decked out in Wranglers, slate grey T-shirt, unwashed in the latest, greatest invisible disappearing soap wash, I grabbed my muzzleloader, knife, and piece of paracord tied in a loop, along with my blaze orange vest and hat. My blaze orange hat is classic. Given to me from my grandfather, a farmer, it is about 20 years old, made of foam, and has a high front to it. I love this hat! It has an embroidered 10 point buck on the front for good luck! I also brought my fanny pack, which was the only camo I was wearing, which carried my license, bottle of water, paper towel, and muzzleloader possibles bag, i.e. reloads. My '97 Tahoe was loaded and off to the public hunting grounds.
The drive to the public game lands was short. I knew of a place not far from the road, that most hunters overlook, thinking you need to go far for success. This is usually the case, but if it is right, and close, so much the better. The spot I was headed to is a thick brushed hill, overlooking a creek bottom. Deer usually use the shallow creek as a travel route, and this particular spot was also a main crossing.
I snuggled in against a large oak to break up my silhouette, and give me something to lean against. My muzzleloader was capped off, and the hunt was on. It doesn't take long for the thousand year old hunter mode to kick in. Your senses are sharper. Stone deaf ears to your wife's demands are suddenly like a parabolic reflector dish, capturing every leaf crunch, twig snap, or brush rustle. Your eyes pick up any movement, be it from a leaf blowing in a breeze, or the flip of a squirrel tail. Makes no difference. Each stimuli invokes an adrenalin rush . This is hunting! It's when these simple things fail to stimulate, or excite us, we should consider hanging up the boots. When one of those cues does pan out to be a deer, lookout. The heart accelerates to a pounding pace as our good old friend adrenalin makes his appearance again, stoking our fight or flight response.
So here I was, nestled against a tree, overlooking the creek. Soon after, I hear a crashing of branches above me, and a splash. A great blue heron has decided to fish the creek below me. I must be doing a good job of staying still for these extremely shy birds to land so close. Duck hunters often use a blue heron decoy when hunting ponds to instill confidence in any wary ducks looking to land. The decoy is saying all is ok here. A while later, I watch a squirrel swim across the creek, out of reach of the heron. A pretty good show was unfolding before me. These are the memories we all take home with us that we cherish and reminisce about later as we smile to ourselves.
Then it happened! I hear a crashing above me! I let it continue to my right without turning my head. This is partly so I don't spook whatever it is, and partly because I can't turn like that anymore. I finally pick up the movement in my peripheral vision and make out a deer. By its posture, nose to the ground, I know it is a buck. The brush between me and the deer makes seeing it difficult. Thru breaks in the brush I make out some antlers. I scan ahead for an opening, and put my crosshairs there, waiting. The buck stops, with just his neck and head in the opening. I get the crosshairs on his neck and they seem to lock on him pretty good. From here, I'm not sure what happens. The decision to shoot or not is a personal one. Most times, I pass on a deer like this. Given the time, place, and potential of deer on public land, the brain calculates this all in a manner of microseconds.
Boom! The muzzleloader goes off without a hitch. Trying to peer thru white smoke, I hear a plop and splash. The buck was about 80 yards distant, and about 5 feet from the creek. I sit for 20 minutes, then reload my muzzleloader. As I rise on shakey legs, always after shooting any animal, I walk to where the deer was standing at the shot. I look around, and nothing. This is when panic sets in for a second. I know I hit him. I look across the creek. Nothing. I look up the creek, down the creek, nothing! There is a large blow down in the creek, with its root ball near the creek edge. This creates a space of about 3 feet, and there he was. He made it about 5 feet.
I pull out my trusy paracord loop, looped it around his antlers, and pulled him out of the creek. He was then gutted with the barlow and drug to the Tahoe. He's not the biggest. He'll be a good eater. But this is real hunting, and what it is all about. I enjoyed a great afternoon, and was reminded of my roots.
Sure, I have a lot of the stuff I mentioned above, but it seems every year I use less and less of it, and wear regular clothes, and less camo. Maybe it reminds me of simpler times, when it was more the man than the products that made the hunt. I don't know. It is something to ponder while sitting in the woods the next time around.
