F
Field Ethos
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By Caleb McClain
I crept over the deadfall, somehow completely silent despite the tangled mess of downed pines under my feet. My pace was only about a quarter-mile per hour, but I knew the big four-point muley (that is, an eight-point by whitetail measurements) was hiding somewhere down in the bottom below me. I had seen him the past two days before the season began, having been within bow range of him each time.
Despite the rut being near its peak, he was still in a bachelor group with a spike and a young fork-horned buck. The extra eyes meant progress had to be slow. To make matters worse, I had already run into one big bull moose, and the two sets of tracks in front of me told me that a cow was hiding somewhere with her calf. Still, if this hunt progressed as I expected, he was as good as dead already.
But hunts rarely go as planned.
As I crested the edge overlooking the basin, the silence broke from under my right foot in the form of a stick snapping. Had a grenade gone off in those woods, I would scarcely believe it could have reached the decibel level of that single dry stick.
A wheeze echoed through the woods in return. I looked in the direction of the noise where the spike stood staring back at me, not 30 yards away.
In my mind, I called him every expletive in the book while begging him to stop.
He wheezed again then took off with the forky in tow.
Then I saw him. Amid the confusion of his two companions bolting through the woods, the four-point took off, never offering a shot, nor to be seen again. I attempted to follow the same game plan the next day, but it was to no avail.
I moved on to a nearby aspen stand. The dead leaves cracked under my feet no matter the speed I moved at, scaring three deer just in front of me. They ran up the hill next to me and stopped. Though I had not noticed through the dense aspen saplings, one of the deer was a buck, and he was rather respectable in age and size. Furthermore, with the two does well above him on the hillside, the shot window was almost perfect. I leveled my rifle for the 150-yard shot and fired.
As the shot broke, I saw movement from the bush below him. Out popped a fourth doe, which had remained concealed until that very second. As the thud from the impact returned, three deer stood perfectly still while one rolled over, the three finally leaving their fallen comrade.
As I walked up to the dead deer, my stomach dropped. The deer that laid on the ground was a doe, just barely shot in the skull, and I only had a buck tag. Realizing that there was no fixing this situation, I made the hardest decision I ever had to: through the flickering cell service at the top of the hill, I called a game warden to self-report.
“Just take the meat and meet me in town in four hours. We’ll figure it out from there,” he ominously instructed.
After quartering the deer, I sheepishly drove down the mountain to meet him, fully expecting my season to be over. Upon arrival, the cordial officer gave me a nice surprise. I was able to keep hunting if I surrendered the meat and paid a nominal fine—a much better outcome than the felony he informed me I would have received if I was caught hiding it.
Two days later, I found another buck cruising for does. His pace was fast enough that it was now or never, and I had no chance to judge his antler size, but they looked fine from the brief glance I was offered at an awkward angle. As he stopped to rake his antlers on a tree, my crosshairs found his body, I fired, and he dropped.
As I approached the dead deer, I froze; there was no antler coming from its head. The sinking feeling in my stomach returned at once.
Not again, you idiot. How will you even explain yourself? Twice in two days. The game wardens certainly won’t cut you a break on this one.
Then relief. There, sitting 10 feet away from his dead body, was the antler shot off at the base from the bullet passing through, the other still attached to the skull, both being much smaller than previously thought.
As I stared at the young unicorn beneath my feet. I shook my head. He certainly was not the wall-hanger I had been expecting. But then again, hunts rarely go as planned.
The post Murphy’s Law of the Wood appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
I crept over the deadfall, somehow completely silent despite the tangled mess of downed pines under my feet. My pace was only about a quarter-mile per hour, but I knew the big four-point muley (that is, an eight-point by whitetail measurements) was hiding somewhere down in the bottom below me. I had seen him the past two days before the season began, having been within bow range of him each time.
Despite the rut being near its peak, he was still in a bachelor group with a spike and a young fork-horned buck. The extra eyes meant progress had to be slow. To make matters worse, I had already run into one big bull moose, and the two sets of tracks in front of me told me that a cow was hiding somewhere with her calf. Still, if this hunt progressed as I expected, he was as good as dead already.
But hunts rarely go as planned.
As I crested the edge overlooking the basin, the silence broke from under my right foot in the form of a stick snapping. Had a grenade gone off in those woods, I would scarcely believe it could have reached the decibel level of that single dry stick.
A wheeze echoed through the woods in return. I looked in the direction of the noise where the spike stood staring back at me, not 30 yards away.
In my mind, I called him every expletive in the book while begging him to stop.
He wheezed again then took off with the forky in tow.
Then I saw him. Amid the confusion of his two companions bolting through the woods, the four-point took off, never offering a shot, nor to be seen again. I attempted to follow the same game plan the next day, but it was to no avail.
What Can Happen, Will
I moved on to a nearby aspen stand. The dead leaves cracked under my feet no matter the speed I moved at, scaring three deer just in front of me. They ran up the hill next to me and stopped. Though I had not noticed through the dense aspen saplings, one of the deer was a buck, and he was rather respectable in age and size. Furthermore, with the two does well above him on the hillside, the shot window was almost perfect. I leveled my rifle for the 150-yard shot and fired.
As the shot broke, I saw movement from the bush below him. Out popped a fourth doe, which had remained concealed until that very second. As the thud from the impact returned, three deer stood perfectly still while one rolled over, the three finally leaving their fallen comrade.
As I walked up to the dead deer, my stomach dropped. The deer that laid on the ground was a doe, just barely shot in the skull, and I only had a buck tag. Realizing that there was no fixing this situation, I made the hardest decision I ever had to: through the flickering cell service at the top of the hill, I called a game warden to self-report.
“Just take the meat and meet me in town in four hours. We’ll figure it out from there,” he ominously instructed.
After quartering the deer, I sheepishly drove down the mountain to meet him, fully expecting my season to be over. Upon arrival, the cordial officer gave me a nice surprise. I was able to keep hunting if I surrendered the meat and paid a nominal fine—a much better outcome than the felony he informed me I would have received if I was caught hiding it.
It Rarely Goes As Planned
Two days later, I found another buck cruising for does. His pace was fast enough that it was now or never, and I had no chance to judge his antler size, but they looked fine from the brief glance I was offered at an awkward angle. As he stopped to rake his antlers on a tree, my crosshairs found his body, I fired, and he dropped.
As I approached the dead deer, I froze; there was no antler coming from its head. The sinking feeling in my stomach returned at once.
Not again, you idiot. How will you even explain yourself? Twice in two days. The game wardens certainly won’t cut you a break on this one.
Then relief. There, sitting 10 feet away from his dead body, was the antler shot off at the base from the bullet passing through, the other still attached to the skull, both being much smaller than previously thought.
As I stared at the young unicorn beneath my feet. I shook my head. He certainly was not the wall-hanger I had been expecting. But then again, hunts rarely go as planned.
The post Murphy’s Law of the Wood appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
