Sign Posting

 This summer has been unusual to say the least. While the weather ran comfortable through summer, it's pushed on into late fall here in the Midwest. Indian Summer at its' longest. 

Then there's the global calamity called COVID. Indiana has suffered little in comparison to some states. The economy, despite the media-mongers pervasive declarations to the contrary, is revving strong. 

And deer hunting, I suspect, will prove to be a record year. Pair the mild winter of 2019 and summer stretching well in to November of 2020, there certainly is abundant opportunity to harvest a worthy buck and a meat doe or two. 

Oddly enough, while my trail cameras have recorded constant and consistent movement across the property I hunt, the signs are lacking. If I didn't know better I would think this year would fall short of even a single buck sighting. The sign posts just haven't been there. 

Sure, there's a rub or two. Old and far apart. And scrapes? Well, the mock scrape I used in prior years that typically roused at least a response from the littler bucks has been completely ignored. 

The cameras hold the proof that the rut has started, but where are the other tell tale signs of activity?

In a way, the world we live in under the shroud of this viral crisis is much like this year's deer sign. One could scout the paths thinking deer movement at an all time low. They could sign the scrapes, weeks old, collecting the newly falling leaves of autumn. They could ponder on the sparse and weathered rubs here and there with no real connection to the usual pre-rut movements. Just like one could look at record job numbers, stock markets highs, and revitalized consumerism and think, but we're in a pandemic? 

The sign posts of an economy roaring back to life after months sitting patiently idle should be a tell tale sign of a better tomorrow. The signs of lower unemployment and increased activity across all markets should be a sign the best is on it's way. The "trail cameras" recording what is happening in America show movement that isn't witnessed when and where we think it should be. 

Instead we read about riots, looting, and deadly confrontations. We read scandal and hoodwinking at the highest levels and grandest scales.  These are the old, dry and dusty scrapes and rubs that "they" want us to see. Resignation wielded like a vaccine so we don't take to the stand and look for this year's Boonie. 

My hunting partner and close friend recently won the lottery for elk hunting in Montana. He and his son took an extended trip to Big Sky Country to see if in their noble pursuit of antlered kings they could bring home a season's worth of meat in a single hunt. 

As he passionately retold the experiences they had, he threw in a single comment that caught me off guard.

"Out there are some of the laziest hunters I've ever seen.* They sit in their trucks and drive until they see something, then they jump out and take a shot."

Both he and I are like many hunters in the Midwest; we scout for the best location to throw up a stand or two (or three!) and then we sit there. Repeatedly. But in the midst of the sitting, there's also the midseason scouting and stalking. The "step and scan" as I call it. In know the private land I'm on. I've done my homework, set my positions, and know when, where, and how to slip in and slip out for a chance at dropping one. But that's not always a guarantee. Sometimes, as the season pushes on, other land may yield better results. And to get there means stalking in and stalking out. 

I don't think his comment was so much on the "work ethic" of Montana hunters as it was they resigned themselves to the path of least resistance. Staying toasting in the cab of a 4X4 pickup while driving and spotting requires a lot less effort and energy then tracking a bull elk through feet of snow in the hopes of actually sighting one and getting the window to take the shot. 

He did not bag an elk on that trip, but he didn't leave empty handed. He and his son both came home with good sized muleys. They chose not to settle for the heater in the truck, but for the chase. Which is what it is, the Great Chase. 

He may not have been as successful as some of the locals who knew the hot spots and weren't afraid to drive right to them, but his experience was one for the books. He and his son faced assorted challenges and met some worthy prey that challenge their hunting aptitude and craft. They didn't gloss over the chase in armchair style but embraced it, success or failure. 

In the many years of hunting under my belt, I can tell you the failures more clearly than the wins. I can recount the stupidity of certain moments and the ignorance of others. I can plainly tell you how I missed a sure shot or how a smart phone can become the worst enemy of a hunter. 

I have read article after article about sign posting. About how to make a lick, a mock scrape, even best times and places for minerals. I've watched videos on cover scents and how to use estrous or buck bombs. Experts explaining calls and how and when to use them. But all of that means nothing if I don't set foot in the blind or climb the stand or stalk the property. Knowing isn't always key. Understanding however, that can make the difference between a freezer full of venison or having to buy beef for the next several months. 

And yes, there's a difference. Knowing what a sign post is, where to find them, and even how to read them isn't the same as understanding why they are there and what the deer are doing. I've hunted long enough to know, sign posts can be useful. But watching the game and learning what they are doing in spite of what signs there are, one is more likely find what they are searching for than simply resigning to doing the same thing on repeat. There is always more to be gained by the pursuit, the great chase, than by sitting on the sideline wishing for a better outcome. 

The Greatest Catch

Originally from New York, I’ve lived in a few different states. For a spell, I lived near the Chesapeake with some roommates from out West. One beautiful weekend, the idea developed that we should go crab fishing on the bay. None of us had ever fished for crabs but somehow we came into the possession of some traps and a lead on a good place to round some up..

We set ourselves on a set of piers and tossed the bait-laden traps into the briny water. The sun was warm, the breeze refreshing and the company golden. All we had to do was wait. Unfortunately, the few crabs skittering around the sandy floor of the bay where we were showed little interest in the traps or the vittles they contained. So we chose to try our hand at “angling,” bobbing weighted fishing line with morsels of fish to lure the wary crabs into grabbing hold.

It was in the midst of this impromptu “fishing” that one of my roommates asked to borrow my pocket  knife to trim his line. Without hesitation I pulled the Uncle Henry stockman from my pocket and proffered the knife. No sooner did he cut the line than I heard a plunk a few feet below and beside me.

My roommate’s response was a mix of embarrassment, hopelessness, apathy and condolence. I could just make out the fading shimmer of the open blade as is passed into the murkiness near the sea floor some 15 feet below.

“Um, I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish ambivalence. Under normal circumstances, this would be water off a duck’s back. After all, I owned nearly a dozen assorted knives. Some pocket, some belt. Some cheap bargain deals and others valuable either monetarily or for some sentimental reason.
The latter was front and center cause for my dismay.

I dropped what I was holding onto the concrete pier and trekked off to my ‘86 Ranger, shouting over my shoulder “Don’t you move!” with all the authority I could summon. Shocked by my demand, he held fast while I began scouring for something to retrieve the old knife. The nets we brought were only a few feet long and we had nothing to attach them to to reach the depth where the knife rested. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tore through the cab of my little pickup, mentally cobbling  together everyday objects, MacGyver-like, to rescue the treasure I feared would be carried off by crabs or the tide.

Leaning heavy on the open door under a brilliant and hot Maryland sun, I just about gave up when I realized where my eyes were staring - there in the door of my truck resided a large magnet in the form of a speaker. Sure, ripping out the speaker would mean no more stereo experience but then again, the amplifier had blown months ago so I had grown accustomed to driving around tunes free.

While the roommate who lost the knife to the water stood affixed in the same place he had been when the knife left his hand, my other roommate had abandoned his crabbing exploits to check on me.

“It’s just a knife, man.” His consolation fell on deaf ears.

“Do we have any rope? Nothing thick. Just big enough to tie this speaker off to?”  I asked.

By now, the intensity of a pursuit was questioned as either some form of temporary insanity or that they misjudged the value of the knife patiently waiting for retrieval. Ignoring the questioning looks of my friends, I yanked the cover off the speaker and used a rusty screw driver that had long rolled around the floor boards of my truck. Once I backed the retaining screws out of their holes, I ripped loose the speaker wires, grabbed the thin nylon rope my roommate had found, and made a makeshift fishing magnet (long before I knew that was a real thing).

I returned to my other roommate’s position at a sprint and asked him, forcefully, to point to where he dropped it. I ignored their doubt filled glances and began carefully lowering the magnet. Bobbing it ever so slowly in contiguous circles, I kept fishing for the old stockman, praying, hoping I would hit proverbial pay dirt.

After what seemed ages, while my friends began packing away the gear and hauling up pitifully empty buckets, I finally happened upon my target. Pulling the magnet clear of the bay and over dry land, the gleam of sharp steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Sure enough, with a grunt of victory and smile of relief, there stuck to the speaker’s driver was the knife.

So we didn’t succeed in catching enough crabs for dinner, nor did what we catch survive the trip home in a single bucket of warm water. Dinner was then to be takeout. But I had my knife.

Why all this about a knife? After all, this was a “fishing trip”, not hunting. There was no game to be had, no trees or wide open places. No peaceful hours in the woods. But there was the thrill of the hunt and the greater thrill of the “catch”.

The knife is a vintage stockman by Uncle Henry. $20 can get you a fair copy today. But a new one wouldn’t have the connection. See, this knife was carried in my grandfather’s pocket for years. He did all sorts of things with it I’m certain, just as my father did when it was gifted to him. And just as I do once it was handed to me. I have very few things that belonged to my father’s father. And only a few more that also belonged to my dad.

There are hunters who brag and boast about the Boonies they drop and the fortunes they pay to show them off to anyone who sits still long enough to hear about their victorious exploit. And there are hunters (and fisherman!) who understand sometimes it’s not the size or even type of game that makes the hunt, it’s the hunt itself. The trophy is more often the story and the emotions it evokes over that of the “ value” of the harvest. My first deer was a button buck taken with a muzzleloader after one of the first snows of winter. He wasn’t much. But I can tell where I was sitting, which way he came and where he ran and dropped after I pulled the trigger. I can tell you who I called to lend me a hand dressing the deer and how unprepared I was. I can tell you where I aimed and how true my shot was. And more.

The hunt is what draws us. Not always the game. Like the story of the pearl of great price, the moral isn’t is the getting of the pearl, it’s what the man went through to get it, the hunt if you will.

One day I will pass on this knife to one of my children. And be sure, I will tell the story of how I went fishing for a knife and what it cost and why it was worth it. And hopefully they’ll think twice about lending it to someone over open water!

Predator or Prey

Prey and predator have existed for millennia. And so it is no surprise that man has witnessed and participated in the hunt, recording the outcomes in poems and epic stories.

For every form of prey, there is a master predator. And man has tried to master them all. Sometimes with success. Other times at great pain and peril.

Even for those who abhor the idea of taking the life of another creature, the idea of overcoming the edge of death’s sickle still echoes in the human heart. Wolves at the door and she holds them at bay with nothing more than a firebrand while he faces down the great brown giant, unleashing a single shot to the heart. Countless stories tell the tale of the hunter and the hunted. And we are not always who we think we are.

For nearly a decade I have walked woods, public and private. I’ve missed my mark through failures to prepare or practice and through the mysterious unknowns that seem to rob of the great bounty for which I hunt. And I have brought home more than I could have hoped for. More than my family could keep.

To be clear, I am exceedingly grateful for every harvest. Every one. And whether or not you agree with my pursuits and successes, I hunt not for sport or for trophies. Each take is provision. They feed my family and others. And I process every one. A responsibility I esteem and believe every hunter should be capable of.

Whether stalking, in a blind, or sitting suspended in the air or on the cold earth, countless treasures have been stored in my memory. The first time I saw hawk grab its meal out the tall grass a few yards from where I sat to a rafter of turkeys the flew overhead like a gust of black wind. Or the elation of dropping my first deer only to feel it wash away as the reality I didn’t know what to do next set in.
Memories of frigid hours witnessing nothing more than blowing snow and gray skies to unseasonably  warm December days that provoked squirrels to incessant barking on branches mere feet from my station.

Over the course of these posts, I hope to break down the lessons learned and share the majesty of the more memorable experiences. Maybe walking through the pain and failures and weaving back to the valuable insights gained from all those hours invested will spark some revelation in your own hunt for life.