Youth Hunt SNAFU PT III

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Well, I wish I had a story for you that began:

“There the doe lay, under a bush beside the gully. The 150 grainer had taken its time doing its work, but . . .”

“The coyotes had done their work. All that was left was . . .”

or even:

“How could we have been so blind as to not see her . . ”

Nope. I got on my brush pants and an orange sweatshirt and took off after the sun came up. Barney and I went back to the spot and looked for anything that could tell us more of what happened. We gradually worked our way down the gulley, found a few beds in the weeds, and then turned down the creek at the bottom of Hootin’ Holler. The closest water source would be a pool that never goes dry, near where it dumps into our branch of Willow Creek. My best shot at finding this doe would be to follow the narrow bottom of the ravine down to this pool and to the beds in the pasture beyond.

As a scouting trip, it was superb. I now know much better how the deer are using this ravine as a travel route into the interior of our farm. Even though we’re into our fourth season at the farm, there are still places I have not gone. This was one. As far as finding the doe, zip. Nada. Bumpkus. If she made Willow Creek without leaving a sign, I am left to conclude the wound was less than fatal. It was at least beyond my meager abilities to discover otherwise.

There was at least some redemption. This was the first time in ages that I have actually had a chance to enjoy a walk in the October woods. Hootin’ Holler has been very much off-limits during deer season, because it comprises one of the largest deer sanctuaries on the property. For years now, I’ve spent all my free time in October, hunting or preparing to hunt. Now the circumstances had reversed, and I HAD to put down my gear and plumb the depths of the hollow.

I have often wondered why I was so attracted to hunting, and deer hunting in particular. It is so unlike my rearing, and so unlike the rest of my life. In those long hours on the stand, I have sometimes drifted back, searching for the primary spark. I’ve had alot of theories, but none I could find convincing. Today was a good day to pursue that line, as the trail grew cold and I was left wandering the woods. It did not take long for it to surface.

I was four. It was mid October. My parents took me and the dog out to the park for a walk. My Dad gave me a stick and told me it would help me get around on the creek bottoms. We walked for a ways and found a scout camp; a pack of cub scouts was having their father/son campout. I was dazzled. As we were leaving, my folks had me take their picture. It became the picture I carried for years in my wallet. In my mother’s hand was a leash. After the dog died, I found the leash and made a lanyard for my Boy Scout pocket knife. It stayed on my belt until after college. Somewhere on that hike, along with racoon, squirrel, and rabbit, I remember seeing a deer hoofprint– very exotic for a city park back in the early Sixties.

By the time I got back up to the top of Gobbler’s Knob, I had reached out and touched that morning in 1962. I had my dog, my walking stick, my pocket knife on a lanyard, and I now had a reason why. There was a hoof print perfectly made in a patch of mud. It was funny that it took losing that doe to get me back in touch.

Just for grins, I called back to the house and sent #2 out with the truck for a pick-up. Without fanfare, he climbed in and made his first solo drive in the truck. He gave be a big grin as I got in. He’ll remember his first solo drive for the rest of his life. It may remove the sting of losing his first deer.

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