A WEEKEND HUNT
Wind gusts up to 25 mph forecast that weekend ... I thought that may be too much of a challenge.
I jotted notes in my iPhone as I hunted.
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| Tebo Arm, Truman Lake |
Nov. 7
It
was a very chilly start with a light glaze of frost on the windshield. I
had awoke with a whopper of a headache so I hunted in the nearby timber
behind the motel. A headache, one sure sign obviously the weather was changing; I hiked slowly and medication eased my headache
somewhat.
The squirrels busily digging and jumping from
tree to tree, it was a gorgeous day. Towards noon I got hungry yet I still wanted to explore. I
ventured into the field, it had appeared at a distance to be withered
soybeans but as
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| field of deer beds |
I reached the edge of the timber, I saw it was a weed field. It had
deer beds and paths etched throughout the tall grass tossing with the
wind.
I turned back and stepped on something hard. I pushed the leaves
aside and buried in the leaves was evidence of a thief. A big padlock
and heavy gauge cord cut in two. I would have kept the padlock, valued
about 15 bucks but when I picked it up I saw it had been cut. It was
not old and rusty. I shivered to realize the size of tool needed to
break this lock and cut the cord. I also felt sorry for the hunter
naive enough to leave his stand there only for it to be stolen. My husband, Ed had had his stand also stolen, from a different location. I understood the anger and frustration all too well.
I scanned the area for the other guy's tree, easily spotted it with a 2X6 board
nailed into the trunk. Obviously the thief had seen it too. Approaching the slender tree I nodded, yeah this was a good spot
overlooking the ditch. Some a-hole got a freebie stand. Those individuals give us honest hunters a
bad “rep”. Perturbed, I stepped up the pace to the Jeep.
By mid-afternoon, the sun warmed up the timber to a pleasant 60
degrees. My husband and I drove around the county looking at several
spots to hunt. Plenty of time to set up, but I was tired from hiking
and feeling the effects of the headache medication.
He opted for a section dubbed “Bald Man’s Head”. Relieved once I got my fabric blind set up, I leaned against the tree. It’s bark
was cool while the sun was warm on my masked face. It’d be only a few
minutes that sun would shift behind the pine branches thirty yards away.
Then my source of heat, except for my jacket would be gone. The
gusty wind was beginning to calm with the dusk.
The squirrels
busily chased each other above me. I chuckled at the persistence of a
male clamouring for a female’s attention but she was unreceptive. He
headed toward her, jumped and skittered to the branch directly above me,
stared down at me nervously. I lowered my head so he could not see my
face lest he’d start that noisy “Chechee” alarm bark. I peeked out from
under my cap to watch him in the whip of a tail resume his chase of
Miss Squirrel. I escaped his wrath. Miss Squirrel did not. Soon she
would accept his unrelenting mating ritual. All is nature.
I
used a folding stool rather than struggle for comfort to sit on the hard
ground. Grass was too sparse for cushion as it withered with each frost
now. It was time to watch the woods, then I was startled into attention by the approaching crunch of leaves. I heard the little buck with
its steps and instantly readied my bow. hen its spindly rack emerged
from the bushes and I saw it was only a spike -- Lucky lil’ fella,
this buck was protected in Missouri, I couldn’t shoot it. In an instant it was out
of sight heading downhill, never aware of me sitting in wait. That
alerted me to be on guard; however the rest of the hunt was uneventful. At dark my husband joined me and we plowed through the tangled brushy thorns toward the truck.
Nov. 8
The
day started with wind. Swirling, cold, blustery wind. Chills your bones wind. I had planned
to tune my bow at an outdoor range at Clinton. I decided not to fight the wind, too strong for accurate test shots. Ed had gone
across the lake earlier to hunt out of his climber that morning; I was hunting solo. I drove to a
familiar spot down the highway. There were other hunters there. I did
not want to deal with them invading my hunting. I drove away.
Mindful
of my low energy of a migraine I needed to relax, let the woods calm my spirit. I texted my husband I was heading home, that I
would hunt Settle's Ford conservation area enroute the way home.
The rest of my day was peaceful, but windy, difficult bow hunting in Henry county.
Hiking and
scouting half a mile across open fields. A stunning November blue sky above
reddish brown hills of scrub brush created an image of a wilderness painting. This photo does not
do the colorful view justice.
I
returned to the vehicle, drove down the gravel road, passing a truck parked in a drive. He’d be no bother, that area is huge I thought to
myself. I slowed the Jeep to a crawl, scanning for any sign of game in
the fields. On the left, a half
mile down the way there was a cornfield. I parked in the grass off the
road, thus claiming that field as mine. I wearily scooted the seat
back, the sun warm through the window glass and wearily closed my eyes for a much yearned-for nap.
Entering the lane to the cornfield I winced from the stench that hit me in the face. Wow. Deer urine. I stopped to attach the bow trigger onto my wrist; I’d be ready for a deer to intersect me. Not that I can hit a running deer with an arrow but a hunter is always ready. I turned onto the tractor lane next to the corn, walked slowly, peering into the bordering patch of trees, searching for an acceptable tree to sit next to unseen. The woods’ oak aroma was intoxicating, calming my persistent, dull headache. I found a suitable clump of Thorn apple black locust trees and wrapped the blind fabric around them, secured with bungee cords. Satisfied, I was good-to-go.
Squirrels
chased each other around and up and down bare trees, nearly scampering over me. I heard turkeys call 
across
the cornfield.
I excitedly replied with a few light slate purr calls. The same moment I took the photos of the cornfield a deer bounded behind me as I sat
there. Pounding hoofs and whooosh! Like a noisy ghost! I focused my eyes into the scrub trees and thick
wheatgrass -- I immediately picked up movement. I squinted best I could
without binoculars and saw the white of its neck move again. It moved
one step and I saw antlers! It stood rock steady looking in the
direction of the doe that had run past me.
There in the midst of the scrub tree branches I could not count the tines but when it moved, its rack was large to belong to a six or eight point. I turned slowly to prepare for it to move towards the doe. Her speed told me she was two fields gone …. I watched him lower his head, likely eating leaves or berries; I still could not identify the points of his antlers, mixed with the brush and I had no binoculars, I whispered to myself, he doesn’t see or smell me so it don’ matter anyway. I looked away, watching for silent turkeys coming from behind, the next moment he was no longer there. Gone. Witnessing that action got me excited – thrilled with hope -- a live deer in my sight was awesome!
Birds fed on berries and squirrels seemed to quarrel and play nearly within my reach, in spite of my presence. Hearing leaves rustle, I bent forward to see a mouse dig for seeds under the oak leaves. I chuckled. I thought I heard more hoof sounds in the timber behind me but I sat motionless, became part of the tree, didn’t turn to see. Like the Tin Man, I only moved my eyes like a statue. I heard faint turkey clucks across the field and within minutes of sunset, the flapping of wings as the flock flew to their roost in the tall maples on the edge of the field. More calling to them was useless. I peered through the bow's peep sight; visual was nil to focus a shot.
My
hunt was at an end. Every last ray of sun was disappearing and the
evening chill overcame me. I sent a text to Ed of the excitement of
seeing the deer, headin’ home.
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