TEBO DEER HUNTS

 

    

A boat ride in pitch dark across the coves, a rocky hillside climb was the start of our deer season open...

     Cold water chopped at the hull as we raced through the main channel. Ed's DIY boat headlights shone along past the cold waves, revealing jagged stubs of trees. In the summertime they are connected by jugs strung on trot-lines, bobbing with an occasional Channel-cat on, suspended in the deep water.

     We skirted past those wooden stalagmites left standing when the channel was flooded, forming the lake. My quilted vest collar wrapped snug against my neck, I braced against the chilly November wind that hugged the shoreline. Fun memories of summer fishing quickly subsided in hopes of a shot at a good deer beyond the boulders, and tree limbs strewn en masse that made my climb difficult with a backpack and rife strapped to my back. I felt more like a pack-mule. And just as stubborn.

     My husband guided me, shone the mega flashlight along the rubble to the timber, the boulders reflecting gray in the dark. I clumsily stepped between the rocks, a few rolled under my boot; my heart skipped a beat, once I nearly lost my balance. Even with two good, strong feet, it was a difficult trek up forty yards full of dead trees, rocks and tall grass smashed by high water. Once beautiful, Red sumac tangled around my winter boots, demanding I carefully crawl toward my spot beyond the treeline into the woods. Scrambling through stiff brush, it was all I could do after a broken ankle on-the-mend.  

      Reaching the timber edge was like crossing the finish line of a marathon -- relief and exhilaration.

Halfway uphill, he kissed me good luck and very adeptly worked his way back to the boat. The wurr of the motor scooted towards his own spot across the cove to his tree stand. Everywhere we hunt, he's got his personal spot already plotted.

     I used my headlamp to quickly find a tree to settle against till dawn's light might show a deer come in sight. I was excited, not in the least sleepy. My jet-black Marlin rifle on my lap, barely able to see save the tree silhouettes as the sky began to lighten, I lowered my head and whispered, "God, bless our hunt today... keep us safe and bless my aim." I smiled. I’m alone with a few autumn birds’ intermittent chirps.

     BOOM! It came from over the plateau... but it was the dimmest light I'd ever witnessed a shot under. How could they see to shoot? I couldn't make out anything yet. Not in those darkest shades of predawn grays, the kind of non-light that produces illusions of something there in the distance that you think you see, but it's actually nothing at all, just shades and shifting forms of stumps and bushes at daybreak.

     There is no depth perception in the night timber; you peer into a shadow some forty yards away, or twenty maybe, but you see no real animal. Subtle oncoming light transforms the timber. It's magical.

It's wilderness surrealism, the slightest movement is a ghost in the woods. Then predawn hovers over, trickling into the forest canopy, there comes a faint clarity as you blink your eyes straining to focus on every shadow, any sign of life. Still, you can't see through a rifle scope to make out a deer standing still. Your anxiety play tricks on your eyes, called 'deer fever'.. in anticipation, your grip tightens on the powerful rifle. In a second or two, those shapes emerge from the night illusion, sunlight streams through bent branches and flickering leaves... you grasp acknowledgement of the fast sunrise. In that moment, it's dawn.

     You're suddenly alert. Ready. You'll shoot the quarry that shifts into focus any second now. Most times you realize the moment the shades are lifted, as those watercolor grays return to the last emerald greens littering the forest floor and brown leaves still hanging onto bushes, what had 'appeared' in the shadows as a deer was really just a bush or a broken down tree trunk. And then, yet, yes, sometimes a deer appears... seeming from out of the darkness.

     In reality, for the next hour, gunshots rang out from the private property west of entire cove beside me. It was time to move to where my view was better, over a wide ravine, the pinch point. Sitting on my backpack, for one second, I noticed some movement through the scrub brush in the valley below. My binoculars were buried inside my pack, no time to use the rifle scope I only had a moment, then it would be gone. It was difficult to decipher through all the bushes and fallen trees but I could barely make out the small shape of an animal skulking through the underbrush. I had caught a glimpse of a bobcat. Very reclusive, and not in season. I've seen several cats in the woods. This was not a good sign, no deer would be nearby with this predator within scent-range. Damn.

     Not ten minutes later, after seeing the bobcat, I heard the commotion of leaves rustle behind me. Familiar footfalls! A deer was coming fast. I raised my gun just as what I thought was a buck stopped behind a large tree about eighty yards to my left. It stood still with its tail twitching. I instantly looked through the scope but I saw no antlers. Disappointed, a perfect deer was within a stone's throw, but I could only see the body. Its neck and head was hidden behind the tree. I had no idea if it was a buck or doe. (Bucks smaller than 7 points are protected in Missouri.) I had to be sure before I shot. This deer may have winded me because the next second it bounded off down into the deep bushy holler below me. Gone. A doe. Dammit. Unpredictable November lake wind. I passed up a doe.

     I know some folks would have shot, either at the deer as it stood, saying "to hell with the 4 point rule," or tried a shot as she ran. But my chances of a kill on the run was a snowball in hell 's. I lowered my gun and swore under my breath.

     Sometimes the good Lord tests us and no, I wasn't going to risk getting caught by the Missouri Gestapo, killing an illegal buck.

     We took a break back at the marina, where four deer ran across the two sections of cove (top photo) a mere second after clicking the photo of all the dead trees on the banks. I wanted to show how high the spring flooding had been. We stood there, our jaws dropped watching them run like wild horses; they leaped easily and nimbly for a quarter of a mile along the entire shoreline out of sight into the brown timber.

     One other time I saw a deer run like that was several years ago. Opening day as well. Driving to our spot to join Ed, a buck burst out of the timber a section of field two on my left, full-bore, legs outstretched with each stride. Nearly stopped the vehicle... It took all of 3 seconds to cross two open plowed fields spanning a mile. It was a helluva sight! That big rack and legs bounding at such speed.

     Their strength and power is amazing to watch.

By noon at Fox Run access-marina, other hunters had come in, one family had been near my location, who also heard that predawn shot. He agreed it wasn't quite a legal shot, being too pre-dawn. Then complained of being surrounded by campers interfering on his own spot. Just seems to me, with over 100,000 acres of land that others would not encroach into your zone, but it happens all the time. The younger guy in the family had killed an eight... we congratulated him on his success. They were headed back out but it was so windy, Ed had difficulty lining up the little V-bottom out of the water. We ate cold BBQ sandwiches and loaded up. The rest of the day was calm but blaze orange could be seen in every cove, nook and cranny of those Ozark hills.

     After a long day of hunting, we cris-crossed from St. Clair county into Henry county along mountainous winding blacktop, Ozark rough, beautiful wilderness --home to monster bucks, two of the 'big predators' and everyday good country folks.

 

(The moral) So my point -- sometimes we should ignore science and logic and dare go with our gut, with our hearts. After many agonizing months of solitude and surgery discomfort, mine told me the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t God reaching His hand to bring me Home, but into remission.

 

     Brilliant sun lit up the weed field. 
     I was warm and hidden.  I stood next to a small tree for a few minutes watching for any deer to pop out of the woods, 243 cradled in my arms.  Birds twittered noisily. After awhile I headed carefully across the tangled weed mess to try to bump a deer. Or just to see what was in the timber.  I found a wide deer path making walking so much easier then the buck rub, giving me a rush to imagine its rack.  I meandered back to the Jeep in order to rest my feet.  Also I was hungry ~  I devoured my leftover cold steak and buttered roll ~ it didn't need warmed up.  Mmmmm...

     I don't answer my cellphone when in the woods or on the highway.. No time for photos or texting the rest of the day. We drove to a small boat launch in the bottoms at Tebo Creek.  I had seen a spike buck trot through the previous year ~ and it's not a popular place save a few duck hunters, hence the possibility of deer...
     Very thick with buckbrush and a pond that holds frogs in summer.  Willow trees lined the water's edge, dried up after a late summer of no rain. So many deer tracks in the clayish soft dirt that it looked like a pig yard.  Ed wanted me to walk through the woods to jump up deer; I just had to push through waist high dead weeds and maneuver through all the driftwood logs and dead branches strewn about left from high water last spring.  Rifle slung on my shoulder I took me time ~  carved through the stickery buckbrush then into the deep timber laden with low lush greenery.   Bottomland and an adjacent hillside forest is a very different scene than the previous day's rocky timber with spruce thickets that harbor big deer.
     There was no wind inside the serene timber as the cool gentle air permeated my senses, surrounded me with calm.  Inside this timber I was ready to sit down in the soft grass to enjoy the quiet wilderness when I saw a glimpse of Ed's blaze orange shirt approaching eighty yards away.   I picked up flowers and a chunk of mossy driftwood.  Another drive was a bust.
     Soon Ed loaded up the old rusty F150 with the boat and left for home,  I didn't want to leave.  Being a short distance from the little lodge, I took a drive to scope out the 243 spot.
First, some photos:

Windsor Crossing Campground and marina

Driving up the lane the pines separate the wilderness.