Woman Midwest-style

O pening day 2013.  After ten hours, f inally, I had a deer in sight. I tracked the doe through silver maples, too skinny for a tree stand or to shield me from view. That same second, she caught scent of me just as I raised my 243 ... I hadn't meant to be in close range, but there she was. I heard her and she knew I was too close, in the same thicket as she stood, silent, barely visible, save those ears twitching. I stopped breathing.  She flipped her fluffy white flag up, in five bounds s he disappeared beyond the ripe soybean field, into private timber. Had she seen me jerk my rifle to shoot? Or caught a whiff of human? Maybe her radar heard the tiny twig snap under my boot?      An island of a dozen sparsely leafed trees shielded me from view, where I sat for two hours on a huge flat oak stump. I watched the tree line for the doe to come back out to feed. I was in no hurry, very comfortable in my short sleeves. The light breeze in my hair, the bluejays “caw cawed” i

       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 t

  The heat of summer is entrenched, and the 4th of July signals to bow hunters the summer 'break' is half-over. I'm thinking of cool relief of autumn. By October, deer return from timber to fields under moonlit nights, they'll migrate earlier without dusk's cover.  2013   Summer's humidity was relentless. But Fall bow season had begun even as u ncomfortable heat hung on. One humid afternoon, Ed and I opted to drive to hunt Urich Conservation Area prior to gun season's crowd chased off all the deer..... afterwards, it would be futile to hope for a modicum of success in Urich's small area. We loaded the Jeep with his climber stand and the ground blind I use, and an assundry of other supplies necessary including the small homemade deer cart. The usual mass mayhem of traffic kept us from making significant speed to Urich conservation area. Since the freezer was nearly empty, the woods and wild beckoned us both as necessity. Pulling into

                                         A cross the country s everal hunting seasons are in full swing; b ow season began this week in Missouri.    Many folks share this lifestyle and believe in the  traditions  of our heritage to put food on the table with their own hands and tools, be it a trowel or a rifle.  Hunting is a personal choice with family tradition as  integral  as using a fork.  This is revised from one of my first posts.  It's always a challenge to re-read and publish to current readers but the "attitude" about this deserves a repost...  Now s ince my work is at my desk, if I chose to go hunting, I'd grab my bow, a snack and 2-3 bottles of ice water and off I'd go...  But damnit. I broke my ankle last April and I'm just not capable of  tackling the hiking and timber.  I's 'makin' very slow progress but that's just the way it is.  This year the old saying 'playin it by ear' really applies.        The re

  I finally broke my five year dry spell  -  shot a button buck opening day gun season...           I'd about given up after five disappointing years of no game to my credit.  I ached to break in the .243 my husband had given me for Christmas last year.  So we got up at four a.m. for the one and a half hour drive to our Truman Lake spot.     Walking in, a young man met me on the path up the hill, sweaty and smiling and out of breath.  Told me if I was lookin’ for the 8 point that he shot it.  But I had no way of 'lookin' for that buck he referred to since my husband and I had arrived only a few minutes ago, Mr. Ed was surely half-mile deep in the timber ahead of me by now, as usual, confident that I'd find my own special spot.  Puzzled or amused, I must have looked as though I wanted the story, the young man bursting at the seams to tell the first person who'd stand still to listen.  Rare on the first day of deer rifle season, but I did, his adrena