The day after Thanksgiving. . . .still recovering from the tremendous food from yesterday's meal. Relaxed having coffee with my wife watching a lovely sunrise over the bay. The boys were committed to working with a neighbor on another neighbor's house. . . doing their best to make progress before winter shuts them down. It would be a solo hunt then. . . just me heading out in the square stern to ground-truth a new area. It has been a tough season, with the tried and true areas not producing like they had in past years.
I shove off the beach at 8:30, and spend five minutes bailing the canoe out. The motor starts on the second pull, and I point the canoe's nose down the bay. The water is glassy, making it easy to see the sea otters and divers as they duck under to avoid the canoe. Almost five miles later the hull scrapes on the gravel. The tide is low, and at the first landing the 200' line doesn't reach the trees. I move the canoe down a ways to where a little creek leaves the old growth and crosses the mudflat. There a cedar has fallen, and I tie the line off amongst it's limbs.
The silence and peace of the place surround me as I switch gloves, situate my pack, secure the rifle into the gun bearer, and start the OnX track on the iPad. I walk to where the creek leaves the woods, and start up hill.
The initial band of old growth blends into that mix of grass, salal, huckleberry and smaller trees that the deer love to feed and loaf in. After a short distance there is a small muskeg. I pause to blow the Drop Shot call. . .and discover the reed is stuck. I blow it in reverse, and keep working at it until it emits a sad little squeak. A few more hard blows and the sound is almost normal, but I don't wait around to see if this new technique is going to be a game-changer.
There isn't a lot of sign, but it is the type of ground that lends itself to still hunting. As a youth in Connecticut I spent a lot of money on fly rods, bird dogs, shotguns and deer rifles. . . .the rest of it I wasted. My time in the fall was spent on those Connecticut hardwood ridges learning how to still hunt whitetails. And after hundreds, or more likely thousands, of hours I had achieved a certain level of mastery. Later, living in Maine, those skills worked in the alder and cedar swamps, and the spruce thickets that come in after the clear cuts grow up.
My goal today was a certain series of muskegs a half mile up from the beach that go on for almost two miles. The route I have selected is the deer feeding area I mentioned earlier.
Take a few off-cadence steps, stop look. . . .listen. . .take a step. . . look. . . listen. . . rinse and repeat. I work my way a quarter mile uphill from the beach, checking my track from time to time as a method to extend how long I don't move my feet. The slower I go, the more I will see.
A grassy strip 75' long appears to my left through the brush. Another time it is the kind of place I might simply hunt through. I take a few minutes to get to a good vantage point by a thickly branched spruce tree 20' into the strip. Then I blow the call, a few shorter bleats. . . not so loud, and wait. I blow the call two more times. . . not loud.
After a minute or two I hear what is unmistakably a deer at my 4:00, not far away, but blocked by that thick spruce tree. . . and the intervening brush. I make a 180, and take a step in order to be able to see around the spruce tree. . . adjusting my trigger stick as I move. The Ruger goes up and settles into the V. I keep my head up and search the woods . . .. that deer was not far away.
Then. . there he is! Head up to see over the brush as he slowly moves left to right. . .and completely disappears behind the brush. . . I look ahead and catch the merest glimpse of gray. . . .then nothing for a few seconds . . . no sound, no discernable movement. . . .no indication at all. . . if he is moving he is approaching my back trail. . . .Then he appears in an opening maybe 30 yards away. . . looking in my direction, but not really at me. . . only his neck, head and antlers framed by the surrounding branches. Not much of a shot. . .but I'm ready, and the crosshairs settle on his neck just above the brush. . . .
At the shot the buck simply disappears. . . .and that little voice starts up, which I shutdown by thinking "well, I sure didn't see him run away!". I eject the shell, chamber a round, and pick up the brass. I retrace my steps back to the trees. . .through a few feet of salal and huckleberry brush. . . and there he lays, DRT.
The pull to the saltwater was all downhill and only took 45 minutes. . . one of the advantages of hunting from the beach. The square stern is floating like a leaf on its mirror image. . . water glassy calm. The rain is starting. . . and it has gotten a bit foggy. Even still, I take my time, savoring the hunt. I'm a canoe guy at heart, and this hunt has been all I could ask for. I pull in the boat, and paddle up to where I had left the buck and my gear. A few quick photos, then I load up and paddle out to deeper water. The motor needs a few pulls, but starts and runs smoothly. Once out in the bigger water I check my bearings, adjust my course, tighten up my hood against the rain and fog, and motor back to the house.
I shove off the beach at 8:30, and spend five minutes bailing the canoe out. The motor starts on the second pull, and I point the canoe's nose down the bay. The water is glassy, making it easy to see the sea otters and divers as they duck under to avoid the canoe. Almost five miles later the hull scrapes on the gravel. The tide is low, and at the first landing the 200' line doesn't reach the trees. I move the canoe down a ways to where a little creek leaves the old growth and crosses the mudflat. There a cedar has fallen, and I tie the line off amongst it's limbs.
The silence and peace of the place surround me as I switch gloves, situate my pack, secure the rifle into the gun bearer, and start the OnX track on the iPad. I walk to where the creek leaves the woods, and start up hill.
The initial band of old growth blends into that mix of grass, salal, huckleberry and smaller trees that the deer love to feed and loaf in. After a short distance there is a small muskeg. I pause to blow the Drop Shot call. . .and discover the reed is stuck. I blow it in reverse, and keep working at it until it emits a sad little squeak. A few more hard blows and the sound is almost normal, but I don't wait around to see if this new technique is going to be a game-changer.
There isn't a lot of sign, but it is the type of ground that lends itself to still hunting. As a youth in Connecticut I spent a lot of money on fly rods, bird dogs, shotguns and deer rifles. . . .the rest of it I wasted. My time in the fall was spent on those Connecticut hardwood ridges learning how to still hunt whitetails. And after hundreds, or more likely thousands, of hours I had achieved a certain level of mastery. Later, living in Maine, those skills worked in the alder and cedar swamps, and the spruce thickets that come in after the clear cuts grow up.
My goal today was a certain series of muskegs a half mile up from the beach that go on for almost two miles. The route I have selected is the deer feeding area I mentioned earlier.
Take a few off-cadence steps, stop look. . . .listen. . .take a step. . . look. . . listen. . . rinse and repeat. I work my way a quarter mile uphill from the beach, checking my track from time to time as a method to extend how long I don't move my feet. The slower I go, the more I will see.
A grassy strip 75' long appears to my left through the brush. Another time it is the kind of place I might simply hunt through. I take a few minutes to get to a good vantage point by a thickly branched spruce tree 20' into the strip. Then I blow the call, a few shorter bleats. . . not so loud, and wait. I blow the call two more times. . . not loud.
After a minute or two I hear what is unmistakably a deer at my 4:00, not far away, but blocked by that thick spruce tree. . . and the intervening brush. I make a 180, and take a step in order to be able to see around the spruce tree. . . adjusting my trigger stick as I move. The Ruger goes up and settles into the V. I keep my head up and search the woods . . .. that deer was not far away.
Then. . there he is! Head up to see over the brush as he slowly moves left to right. . .and completely disappears behind the brush. . . I look ahead and catch the merest glimpse of gray. . . .then nothing for a few seconds . . . no sound, no discernable movement. . . .no indication at all. . . if he is moving he is approaching my back trail. . . .Then he appears in an opening maybe 30 yards away. . . looking in my direction, but not really at me. . . only his neck, head and antlers framed by the surrounding branches. Not much of a shot. . .but I'm ready, and the crosshairs settle on his neck just above the brush. . . .
At the shot the buck simply disappears. . . .and that little voice starts up, which I shutdown by thinking "well, I sure didn't see him run away!". I eject the shell, chamber a round, and pick up the brass. I retrace my steps back to the trees. . .through a few feet of salal and huckleberry brush. . . and there he lays, DRT.
The pull to the saltwater was all downhill and only took 45 minutes. . . one of the advantages of hunting from the beach. The square stern is floating like a leaf on its mirror image. . . water glassy calm. The rain is starting. . . and it has gotten a bit foggy. Even still, I take my time, savoring the hunt. I'm a canoe guy at heart, and this hunt has been all I could ask for. I pull in the boat, and paddle up to where I had left the buck and my gear. A few quick photos, then I load up and paddle out to deeper water. The motor needs a few pulls, but starts and runs smoothly. Once out in the bigger water I check my bearings, adjust my course, tighten up my hood against the rain and fog, and motor back to the house.
