Hunting Stories
Moderators: Pike Ridge Beagles, Aaron Bartlett
Re: Hunting Stories
Thank you! I don't know about the incredible talent part, though. I go back and edit everything I write a squillion times.
Re: Hunting Stories
Beautiful story Bev. Thank you for allowing us to read it.
Would it be alright if I offered a couple. I'll post a couple and there's more at my website, just click on the little earth symbol under my avatar. Thanks!
Morning Frost, Woodsmoke, and Small Game
October is the month when we usually receive the first frost of the year. Of course, frost starts quietly, like all seasons, and gradually builds from there. In fact, for the past few nights, the frosts have gotten progressively harder and more widespread. One can usually tell whether it’s going to frost in the morning by considering the conditions of the atmosphere the night before. Clear sky, no wind, cold temperature, equals frost in the morning.
Frosty mornings hold a special place in my life. Whenever I leave for work in the morning and there’s frost, I always imagine I’m going hunting rather than to work. Images of grown over fields, brushy two-tracks, icy dead leaves on the floor of the forest. Naturally these thoughts dissipate briefly while I scrape my windshield-never with an ice scraper, I don’t even own one of those. I’d much rather use a debit card, or CD cover, my fingernails, anything but an ice scraper. I once saw an ice scraper for sale that was enshrouded by a woolen mitt that you slipped your hand into. Evidently it was designed to keep the scraped ice from settling onto your warm skin. That’s for wimps.
As I drive to work on these frosty mornings I am impressed by the number of houses I see which have woodsmoke ascending to the heavens-like burnt offerings with benefits, namely, warmth.
I really, really like the smell of woodsmoke on a fall morning. Couple that with the general frosting of the milkweed and goldenrod and I’m downright transcendant. I get kind of carried away while driving thinking about rabbit hunting, squirrels, grouse, etc. Sure I think of deer hunting, but deer hunting is so, what’s the word, grown up? Lackluster? No…maybe commercialized. There it is-commercialized.
No one deer hunts in wool and canvas anymore. It’s all gore-tex, microfiber, and a new one I heard about the other day called “Optifade.” Evidently, animals see in certain kinds of dimensions, gray scales, and parallel, parallax, and who knows what else. Anyway, the idea behind Optifade, as I understand it, is to make you look less like a tree, unlike regular camoflauge, and more like the sky, or matter, or maybe it was broken matter. I can’t remember.
So I think about small game hunting. Living in the mountains of North Carolina, we have the occasional Ruffed Grouse, red phase. Of the two color phases, it seems to me that the reds are a little larger than their northern gray phase cousins. Better looking too.
I’ve shot two grouse in my life. I’ve hunted them specifically, in total throughout my life, about thirty seven days. Believe me, in southern grouse hunting circles, that’s a pretty stout ratio. Oh, I’ve flushed a few more than two, they’re just that hard to hit.
Squirrels, like any other boy introduced to hunting, except for these days it seems, were what I first pursued, gun in hand. Dad taught my brother and me how to position a squirrel for a shot. One of us would assume a post where we had a clear view of the tree trunk while the other, slipping quietly, would circle around the side of the trunk where the little fella was masquarding as a branch. See, we essentially had him pinned this way. A treetrunk, being round, has no corners to hide behind, so it was only a matter of waiting him out.
The smell of the woods, I think, most affected me as a young boy. There was a feeling, (it still eludes me to this day,) that drew me to the logging roads and ridgetops. All the seasons were great to me back then but oh the fall. Golden, orange, earthy with the smell of dropping leaves, and cold creek water, and dogwood berries red and heavy, and the deer tracks in the dirt road holding ice that melts with the first ray of the sun.
Nothing is finer than the sound of hounds amidst the aforementioned backdrop. A pack of rabbit hounds, beagles rather, is pure bliss when the air is crisp and the robins and starlings circle overhead, working their way southward.
We had a kennel of beagles growing up. Some of my fondest memories are of Sandy, the jumpinest jump dog, and Bart, her littermate, and Tess, Tamer, Percy, Rock, Ann, Annie, and all the rest whose names escape me know.
My brother and I were always afraid of the cows in the fields where we hunted rabbits. I recall a sense of dread in my stomach when the time came for us to exit the cab of dad’s truck to let out the dogs. The cows, assuming that they were about to be fed would amble close to us, breathing on us, mooing, stomping. Quite an imposing site for a five-year-old.
But we’d quickly lose them as we gained ground up the two-track, following the hounds, stepping on the spikes of ice heaved upward through the frozen roadbanks, like stalagmites in minature in a frozen cave. Hoar frost I think it’s called.
The beagles would work in little circles, drinking in the scent of everything that passed that way during the night. Deer, raccoons, possums, skunks, coyotes, and then, there, that snuffle right there, aha…rabbit! And Sandy would let loose with a high pitched whine, piercing the stillness, rising through the pine boughs and the cold laurel hells, reaching our ears and those of her hunting partners. They, of course would respond with immediate obedience to her request, and join her in timely fashion to pursue the task at hand.
Rabbits, when pursued, usually run in circles. Some range far and wide, trying to lose their pursuers with sheer speed and distance. Others rely on trickery and fancy darts and jumps. Maybe they’ll run up a little creek, trying to throw off the dogs. Maybe they’ll run out a fallen log, trying to disperse their scent. Years of living in fear of owls, hawks, and foxes have taught them that they must never stop moving and when under stress, to find the shortest distance back to their holes, or warrens, if you prefer. If you’re a rabbit, there’s safety in going to ground.
So the idea, if your a hunter, is once the dogs strike, to try and position yourself where you best think the rabbit will be going, and kind of post-up for a shot. Naturally, you don’t want to shoot until you clearly see the rabbit, and you want to make sure that he’s clear of the hounds. Oh, and don’t shoot the minute the dogs jump him. The dogs are there for a job, let them do it please.
A pack of five beagles at full cry is a sound like no other. An organized cacauphony of bawls and whines, each voice known distinctly by their master, said master interpreting the baying for clues as to positioning of the pack, the whereabouts of the rabbit, and where the whole shebang is headed. Presently, after manuvering through the swampy creek bottom, and over the cutover laydowns, and through the Christmas tree field in our case, the beagles will bring the rabbit ever closer.
I remember such a chase where I was working my way out the hill. Tenderfooted, I hacked my way over some rocks and grapevines as the dogs drew closer. I carried daddy’s 20 gauge, he carried his 12 gauge Valmet. I remember the dogs being above me, up on the hill, now cresting, the rabbit darting back and forth about twenty yards in front of me, bounding down the slope, flattening out in the bottom into a dead run. The little Remington came up to my shoulder, swung to catch up with the rabbit. I snapped the trigger, BOOM!
Evidently, I didn’t have quite enough purchase on the steep hillside when I fired, for my backside, as quickly as I had pulled the trigger, was transported through the morning air, in the opposite direction as my pattern of number 7s, and landed with a thud! On a tree root, oh, about the diameter of a Louisville Slugger.
Amazingly, the rabbit lay still in the bottom of the holler, for, said number 7s, had found their mark. The dogs were trailing up to the scene right as I reached down to grab him by his back legs. Success was shown to the hounds and then slipped gently into the pouch of my game vest…blaze orange.
Now, there is certainly nothing wrong with deer hunting. Nothing wrong with kids deer hunting. But, are we not robbing our kids of something special if we bypass the small game and move from bb guns right bears? Why are not more hunters taking to the woods each fall in pursuit of tails, both bushy and cotton? Is it that they are too concerned with antlers, 130 inches or greater? Are they too anxious to try out their new synthetic stocked superwonder? Maybe their new grunt tube slash rattling box slash snort wheeze, sneeze, cough, natural esophagus-like tube with three-in-one doe and fawn bleat? Oh yeah, it’s got an estrous bleat too!
I don’t know. It seems to me that the little boy, heck, even the grown man, who is denied the pleasure of the small game hunt, in deferrence to bigger and supposedly better things is indeed missing out on a lot of joy and connection with the Creator. See, a father or mother can teach important things about life while walking with their little hunter after a squirrel. They don’t have to worry about being insanely quiet and still. You just cannot do that in a deer stand. Also on the upside, most fall mornings around here come in at about thirty degrees. The great thing about small game hunting is you can walk. You stay warmer. Think about it.
And one more...
A Meeting with Majesty
Last October, the 4th and final week to be exact, the rut commenced. My brother called me from his cell phone-12 o’clock in the day, “There’s a huge buck in my driveway!”
“Shoot him,” said I.
“Can’t get a shot…he’s chasing a doe, grunting, wheezing…sounds like he’s choking.”
Of course, it was still archery season here on the western slope of the eastern continental divide. Leaves had just started dropping, nights were getting nippy. And I was at work and Drew was at home eating lunch, trying to get a shot with his bow at this beast. Exciting times.
I had hunted in that particular area a couple of evenings before and had missed a doe with my archery tackle. Shot right under her, my arrow chunking into the soft, loamy soil on the bank behind her. It happened right at last light and I was particularly lucky to find my arrow. Thankful I did though as it let me know I had cleanly missed. No blood, no hair, just dirt.
So two days later, in the middle of the day, here was this great buck, trying to breed the same doe, presumably, that I had missed. You’re welcome Drew.
As it turned out, Drew never got a shot for the buck wouldn’t stay still where he was supposed to. The buck chased my doe up the hill behind a neighbor’s house and stayed there pretty much all afternoon, grunting.
Drew called me again and relayed this information and we devised a plan. A setup was layed out involving rattling and calling and hopes were stilled against the fact that the buck had more than likely chased my doe out of my neighborhood.
When we got home, we threw on some camo, grabbed our stuff, and walked into the woods. Quietness enshrined the pine forest, the brittle dead sticks on the lower trunks of the pine trees snapped if you walked into them, making your head jerk up to see if you had scared anything with the noise. I posted below a deer trail where a newly shredded hemlock trunk stood staring back at me. Drew found a little hiding spot 20 yards to my right. As darkness gathered I rattled and grunted, trying to coax the buck, if he was still in the vicinity, to show himself.
We heard him.
Slowly at first, cautiously, he raked leaves with hooves. He rubbed bark with antlers. He pranced about in place as if to let us know he wanted to come in to the sound but his age and experience with humans just wouldn’t permit him. He was maybe 40 yards to the right of us, out the hill, up a little draw, surrounded by laurels and rhododendron.
Waiting him out was quickly proving unsuccessful, and as my fear had been, we ran out of time. No, not time, rather daylight-we ran out of daylight. It was too dark to shoot, but light enough to just make out lines and shapes when he decided to trot in before us. The kingly aura about him was palpable. Long dark antlers projected from his head and swept backward at an angle accentuated by the tilt of his head, enabling him to sweep through the briars and vines. Steam left his nostrils, rolling into the night air, almost frozen, appearing then disappearing, looking all the world like a dragon, maybe an angry bull. His hulking form, backlit by the moonlight exhibited ethereal power and strength, but curiously, he was silent upon the dry leaves of the forest floor. Ghost-like. He stopped directly in front of me, my knees quivering, hair on my neck standing. To say I felt small would not be stretching the truth for I felt as if I was in the presence of something more than a deer. This buck was regal and he knew it, no doubt. He stomped the ground, he knew I was there. He stomped again, trying to make me flinch, react, run. He snorted a low, menacing wheeze, stomped, twitched, and vanished.
The air had left my lungs and I inhaled sharply. Coolness descended on the ground. I heard the wind, saw the stars twinkling now, the pines brushed the blackness. All was calm. Something touched my shoulder and I flinched. It was Drew.
We didn’t say much about what had just happened. Neither of us had been that close to such a majestic animal. Indeed it does sound corny but it was a moment that almost transcended the moment. It was as if time stood still, for me at least, in part maybe, I believe, because of my great love for the woods, and deer, and hunting them. God had given me this moment. And looking back, I’m glad I never got a shot at that magnificient stag. It was better that way. I like the way that moment fits in my memory. Of course I’ll hunt this buck again this year. Don’t know if he’s still around. But I’d like to think that the doe I missed last year will lure him into my neck of the woods again. Well, they’re really his woods. I’m just a guest.
Would it be alright if I offered a couple. I'll post a couple and there's more at my website, just click on the little earth symbol under my avatar. Thanks!
Morning Frost, Woodsmoke, and Small Game
October is the month when we usually receive the first frost of the year. Of course, frost starts quietly, like all seasons, and gradually builds from there. In fact, for the past few nights, the frosts have gotten progressively harder and more widespread. One can usually tell whether it’s going to frost in the morning by considering the conditions of the atmosphere the night before. Clear sky, no wind, cold temperature, equals frost in the morning.
Frosty mornings hold a special place in my life. Whenever I leave for work in the morning and there’s frost, I always imagine I’m going hunting rather than to work. Images of grown over fields, brushy two-tracks, icy dead leaves on the floor of the forest. Naturally these thoughts dissipate briefly while I scrape my windshield-never with an ice scraper, I don’t even own one of those. I’d much rather use a debit card, or CD cover, my fingernails, anything but an ice scraper. I once saw an ice scraper for sale that was enshrouded by a woolen mitt that you slipped your hand into. Evidently it was designed to keep the scraped ice from settling onto your warm skin. That’s for wimps.
As I drive to work on these frosty mornings I am impressed by the number of houses I see which have woodsmoke ascending to the heavens-like burnt offerings with benefits, namely, warmth.
I really, really like the smell of woodsmoke on a fall morning. Couple that with the general frosting of the milkweed and goldenrod and I’m downright transcendant. I get kind of carried away while driving thinking about rabbit hunting, squirrels, grouse, etc. Sure I think of deer hunting, but deer hunting is so, what’s the word, grown up? Lackluster? No…maybe commercialized. There it is-commercialized.
No one deer hunts in wool and canvas anymore. It’s all gore-tex, microfiber, and a new one I heard about the other day called “Optifade.” Evidently, animals see in certain kinds of dimensions, gray scales, and parallel, parallax, and who knows what else. Anyway, the idea behind Optifade, as I understand it, is to make you look less like a tree, unlike regular camoflauge, and more like the sky, or matter, or maybe it was broken matter. I can’t remember.
So I think about small game hunting. Living in the mountains of North Carolina, we have the occasional Ruffed Grouse, red phase. Of the two color phases, it seems to me that the reds are a little larger than their northern gray phase cousins. Better looking too.
I’ve shot two grouse in my life. I’ve hunted them specifically, in total throughout my life, about thirty seven days. Believe me, in southern grouse hunting circles, that’s a pretty stout ratio. Oh, I’ve flushed a few more than two, they’re just that hard to hit.
Squirrels, like any other boy introduced to hunting, except for these days it seems, were what I first pursued, gun in hand. Dad taught my brother and me how to position a squirrel for a shot. One of us would assume a post where we had a clear view of the tree trunk while the other, slipping quietly, would circle around the side of the trunk where the little fella was masquarding as a branch. See, we essentially had him pinned this way. A treetrunk, being round, has no corners to hide behind, so it was only a matter of waiting him out.
The smell of the woods, I think, most affected me as a young boy. There was a feeling, (it still eludes me to this day,) that drew me to the logging roads and ridgetops. All the seasons were great to me back then but oh the fall. Golden, orange, earthy with the smell of dropping leaves, and cold creek water, and dogwood berries red and heavy, and the deer tracks in the dirt road holding ice that melts with the first ray of the sun.
Nothing is finer than the sound of hounds amidst the aforementioned backdrop. A pack of rabbit hounds, beagles rather, is pure bliss when the air is crisp and the robins and starlings circle overhead, working their way southward.
We had a kennel of beagles growing up. Some of my fondest memories are of Sandy, the jumpinest jump dog, and Bart, her littermate, and Tess, Tamer, Percy, Rock, Ann, Annie, and all the rest whose names escape me know.
My brother and I were always afraid of the cows in the fields where we hunted rabbits. I recall a sense of dread in my stomach when the time came for us to exit the cab of dad’s truck to let out the dogs. The cows, assuming that they were about to be fed would amble close to us, breathing on us, mooing, stomping. Quite an imposing site for a five-year-old.
But we’d quickly lose them as we gained ground up the two-track, following the hounds, stepping on the spikes of ice heaved upward through the frozen roadbanks, like stalagmites in minature in a frozen cave. Hoar frost I think it’s called.
The beagles would work in little circles, drinking in the scent of everything that passed that way during the night. Deer, raccoons, possums, skunks, coyotes, and then, there, that snuffle right there, aha…rabbit! And Sandy would let loose with a high pitched whine, piercing the stillness, rising through the pine boughs and the cold laurel hells, reaching our ears and those of her hunting partners. They, of course would respond with immediate obedience to her request, and join her in timely fashion to pursue the task at hand.
Rabbits, when pursued, usually run in circles. Some range far and wide, trying to lose their pursuers with sheer speed and distance. Others rely on trickery and fancy darts and jumps. Maybe they’ll run up a little creek, trying to throw off the dogs. Maybe they’ll run out a fallen log, trying to disperse their scent. Years of living in fear of owls, hawks, and foxes have taught them that they must never stop moving and when under stress, to find the shortest distance back to their holes, or warrens, if you prefer. If you’re a rabbit, there’s safety in going to ground.
So the idea, if your a hunter, is once the dogs strike, to try and position yourself where you best think the rabbit will be going, and kind of post-up for a shot. Naturally, you don’t want to shoot until you clearly see the rabbit, and you want to make sure that he’s clear of the hounds. Oh, and don’t shoot the minute the dogs jump him. The dogs are there for a job, let them do it please.
A pack of five beagles at full cry is a sound like no other. An organized cacauphony of bawls and whines, each voice known distinctly by their master, said master interpreting the baying for clues as to positioning of the pack, the whereabouts of the rabbit, and where the whole shebang is headed. Presently, after manuvering through the swampy creek bottom, and over the cutover laydowns, and through the Christmas tree field in our case, the beagles will bring the rabbit ever closer.
I remember such a chase where I was working my way out the hill. Tenderfooted, I hacked my way over some rocks and grapevines as the dogs drew closer. I carried daddy’s 20 gauge, he carried his 12 gauge Valmet. I remember the dogs being above me, up on the hill, now cresting, the rabbit darting back and forth about twenty yards in front of me, bounding down the slope, flattening out in the bottom into a dead run. The little Remington came up to my shoulder, swung to catch up with the rabbit. I snapped the trigger, BOOM!
Evidently, I didn’t have quite enough purchase on the steep hillside when I fired, for my backside, as quickly as I had pulled the trigger, was transported through the morning air, in the opposite direction as my pattern of number 7s, and landed with a thud! On a tree root, oh, about the diameter of a Louisville Slugger.
Amazingly, the rabbit lay still in the bottom of the holler, for, said number 7s, had found their mark. The dogs were trailing up to the scene right as I reached down to grab him by his back legs. Success was shown to the hounds and then slipped gently into the pouch of my game vest…blaze orange.
Now, there is certainly nothing wrong with deer hunting. Nothing wrong with kids deer hunting. But, are we not robbing our kids of something special if we bypass the small game and move from bb guns right bears? Why are not more hunters taking to the woods each fall in pursuit of tails, both bushy and cotton? Is it that they are too concerned with antlers, 130 inches or greater? Are they too anxious to try out their new synthetic stocked superwonder? Maybe their new grunt tube slash rattling box slash snort wheeze, sneeze, cough, natural esophagus-like tube with three-in-one doe and fawn bleat? Oh yeah, it’s got an estrous bleat too!
I don’t know. It seems to me that the little boy, heck, even the grown man, who is denied the pleasure of the small game hunt, in deferrence to bigger and supposedly better things is indeed missing out on a lot of joy and connection with the Creator. See, a father or mother can teach important things about life while walking with their little hunter after a squirrel. They don’t have to worry about being insanely quiet and still. You just cannot do that in a deer stand. Also on the upside, most fall mornings around here come in at about thirty degrees. The great thing about small game hunting is you can walk. You stay warmer. Think about it.
And one more...
A Meeting with Majesty
Last October, the 4th and final week to be exact, the rut commenced. My brother called me from his cell phone-12 o’clock in the day, “There’s a huge buck in my driveway!”
“Shoot him,” said I.
“Can’t get a shot…he’s chasing a doe, grunting, wheezing…sounds like he’s choking.”
Of course, it was still archery season here on the western slope of the eastern continental divide. Leaves had just started dropping, nights were getting nippy. And I was at work and Drew was at home eating lunch, trying to get a shot with his bow at this beast. Exciting times.
I had hunted in that particular area a couple of evenings before and had missed a doe with my archery tackle. Shot right under her, my arrow chunking into the soft, loamy soil on the bank behind her. It happened right at last light and I was particularly lucky to find my arrow. Thankful I did though as it let me know I had cleanly missed. No blood, no hair, just dirt.
So two days later, in the middle of the day, here was this great buck, trying to breed the same doe, presumably, that I had missed. You’re welcome Drew.
As it turned out, Drew never got a shot for the buck wouldn’t stay still where he was supposed to. The buck chased my doe up the hill behind a neighbor’s house and stayed there pretty much all afternoon, grunting.
Drew called me again and relayed this information and we devised a plan. A setup was layed out involving rattling and calling and hopes were stilled against the fact that the buck had more than likely chased my doe out of my neighborhood.
When we got home, we threw on some camo, grabbed our stuff, and walked into the woods. Quietness enshrined the pine forest, the brittle dead sticks on the lower trunks of the pine trees snapped if you walked into them, making your head jerk up to see if you had scared anything with the noise. I posted below a deer trail where a newly shredded hemlock trunk stood staring back at me. Drew found a little hiding spot 20 yards to my right. As darkness gathered I rattled and grunted, trying to coax the buck, if he was still in the vicinity, to show himself.
We heard him.
Slowly at first, cautiously, he raked leaves with hooves. He rubbed bark with antlers. He pranced about in place as if to let us know he wanted to come in to the sound but his age and experience with humans just wouldn’t permit him. He was maybe 40 yards to the right of us, out the hill, up a little draw, surrounded by laurels and rhododendron.
Waiting him out was quickly proving unsuccessful, and as my fear had been, we ran out of time. No, not time, rather daylight-we ran out of daylight. It was too dark to shoot, but light enough to just make out lines and shapes when he decided to trot in before us. The kingly aura about him was palpable. Long dark antlers projected from his head and swept backward at an angle accentuated by the tilt of his head, enabling him to sweep through the briars and vines. Steam left his nostrils, rolling into the night air, almost frozen, appearing then disappearing, looking all the world like a dragon, maybe an angry bull. His hulking form, backlit by the moonlight exhibited ethereal power and strength, but curiously, he was silent upon the dry leaves of the forest floor. Ghost-like. He stopped directly in front of me, my knees quivering, hair on my neck standing. To say I felt small would not be stretching the truth for I felt as if I was in the presence of something more than a deer. This buck was regal and he knew it, no doubt. He stomped the ground, he knew I was there. He stomped again, trying to make me flinch, react, run. He snorted a low, menacing wheeze, stomped, twitched, and vanished.
The air had left my lungs and I inhaled sharply. Coolness descended on the ground. I heard the wind, saw the stars twinkling now, the pines brushed the blackness. All was calm. Something touched my shoulder and I flinched. It was Drew.
We didn’t say much about what had just happened. Neither of us had been that close to such a majestic animal. Indeed it does sound corny but it was a moment that almost transcended the moment. It was as if time stood still, for me at least, in part maybe, I believe, because of my great love for the woods, and deer, and hunting them. God had given me this moment. And looking back, I’m glad I never got a shot at that magnificient stag. It was better that way. I like the way that moment fits in my memory. Of course I’ll hunt this buck again this year. Don’t know if he’s still around. But I’d like to think that the doe I missed last year will lure him into my neck of the woods again. Well, they’re really his woods. I’m just a guest.
Re: Hunting Stories
Fleetwood, those are awesome stories, well-written! The second one brought goose bumps. Thanks for sharing and I'll check your others out.
Re: Hunting Stories
Cool, glad you liked 'em Bev. I appreciate it. Kind of hard sticking your stuff out there for all to see but I have so much fun writing the stuff, I figured someone would enjoy reading it. Thanks again.