Knee Deep in Autumn

As my truck wound along the narrow country road, brown oak leaves skittered across the crown and hung up in the bare shrubs that lined the roadside. Dried, unharvested corn stalks stood in neat rows in fields while others showed cut stubble. The same vast corn fields had turned the Oley Valley green over the summer. I thought how appropriate it would be to see a flock of ring-necked pheasants pecking away at kernels dropped by the harvesting process. Sadly, those birds, an autumnal icon, no longer thrive in Pennsylvania.

I drove past neat farms and country homes adorned with pumpkins, gourds, and corn shocks. Well-stocked woodpiles stood ready against cold that may never come. Autumn was on full display.

As I tooled along, I mentally relived my morning deer hunt. Aside from the time of year, it was not a classic fall hunt. The temperatures were approaching 60 degrees when I exited my truck at 5:00a.m. Mid-November’s past often featured frosty, frigid conditions requiring warm clothing and gear for a hunt. Today I had worn light cotton. Were it not the peak of the white-tailed deer rut, I probably wouldn’t have hunted at all but it was November 11th, Veteran’s Day. It was the time of year to be in the woods no matter what.

I was hunting my good friend Joe’s property. It is a small piece of paradise in Chester County, Pennsylvania. Joe and I conferred on where we would hunt and set off into the woods. It had rained over night for the first time in weeks. We made no noise walking to our hunting spots. The deer would be silent as well. Nothing gets the hunters heart racing faster than the steady, crunchy cadence of a deer walking through dry leaves. There would be none of that this morning and we would have to be on our toes.

In my mind, I have different visions of autumn and hunting season from memories past. Early season features mostly the green hues of summer with some tinges of the color yet to come. Later in October Mother Nature paints the landscape spectaculars colors. Acorns rain down creating a constant patter as the life-sustaining treat drops within reach of hungry deer. Squirrels and blue jays grow fat on the abundance. November comes with the last colors of autumn. The remaining leaves get ripped from branches by the first, fierce northwest wind. To leaf-peepers, the season might be over. To the deer hunter, this is the time we wait for. The maple trees are bare, and the oaks hold on to a few sparse leave. Dried leaves create an ankle deep carpet that nothing moves quietly in. November is when the rut happens. The time of year when bucks drop their guard and seek out potential mates. This, to a deer hunter, is when the autumn woods is most beautiful.

I settled in to the padded seat of my climbing stand well before daylight. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness around me. A pair of barred owls called nearby. On dry mornings the game was to listen to the amazing amount of things rustling in nearby leaves. Was it a night creature heading to bed or a day creature getting an early start? Today, aside from the owls, all was quiet after the rain.

It was still overcast from the storm and the sun would be late today. As I waited, I contemplated the season. Summer will probably always be my first love. The best memories of my life came from summer. I love stepping outside in shorts and t-shirt, socks stashed in a drawer until fall, and not feeling cold. Summer brings fresh fruit and vegetables, sunny days, long evenings, trips to the beach, and fishing.

As a kid, I remember the first warm spring day when the air has that new grass smell. There were Easter decorations that made my heart glad. I love the sound of song birds and spring peepers. Crocuses and hyacinths bloom filling the air with sweet scents. I often feel as a bear must feel coming out of hibernation to be outside again. Everywhere there is new life.

Winter once had its place in my heart. When I was a country lad winter meant ice skating, and sledding. Back then, such cold came in early December and lingered until March. As a teen, winter meant muskrat trapping. It was a lucrative business with the prolific rats bringing a tidy profit. No portion of the animal was wasted. The fur was beautiful and produced some of the warmest garments available. Muskrat meat is delicious and the glands used throughout the cosmetic industry. About the only things not used were the tail, feet, and teeth. But we live in a more “politically correct” world now. We tell ourselves that petroleum and other chemical-based products are more environmentally friendly than the renewable natural resources the Creator provided.

As I grow older, winter has lost some of its appeal. The landscape becomes gray and dreary. It never gets cold enough now to create ice for ice skating. On the rare occasion we have snow it just means more work.

But autumn remains amazing. No other season makes me want to get out and be part of it so much as autumn. This is why I so like hunting deer with a bow. It feels like being one with nature as part of the natural process. The predator/prey relationship dates back to the very beginnings of the earth. Homo Sapien and nearly all of our predecessors have always been predators. We grew big brains from consuming animal-based protein. It is only natural then that our hearts quicken with the grunt of a tending white-tailed buck.

The morning darkness began to give way to a brightening gloom. The woods around me started to take shape. It would still be a while before there was enough light to safely and accurately shoot. I slowly began studying the forest around me for signs of movement. More than once, I’ve been caught by unseen deer in low light. Nothing moved on this dark, damp morning.

Dawn was a bit slow but eventually surrendered to the inevitable turning of the earth and daylight grew. Squirrels scampered cautiously, still wary of the barred owls and other night predators. Woodpeckers of all sorts began to squawk and hammer. Nearby, a red-tailed hawk announced the morning with a raspy, drawn out call. While first light is often the best time to catch deer moving, this day there were none. Regardless, I stood for most of the morning so as not to be caught unaware.

It had been a tough year of hunting for us. Suburban deer numbers in recent years have been successfully reduced in the area we hunt. The Pennsylvania Game Commission has issued plentiful tags and local township-sponsored hunters have hit the herd hard. Still, there are deer around. We just need them to pass through our slice of woods at the right time. This morning, nothing moved through for the first hour or so of the morning.

As I surveyed the woods, I thought about how close I came the previous week. I had watched a buck work the hillside above me (where Joe now sat). He walked back and forth glancing down as I futilely tried my grunt call. Then, the doe appeared. She headed straight down the hill with the 8-pointer in tow. I grabbed my bow and came to full draw finding the buck’s shoulder through my peep sight. But there were small branches in my field of view. I looked past the peep and realized they were on the far side of a small, spindly tree. I let down and watched as she led him straight away out a creek bottom. For the next 20 minutes, the doe led that buck on a chase all around me. At one point, they were 3 yards behind my tree. About the only place I couldn’t shoot. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. My heart raced as she repeatedly led him tantalizingly close to where I could get a shot. Each time I thought she would bring him by, she would zig zag a different direction. Off they would go eventually, disappearing up the hill. Despite not getting a shot, these are the days bow hunters live for.

Movement caught my attention and jerked my mind back to the present. A lone doe moved through the woods 80 or so yards behind me. I grabbed my binoculars and watched. She looked behind her then scurried out of sight. Almost always, deer give each other away. I fully expected her boyfriend to come along behind her but she was alone.

Remembering “the chase” from the week before got me thinking of other days in the woods with bucks pursuing does. Some of those days led to successful hunts. I had taken a big 9 point not far from where I was right now. That had been a chaotic morning with bucks moving everywhere. There was a smaller buck harassing a doe within sight all morning. I had stood, bow in hand, ready to shoot at any moment.

Another day I watched a beast of a buck guard his lady friend from intruders all evening. Despite what is shown on the Outdoor Channel it is the only time I have ever heard a real “snort/wheeze”. This is a call used by a truly dominant buck. It lets other bucks know “If you come anywhere near my lady, I am going to kick your butt!”

As the morning progressed, so did the temperatures. Several times throughout the morning a few tentative spring peepers chirped from a nearby swampy area. As I contemplated how much I didn’t want to hear spring peepers when trying to hunt rutting deer, movement caught my eye. A big bodied deer was walking through the woods not far from where I had seen the doe. Immediately I saw antlers. It was a good 8 point walking steadily. I grabbed my grunt call to see if he would respond. “Yerp, yerp, yerp.” The buck paused and stared my way. “Yerp, yerp.” He took a few tentative steps, looked, then turned and continued the way he was going. His mouth was open and he panted heavily. The buck disappeared over the edge of the hill.

The high-activity of the rut is stressful on bucks and warm temps don’t help. I wouldn’t want to be running around the woods with a thick winter coat and heavy layer of fat. I kept a sharp eye peeled for the next half hour. I hoped the buck might skirt the hillside and come in to investigate my calls.

After the buck passed, I gave thoughts to other autumns past. There was a day that autumn mostly meant duck hunting. Being a witness to migration is breath taking. Being part of migration is a privilege. Waterfowl hunting dates back to our Native American predecessors who hunted ducks with slings, bows, and other methods. Always man has reaped the bounty of waterfowl.

Movement nearby caught my eye. A deer emerged from the brush on the hillside a mere 20 yards away. I saw antlers and recognized a legal buck. He was right behind my tree, an area that is nearly impossible to shoot. Keeping an eye on the buck, I flipped my glasses off and grabbed my bow from its hook. The buck moved a few yards up the hill and was slightly angled behind the tree. He searched up the hill for a deer that wasn’t there. It was clear his plan was to head straight up and away. If I were to get a shot it was now or never. Unfortunately, I had installed my bow hanger a little low. This would make it difficult to draw and shoot without hitting the metal hanger. The buck turned and scratched his back leg with his antlers completely obscuring his head. Now was the time!

I squatted low in the stand and hung over the edge to get clearance for my bow limbs and drew my 60 lb. bow. My eye found the view through my peep sight. My green pin floated behind the buck’s left shoulder. Without much thought, I triggered my release and the arrow was away. I saw it strike home and heard a loud POP as the sharp broad head pierced both lungs. The buck leaped sideways and set off on a dead run. As it went, I could see crimson gush from the lethal hit. Death would come in seconds and be as painless and humane as I could make it. This is what every good hunter strives for. The buck disappeared behind a leaf-covered tree top. I thought I saw him fall but wasn’t sure.

I poured a cup of coffee and, texted Joe to let him know I just killed a buck. After the excitement and adrenaline rush of the moment of truth, I like to let myself calm down. I didn’t want to wait too long because, in its final sprint, the buck had headed toward a couple nearby houses.

After draining my coffee cup, I packed my bag, lowered my bow and worked my way down the tree. Once down, instead of seeking out the blood trail I walked a direct line to where I saw the buck begin to fall. My hope was that I would round the down tree top and find the buck dead just on the other side.

Taking up the trail of mortally wounded game entails a sense of anticipation and often times, doubt even when the hunter knows the shot was good. The first moment of hope comes when blood sign is found. As the hunter hopefully trails, he expects at any moment to spy the telltale brown body of the quarry. This is the real moment of elation.

I remember another blood trail a few years before. Joe and I had waited for a couple hours after the shot because I wasn’t 100% certain of the of the hit. The buck had disappeared from view some 60 or 70 yards below me in heavy cover. Once enough time had passed, we assumed the trail. We found my arrow and the first blood sign that looked quite good. I looked up, and there lay my prize a few feet from where I last saw him. The shot was obviously way better than the doubts in my mind led me to believe.

On still another buck track, Joe stayed on the consistent blood trail and I dove down into the creek bottom. I was sure it was dead. I dropped down the hill, and crossed the creek. I made my way carefully along looking back into the thick cover on the other side. I was sure that the buck would be laying there somewhere. I became more and more disheartened as I got 100 yards and then 200 yards down the creek. Certainly he should have been dead in there somewhere if hit really well. Suddenly I got a text from Joe. “Got him!” Really? How could I have missed him? I turned and headed back the way I came, still walking the creek edge. Soon I could see Joe standing over the body of a dead deer. He was a few feet from the creek. “Where did you find him?” Joe looked at me funny and said “Right here”. The buck laid no more than 3 or 4 feet from the creek. I looked at Joe and said “I must have practically tripped on it!” I had been focused on the cover across the creek. I didn’t even consider the buck would be laying dead in the wide open woods.

But there was no mystery in this tracking job. I had seen the hit and the blood. I had seen the buck begin to stumble as it disappeared from sight. Indeed as I rounded the down tree top, there lay the buck piled up against a small sapling. My perception of his proximity to the neighboring houses had been skewed from the stand. in reality he was nowhere near them.

There are a lot of non-hunters out there and a lot of people that feel we shouldn’t hunt at all. I’ve been asked “How can you harm those beautiful creatures?” I’m not going to set out to change anyone’s mind about hunting. Native Americans of the plains revered the buffalo beyond all things. Buffalo meant life. They provided food, clothing, and tools. In that same vein, this buck will provide a year-long supply of healthy, delicious, organic meat for my wife and I. The hide will become a fine leather. These days I get my tools from the hardware store but the antlers will serve as a reminder of my hunt. I love deer. Not just on my plate with potatoes and corn, but for the symbiotic relationship I have with them. I will forever protect the species as a whole along with other wildlife. I will never make light of killing an animal nor do so out of greed or avarice. In turn, the population sacrifices a few members for the greater good. So it has been for millions of years.

I smiled as I remembered my morning. I thought about the happiness of finding my buck at the end of the trail. I feel an inward satisfaction knowing my year-long practice with my bow paid off. I made a quick, clean kill. The work of field dressing, removing the carcass from the woods and, in this case, delivery to the processor brings a Puritan sense of independence. I need days like this. Much like when at the beach in the summer I need to wade in the ocean. Just seeing it isn’t enough. I need to feel the cold water surge around my knees. I need to feel my feet sink in the wet sand as the breaking waves run out. I need to feel the salt water lick and sting on tiny scratches. Riding around the countryside on a November day is beautiful, but the hunt makes me feel knee deep in Autumn.