Month: March 2018

I looked out over a remnant of wild grass surrounded by groomed farmland. The air was still. The evening sky was cloaked with the threat of winter. Thin clouds speared across the horizon. It was quiet except for an occasional pickup which rumbled down the distant county highway. I had a tag to fill and this conservation section held promise in my late season hunt.

A large oak, part of a single tree line, shielded my back and the prairie hedged me in on either side. A steep ditch dropped away at my feet and rose up to the sod which was ten feet lower then my perch. I waited. A hawk cruised over the slender stalks and lighted on a branch just above my shoulder. I turned and watched in wonder. It scanned, twitched its head, and was gone. I realized it was hunting too. Fast. Silent. Effortless. Lethal.

Fifty yards to my right, the sound of leaves crunching under light hooves jolted me back to my deer stand. I fought the urge to turn. Gradually, I sifted my gaze. Two does and two yearlings stood motionless. They scanned their feeding grounds for a good five minutes before feeling safe. Eventually the deer proceeded, but on high alert. One doe melted into the cover, the other turned left, followed by the younger, and hugged the ravine which lead toward me.

My heart quickened. It was a tedious process. The trio stopped to nibble several times but steadily drew closer. Within bow range now, directly in front of me I prepared. Gently, slowly, I started to lift my bow, and planned to wait until the animal walked past me for full draw but my slight movement was detected, I was busted. The seasoned Whitetail stomped and snorted, I held. The doe stomped again, I held still, with hope of a second chance. The wily creature walked off and disappeared into the tall cover, snorting several more times as it circled around. I knew the game was over. I finally relaxed and immediately replayed the scenario in my head. I had rushed my first move. Ground hunting is intense and rewarding, but small mistakes often leave me frustrated.

The two yearlings stood there for many minutes and wondered what mama was doing. I was tempted, but did not take a shot. Day slipped away and finally the youngsters disappeared into the shadows.

I plodded back over the hard ground, black against the dark sky. Short broken stalks of corn lay scattered amidst the harvested plot. Illuminated clouds were draped over the faint sun like curtains stretched over a soft flame. The vacant gravel road invited me back home as evening pushed the last faded color into night.

 

Peace

Oil Painting By: RJ Cummings Fine Art

Patience and perseverance are vital in hunting, and in life. Slow down, be aware of your surroundings, and act decisively when the opportunity arises.

Peace

The vast stretches of North American wilderness is home to the forest engineer. In my corner of this beautiful country, thousands of sloughs, creeks, and water-ways, scattered in between the Northern Minnesota Lakes provide a perfect habitat for the industrious beaver. I have discovered one advantage to the many beaver dams in my region when it comes to deer hunting, they offer excellent bridges into remote areas. Most hunters do not make the effort to navigate these crossings. But I enjoy locating the dams on google earth and hiking to them during my spring scouting trips. Accessing these links during bow season opens up miles of intersecting swamp country, and leads to large tracts of back-woods hunting land which are virtually untouched.

On the last day of our 2017 Round Lake Bow Camp I slipped across one of these connections to get into a favorite hunting spot. In the following lines I will re-count the events of that afternoon.

The Woodland Bridge:

After arriving back at the cabin I helped Bill hang the ten point he arrowed that morning. While he was skinning the old buck I had a quick lunch and readied myself for the afternoon hunt. With many possible options I decided to hike over a beaver dam and sit an oak ridge that emptied down to a large slough we call the Hundred Acre Swap. 

It was a warm afternoon and there was still a light covering of snow on the ground where the sun had not beaten the first offering of winter back. I kept a watchful eye. After about a mile I stepped off the trail and shifted into a still-hunt mode, working my way a couple hundred yards through low lying timber that gradually rose up to a beautiful point of land the beavers chose as a pinch point for their construction. As I neared the creek I passed a massive Norway Pine that keeps sentinel, and slipped down through the brushy edge of the water flow to the crossing. I paused and took in the amazing view.

The dam had two sections. A wide channel half way through allowed a trickle of water to spill over the structure, eliminating the main passage as an option for navigation. Fifteen feet out a smaller retaining wall provided a ten-inch walk-way to the opposite side. I located a tree limb for balance which the Beavers had discarded and steadied my-self for the tight-rope act. On either side of me was a deep pool of icy darkness that would have made for a chilly swim. I used caution with each step. Once safely across I stopped and looked out over the shimmering lagoon, my gaze fell upon a small island which might serve as an isolated buck sanctuary. I considered how a canoe might serve to access the water-locked haven before I advanced up into the waiting Oaks.

There were fresh deer droppings on the half-melted snow. It was quiet. A light breeze caused the old-growth forest to sway with animation. Occasionally I heard the faint clatter of two bucks sparring, but perhaps it was my mind playing tricks on me. I did not feel alone. Keeping to the shadows, I crept along the base of a hill for several hundred yards. As I crested the rise I spotted an old deer-stand from bygone years. A hunter had deemed this a good spot once, so I hunkered down against a near-by dead fall that gave total sight protection to my left, and a beautiful view of another open hill and ravine in this unique formation of hard-woods and small ridges. My hopes were high. Last season I shot a big buck with my rifle another five hundred yards from where I sat.

Except for the constant thought a rut driven buck could materialize at any moment, the next three hours were uneventful in my wilderness seclusion. No speeding cars, buzzing chainsaws, barking dogs, or rumbling trains. The closest reference to civilization was a distant jet far over-head. The solitude was mesmerizing.

Finally, the tree-line and sky began to blend together. I pulled out every minute of daylight until the darkness fell on me like a soft veil. Reluctantly, I stood up and hiked back to the beaver dam. The return trip looked different in the twilight. I should have started my trek a few minutes earlier. The tangled thicket which guarded the dam crossing finally opened and I made my way down to the waters edge. The trace of daylight faded. I felt small against the gloomy silhouette of trees rising from the swamp grass across the stream. Cautiously, I stepped out onto the ribbon of mud and sticks and used my bow as a walking staff testing each footfall. With several loud tail slaps, a family of beaver showed displeasure with me using their handy-work as a bridge to my hunting retreat. I paused to admire the waxing Moon’s light being cast onto the glassy pond. Safely across, I pushed through the tall swamp grass which hugged the creek bottom and began to maneuver around dead-falls and thick brush which impeded my progress in the hardwoods. Careful not to overshoot the sliver of trail which marked my way home, I moved slowly, illuminated in a bubble of light which emanated from my flashlight. Minutes slowed. The forest pressed. With relief, I spotted a slight depression in the sea of blackness. I found my guide home. Now, I would not get lost. 

The trail eluded me a couple of times. I could feel the forest floor change in texture under my boots when I stepped off the corridor. Stopping to regain the path, I continued on. After the foot-trail crossed a small dry beaver dam at the end of Ruby’s Slough, it widened and my pace quickened. Soon the landmarks became more recognizable and I was back at the road firing up my old jeep.

As I strolled down the driveway our deer camp was lit up with a warm glow which mirrored off the tranquil lake. I stepped through the door and was greeted by comments about a search and rescue party which was almost sent out for me. We laughed. It was good to be back with friends. After re-living the stories of the weekend and making plans for next season it was time to load my gear and say farewell.

I fought through the reluctance of leaving as I drove down the cabin road and my headlamps threw beams of light on familiar sights. The thankfulness of another gathering and the joy of going home to my beloved bride replaced the tinge of sadness at parting the Round Lake Deer Camp.

Beaver crossings can take us into many secret hunting areas. They are bridges to adventure. As you go through life be mind-full of the crossings you may discover which can lead to new and rewarding destinations, and bring adventures you never dreamed of.

 

 

Peace

 

 

Which is more important, the bow or the arrow? This is a question my hunting mentor would ask me as a young man and rookie hunter. Obviously the answer is that they are equally important.

I have considered this saying often over the years and it has helped me to keep a good balance in my life. I hope these words help you as they have me to value, appreciate, and recognize all the people in your life that make what you do possible.

Aim true & hit your mark!

Peace

What is your favorite time of day to be in the deer stand?

The early stand is ripe with wonder as morning breaks and chases the darkness into light. Temperatures momentarily drop while the sun begins its daytime arch and the warm blanket of air which clung to the frosty forest dissipates. Songbirds awaken with busy melodious chirps and then everything stops, out of the corner of your eye you notice a Whitetail moving to its bedding ground and all of your senses are captured at once.

The evening stand is a welcome friend after a long hunt. The magical transition from day to dusk evokes images of big bucks that could materialize from the brush at any moment. As night drops, the forest becomes wild again. The uncanny quiet is interrupted by chit, chit, chit, of hooves, and your heart begins to race.

As a young hunter, I shot and field dressed my first buck in the last moments of shooting light as a harvest moon peered through a stand of Spruce. My biggest buck, as a seasoned veteran,  was taken off a still-hunt from a back-woods oak point and my buddies helped float it out on a sprawling slough as another full moon reflected it’s glimmer across the water. 

I love the transition from day to the long shadows which invite nocturnal creatures back to life.

I love the primal feel, with weapon in hand, as I walk out of a black forest unto a logging trail that holds the last remnant of daylight.

I love the feel of a successful hunt as friends quietly emerge out of a darkened wood.

I love the sunset. What do you love?

Peace

Sunrise Photo: Joas Miller

I try to make my bow hunting experience an all year pursuit. Off trail X-C Skiing is one way I stay connected to the deer-woods during the long winter months here in Northern Minnesota and get out into the wilderness settings that I love.

I was hooked on Skinny Skis from the very first pair of wooden Normark’s I discovered under the Christmas tree as a young teen. For many years I traversed our local groomed trails with friends but I also acquired a love for off-trail adventure skiing along the Pelican River behind our home on the out-skits of Detroit Lakes MN.

There are several reasons I prefer slipping off the beaten path with my ski’s. The solitude is addicting. When I am out in remote places during the winter months I feel the same connection to the land as I do when I am bow-hunting. I can almost guarantee you will not run into another soul as you stray from the popular runs.

Avoiding traffic also gets me into my hunting areas and I use these opportunities to do some winter scouting. It is not the same type of scouting as in the spring or summer when deer are back in their warm weather haunts, but it allows me to study structure and learn new country. I like to carry a folding brush saw with me and build a quick natural ground blind if I come across the right location. These blinds I will generally set up next to a dead-fall and it gives me multiple options when bow season opens. Lastly, off trail skiing is great exercise that uses similar muscle groups as my still-hunting requires.

Besides X-C ski’s, you may also consider Hok skis, or Snow-Shoes, as options for your bush-whacking. I prefer the long skis because of their versatility and greater speed on flat areas such as sloughs, lakes, fields, and trails. You may want to consider the wider skis designed for deep snow versus the narrow skis designed for groomed corridors. Each off road style of travel has its pros and cons. Pawn shops, second-hand sporting goods outlets, or e-bay, are good places to find reasonably priced gear if you do not want to invest in new equipment. Hitting up some rentals at a ski resort is a great way to experiment and find out what works best for you.

There is something exhilarating about breaking your own trail for an afternoon of adventure. I may not be able to go on very many wilderness hunts in the remote reaches of the Yukon during my life, but I can fill Saturday afternoons with my own mini excursions on the big public lands just minutes from my home.

 

Off-trail skiing is one way I find moments of solitude during the winter months, stay connected to my bow-hunting, and get in some scouting while keeping my hunting legs active.

It is a different pace. It is a hunter’s pace.

 

Peace

 

 

It was the second day of the 2017 Round Lake Bow Camp. I was enjoying a cup of coffee and getting my gear ready for the days hunt when I heard Bill enthusiastically say, “Todays the day”. I smiled, agreed, and stepped out of the cozy cabin to be greeted by the frosty morning air. Fresh snow had dropped the temp’s over-night and it was a perfect day to be in the woods with the Deer Rut in full swing. Promise hung in the air like a snow laden pine bough.

The trusty Jeep jumped to a start and Bill backed out of the garage. I took a quick glance over the quiet lake and loaded up my bow and day pack. Before long, icy swirls of air reached around the wind-shield and into the open cab, reminding me it was late October. About a mile drive down the gravel cabin road Bill rolled to a stop at my drop-off, I picked up my gear, wished my hunting partner well, and listened to the five-speed work through the gears as the head-lights disappeared down the trail.

As I step into the deer woods the first few minutes are a spiritual pause for me. I take time to give thanks, worship, pray for my family, friends, and ask the Father’s blessing on the day. It is humbling as well, knowing that my ultimate-goal is to take the life of a magnificent Whitetail. My eyes adjust to the blackness and I head up a path we call Ruby’s Road.

A stand of Norway Pines I often hunt loomed up on my left, tall shadows against the first glimmer of light. I recall yesterday’s still-hunt after my young buck encounter. I was slipping between these ancient guardians when I spotted a Doe moving through the trees to my left. I stopped, she paused to look my way for a moment and continued. Shielded behind the old-growth I pulled up to full draw in anticipation of the Doe breaking out to my right. I caught a glimpse of her gliding through the brush but she had angled well out of range. I released tension on my bow and stood for some time. My heart returned to its normal cadence. Another amazing close encounter.

I decided to walk past the silent towers and strike for the log I watched the Fork-Horn buck from the day before. I followed my tracks and was set up with plenty of time to witness the forest come alive with first light. After sitting for an hour, I decided to move to the opposite side of the clearing where another inviting downfall offered a view to the north. This proved to be a mistake. Another hour passed and my heart quickened when I heard the unmistakable sound of deer meandering through the woods. I strained my senses. Waited for an appearance. But to my disappointment the deer circled behind. Their presence faded West into Ruby’s slough. I scolded myself knowing that I would have seen the deer if I had not relocated.

After pouting for awhile I checked my phone. Bill had a buck down! I collected my gear and struck out for the customary rendezvous and lend a helping hand. Another text came with a picture. Holy Crap!!! It was a big ole Swamp Buck!!! Bill’s prophetic words from the morning deer-camp had been fulfilled, “Today’s the day”.

I was so happy for my hunting buddy. It was his first deer after a many year sabbatical from bow-hunting. When I came out to the road Bill was all smiles, waiting in the Willy’s to spare me the mile walk to his downed deer.

Bill had made it to his stand in time for the sunrise as well. The Doe and yearling he had watched all season had not shown. It was a quiet start at the Hundred Acre Slough.

About the same time deer snuck in behind me, Bill noticed movement over his left shoulder. He cautiously turned to see a massive ten-point working a scrape line. The buck was fifty yards out but on the move towards his tree stand. At twenty-five yards the old warrior stopped and stretched up to sniff a scent wick hanging from a branch. This was the time. Bill knew he had to draw or the animal would soon be hidden in thicker cover and out of range. The old buck was quartered away hard, but there was a shot available. Instinct took over. The arrow was sent. Found its mark. The broad-head sliced through the liver, lungs, and heart. After running thirty yards the elegant creature fell on the logging trail. It was a beautiful animal that had seen many winters.

We had navigated the pot-holes and deep puddles of the logging trail back to the kill site. Bill backed the Willy’s right up to the buck and commented with a grin that he planned it that way, after the nine-point I shot last year he and his brother helped retrieve over land and water a mile back in swamp country. (After that amazing, near-death experience, I vowed to quarter any deep-woods buck I kill and pack-em out on my back).

Bill had a way with words and some-how I found myself field-dressing the animal after his long absence from deer hunting, and a wry claim he was a little out of practice. But I didn’t mind. I was so excited and having such a blast I jumped right into the task after we re-lived the thrill of ‘Bloody Bill’s’ fine shooting.

After the dirty-work was done we lugged the trophy into the back of the Willy’s and made the slow ride over the Swamp Road back to deer camp. It had been a good morning.

Bow hunting with friends is a rare opportunity. Words fail to capture the emotion, satisfaction and deep abiding joy of the adventure. It is a privilege we all hold dear to our hearts. Lets be thankful for the rich public wilderness lands we have, cherish the hunting moments, and thank God for the friends we share them with. It is a treasure few experience.

Peace