Getting a little bored with the topics lately, Let us start a thread and tell a story about and intense hunt you will never forget.

I will start,

Dad took me on a fall bear hunt with my rifle when I was about 12 or so. When we were leaving he put a "elk whistle" in my pocket, a chunk of black plastic pipe with a plug in one end and a whistle notch cut behind the plug.

We hiked a long day glassing opposing hill sides and slide shoots. From time to time I would toot on the elk whistle and dad would laugh at me. Getting on close to evening we were hiking down the mountain headed home and we heard an elk bugle back up on the hill we came from. Dad says answer him. So I toot on the elk whistle, and he answers immediately, soon we were not too far apart.

Then soon we were way too close together, Dad had encouraged me to run for an opening where we would be able to call him into view, we never got there though, it wasn't far and he broke through the small trees right in front of us. We were all of 25 yards apart.

The small 5 point proceeded to rub his antlers on a small pine until he had uprooted it and it was stuck in his tines. Next he lifted a rotten log off the ground and tossed it out direction.

Soon he locked eyes with me and continued to move closer. He bugled and drooled, his way to within about 5 yards just staring at us. I was so scared I moved behind a huge pine so I could dodge his antler thrusts when it came to it. Dad finally stood and started yelling and waving his arms in an attempt to drive it away.

The bull backed off but never really left the area it just skirted us and bugled some more.

Thus was my introduction to elk, hunting.

I still have the whistle.

oz

I went on a 'short' last minute elk hunt one Saturday in Nov. with an ex-girlfriend's two brothers in the 90's, up Bear Creek in the Madison Range. We departed the truck at the trailhead in the dark, and 20 minutes later, split up and each of us went up a finger ridge to the left. I took the first one. We were planning on being out by noon since I had to drive back to Hood River later that 'day' (11 hr drive), and be at work the following Monday. No sooner than I left them, I bumped three bulls from their beds and they went up, up, up. I crossed a draw they dropped into, then and kept climbing up the other side after them. The Sphinx was in sight as I got into knee deep snow a couple hours into the pursuit. Another hour, and they decided the trouble going up was too much or they just thought maybe I'd quit following (never), and turned back down. The smallest of the three (I think a spike), went his separate way, after being pushed away by the other two I think. The remaining two were bigger sets of tracks. I followed them back down in a loop to basically the same spot they were originally in. Finally I spotted them, both nearly identical, and both raghorns. I pulled up and shot at the first decent opportunity I got (rifle hunt). Lunged him high. Now, since this was a 'short' hunt, and I figured on not even seeing anything, I brought only 5 rounds. Four left now, I pumped another into his hind quarter as he moved off, and then another into the lungs a gain high. I now had tow rounds left. I took another shot and missed as he was slipping over a small ridge. I had one round left, and no backup piece. I got over the ridge and there he was. down, but alive, up against a lodgepole on a steep side hill. I pulled up to put the finish on him, and the bullet struck a small branch and buried in the dirt under his chin. Hm, now what? I dug through my pack in desperation to no avail. No more bullets. I approached the very much alive bull who was head up, and wide eyed as I came closer. But he could not get up, was pinned against the tree on the steep decline. So, knbowing I could get stomped on if I happened to slip, I psyched myself out thinking about some other adrenalin rushes I had in prior years, and drew my knife, went up and stabbed him repeatedly in the side. Blood trickled out, and he struggled but could not get up. I waited close to an hour as his head started to sink some. His breathing was still strong though. He was obviously not hit well enough to do him in. I was way overdue with meeting Pat and Doug, so I got bold, went up to the bull and grabbed his antler and stuck him in the neck three times. He didn't approve and trashed himself to his feet, and stumbled down the side hill and crashed into a large dead blowdown where he got stuck again. I followed, and this time, I had a clear shot at his throat so I finished the job, and started to work on him. Long story short, I ended up dragging our the hind quarters and getting to the truck two hours after dark, a full 6 hours late. Doug was waiting. We drove the hour home, and next morning went back for the front half. Got it out, and I started on my trip back to Hoor River by 4 pm, and drove all night, got in around 5 am, and went to work at 6 am Monday, beat to a pulp. Best elk hunt experience I ever had, and I've had some dooseys. This one, the knife kill bull, was the most intense!!!

Easy ole buddy, one slow step at a time. Watch that rock... It was one if those morning. No sir, I wasn't stalking in on a bedded mulie, but inching my way down the trail to the waiting truck a mile below me. In my haste this morning, I grabbed my old wore out boots and a pair of thin cotton socks, thinking of using them one more time before retiring them. Now, I had a few blisters on my feet reminding me of my poor decision...

It started out as a beautiful morning with the plan to walk the trail in the dark to get to the high hanging valleys just as the sun was coming up. I wanted to be perched on the rocks watching the valley as the mule deer headed to bed. They usually came up the basin and either bedded below the cliffs or climbed up through the rocks to bed in the timber on the other side. If they bedded below the cliffs, I'd have my chance. But if they moved into the timber, finding them would require a bit of luck and lots of slowing moving.

I had reached my chosen spot right after first light, and listened to the bulls bugling down the valley when the first band of bucks came into view. I watched as the seven bucks fed their way up slowly some 400 yards away and on the opposite died of the basin, their velvet covered horns shining like fools gold in the morning light. I watched each buck carefully, watched them for two solid hours before they climbed the cliffs and headed to the timber on the other side...

A look at my watch showed it almost 10:00, and I gathered my gear to head down to catch the trail, not wanting to bump the bucks in the timber and push them out of the basin for a few days. The thought of a cup of coffee sitting in the thermos in my truck made me pick up the pace as I started down the trail. Then I started feeling the blisters...

One slow soft step at a time, trying not to bend the foot to rub the blisters. If only I'd of packed some duct tape or moleskin... I'd gone maybe a mile down the trail when the screaming bugle of the bull shook me out of my daze as a cow suddenly blew across the trail some forty yards below me. Sliding an arrow out of the quiver and onto the string of the Bob Lee, I carefully eased down the trail as another bugle ripped the silence as the bull came up through the trees, following the cow that had just crossed the trail. I slowly eased the pack off my shoulders and into the ground just as the bull got to the trail. I eased the Bob Lee into position and sucked the string back as the bull stopped to look at me. As my fingers touched the corner of my mouth, I picked a hair and dumped the string. The arrow crossed the scant 25 yards and buried to the feathers as the bull turned and lunged back the way he had come. I eased to the ground as I listened to the bull crashing through the timber, the blisters in my feet no longer hurting. I knew he wouldn't go far, with my naked eyes I could see the blood covering the rocks...

And then, And then?????

The Tale of Three Champions Bowhunting Several years ago I was involved in a medieval recreation group where I participated in historical archery. This is where I found my love for traditional archery and I made a lot of great friends, but none better than two that I called brothers, Ceddie and Jack. Well, between the three of us we had about 70 years of archery experience and all three of us competed in target competitions, York, Clout and Flight tournaments, winning several tournaments and championships. Confidence in our abilities was NOT an issue. Anyway, we decided that it had been too many years since any of us had gone hunting and that it was time to fix that. My best friend Ceddie said he knew a place in Eastern Washington that he’d hunted for years with good luck. So we made our plans, set up our gear, practiced unknown yardages stump shooting. The results of which only bolstered our confidence. The night before we left, we went out to dinner to finalize our plans at a Mexican restaurant. Probably not the best of ideas with a four hour drive ahead of us in a pickup truck. To make matters worse, the thing that Jack and I didn’t know was the Ceddie had been eating foods all week that were going to be an issue for us, me specifically since I was bunking with him in my tent. The drive was actually uneventful and once we arrived we set up camp. I noticed that there were cattle roaming all over the place… our camp included. This is free range cattle country and I was told not to worry about it. We sat around camp and shot at cans, making bets on called shots and listening to Cedric talk about where we were gonna hunt in the morning. Now for the cows that weren’t an issue… our tent was attacked in the middle of the night by an apparently blind cow as she tripped over our tie downs, pulling up stakes and raising all hell. Crawling out of a dew damp tent that’d fallen and is now sticking to your skin while groggy with sleep is an adventure all its own and would have been “America’s Funniest Videos” worthy. Once we shewed the lamentable cow off and set the tent up again we went back to sleep until the alarm went off, about 45 minutes later! Off we went on our grand adventure holding visions of Maurice Thompson’s “Witchery of Archery” in my head. We hunted several logging roads that morning seeing a few deer too far off to set up a stalk and one bear that was within about 20 yards or so and I had a bear tag. I holler to stop the truck and Ceddie slammed on the brakes, excitedly asking where the deer was. I told him it was a bear, that I had a tag and wanted to take my first bear. Putting the truck in 1st gear I was told in no uncertain terms that there would be “NO BEAR HUNTING” because I was fat and couldn’t out run the bear if I missed and that neither one of them was going to tell my wife (that they were scared of) that I’d been killed by a bear while they watched! We went back to camp, ate lunch and took a nap for about an hour before we set off to another of Ceddie’s “great” areas. Well I have to give him credit, it was more than we could ask for. We were driving up a logging road when I hollered to stop again (from the back seat no less), this time I said I’d just seen a buck and a doe about 10 yards off the road on the passenger side of the truck. Now, we’d talked about this that morning, we decided that we’d take turns. I’d get the first shot, then when we saw another deer Jack would get his shot and finally Ceddie would get his. Remember Ceddie was confident in the area as a producer and we’d see many deer that weekend. He stopped the truck and we all quietly slid out of the truck. Picture in your mind your kids “getting out of the car at Disney World for the first time” excited. That was where the problems began! I saw a flash of grey behind me on the driver’s side and turned seeing several does running off over a fence. So crest fallen I turn thinking my only chance was lost, when I saw 2 bucks, and 5 doe just standing and looking at us. Remember the shooting order??? Hah! I see Jack knock an arrow and let loose at the first buck. The arrow was centered well and would have hit just behind the right shoulder, except it flew about 3 yards over his back. Did I mention that we were elevated about 20 feet above the floor where the deer were? Ceddie got in on the fun and let one go on a big doe at about… 6 yards. His arrow stuck in the loamy earth about a yard before the deer. Not wanting to miss another opportunity I picked a spot on the other buck behind his left shoulder, focused intently on a single hair, came to full draw and let my fingers relax, setting my arrow free to pass under the deer’s belly just in front his back leg. The deer made the most athletic leap I’d ever seen, it would have made an Olympic gymnast proud!

While we didn’t get a chance the rest of the weekend, the trip was made of awesome and we’ll have the story to tell for the rest of our lives of how three archery champions weren’t very good shots! Oh and the poor food choices Ceddie made the week before our trip, finally decided to make a very intrusive showing on the way home. It was 31 degrees outside the truck!

If my wife ever finds out I posted this, she would kill me.

Years ago my wife and I went javalina hunting in South Texas. Although she had deer hunted, she had never gone after javalina. I had been given her tips about hunting them and told her that sometimes you could get close enough that you could smell them even if you could not see them through the brush.

She asked me what they smelled like and I offhandedly said they smelled like "sh*t". Later in the day, we were sliding through the brush. She was in the lead and I was directly behind her.

All of a sudden, I abruptly stopped and whispered, "javelina!" She almost fell down laughing so hard. She had fired off an SBD in front of me.

She would not repeat that story to anyone but has never let me forget it. I'm sure you can figure it out!

Beech Tree Crossing By George D. Stout

It was an unusually cool August day here in southern Pennsylvania when I pulled the truck into the grassy lot at State Game Lands 48. I shut off the engine and just sat and listened to the woods for a bit. I do this quite often before scouting or stump shooting. Sometimes if the sounds don t suit me, I will drive up the road a piece until I find a suitable spot. Often it will be the call of the wood thrush that lures me to the woods; another time it may be the soft percussion offerings of the downy woodpecker, it depends on my mood of the day I suppose. On this day it was the raucous calling of a local band of crows that prompted me to grab my bow and head for the beech trees. The thought of a bow and crow encounter was too much of a temptation.

I slipped into my back quiver, grabbed my longbow and fanny pack and headed up the old tram road that led to some food plots about a quarter-mile up the mountain. These fields were cleared years before to supply additional sustenance for the deer, turkeys, bears and small game critters that inhabit this area of Bedford county. And, although not always planted on a yearly basis, they still offer an area for grazing on succulent spring grasses or, for the wild turkey, chasing grasshoppers or consuming fox tail seeds in the late summer. In addition, the thorny confines of many multi-flora rose thickets offer great places to raise turkey chicks.

As I approached the first food plot I noticed the reason for the crows concern, a red tailed hawk perched openly on a red oak branch. He was taking a lot of verbal abuse from the dozen or so that sat about him at varying distances. The hawk seemed to take it all in stride as he preened his breast feathers, giving a casual glance to the black feathered bunch.

This area of the mountain contained some older second-growth hardwoods, and although there was adequate food and cover for whitetails, the undergrowth was not all that thick. This leads the deer to follow selected funnel areas between the fields and bedding areas. To the novice hunter the signs may not be that obvious, but to the seasoned archer the evidence is waiting to be analyzed. The little creek that cuts through this particular spot, east to west, is intersected with these funnels at several locations. The beech tree crossing is one of my favorites.

There is something special about the little spring fed mountain creek where it makes the turn by the beech trees. It probably doesn't really fit the definition of a creek, so to speak; many summers it barely carries enough water to keep its rocky bottom covered. Never the less it is an attractive spot as it offers a cool, shady spot during a hot summer afternoon where one can sit and relax, away from the trials of everyday things. It also offers a cool drink of water for the local animal population.

I named the crossing for a fairly obvious reason, there’s an ample concentration of beech trees growing there. The biggest difference between this crossing and the others along the creek is the way the hollows come together to form the funnel that lends itself so well to the travels of the deer. On the north side of the creek the land sinks into a gentle slope that ends right at the creek’s edge, making an excellent place to cross, for several reasons; one is the slope itself, gently leaning to the water. Another is the lay of the incline that actually makes the deer s approach unnoticeable from the southwest side of the creek, making a great place for them to see but not be seen. A third attraction is the water itself that runs most of the year from the springs higher up the mountain side, providing a cool, secluded place from which to drink. Once in the beech tries on the south side of the creek, the funnel leads on toward the fields that were mentioned earlier.

To me, the biggest attraction of the beech tree crossing is the feeling it evokes, one that enchants by just being there. The sight of the big beech, red oak and maple trees alone is enough to stir one’s imagination to thoughts of time s past and of others who may have stopped to pause at the crossing. Indian Will, namesake of this mountain, may have sat in this very spot. The big trees entice you to sit and watch, to remove your pack and quiver and just take in the scenery; to become a part of the crossing itself, if only for a moment in time.

I removed my water bottle and a fig bar from my pack and settled in for a few minutes to see what the crossing had to offer today. As I sat there taking in the surroundings, I noticed something white lying next to the water just above the crossing. When I approached I could tell it was the remains of a fawn. The bleached bones had obviously been there awhile among the limestone rocks, possibly drug there by a coyote or fox. Or, maybe it just succumbed to natural causes. The Pennsylvania winter is not always kind to those who are not hardy enough to endure its cold breath and damp disposition. Nature provides for its own, but woe be to the ones who are not up to the task, the ones who have not learned their lessons well. Only the beech trees know the answer.

I walked back to where I had been sitting and glanced up over the North bank of the crossing. About sixty yards away was a small meadow consisting mostly of blackberry briars and Multiflora Rose. Closer inspection indicated trails weaving through these thorny confines from the woods toward the little creek. The briar patch was virtually impenetrable to humans; however, the deer would have little trouble navigating the thorn-clad brush to bed down under its protective armor, and all within sight of the beech trees.

As I finished the fig bar and took a good drink from my water bottle, I noticed some movement toward the far side of the crossing. It was a juvenile whitetail buck, moseying along the far side of the creek. His head was adorned with a small, velvet-covered six point rack that bobbed back and forth as he casually strolled toward the township road that lay several hundred yards to the west. The buck stopped occasionally to snuffle the fallen beech nut hulls for edible remains. He would lip several into his mouth then casually look around as if to see if anyone was watching. The youngster nibbled his way on down the creek until he was out of my sight. By the next season, if he made it that long, he would offer a good challenge for some bowhunter. The youngster never detected my presence as he passed at twenty-five steps. His mind was on other things.

Once again I shouldered my quiver and pack, and crossed the creek. Up ahead lay an old blow-down that has long since fallen into a state of decay. Pulling a steel-tipped blunt from the back quiver I imagine a bedded buck in its place. In less time than it takes to tell, the arrow covers the forty or so yards and suddenly appears in the log, just a few inches low of my aim. A second shot, just for the heck of it, hits the top of the log and sails into the leaves beyond, reminding me of my inconsistency at these long ranges. Yes, the first shot at forty yards was right on the mark; but, the target was inanimate, there was no breath, no heart, no soul, no hair-trigger reaction to the sound of string or feathers. Part of the traditional experience is understanding and accepting limitations. The real archer accepts these challenges and prerequisites as an appropriate and necessary part of the game.

I retrieved the errant shaft and tucked the steel tipped cedar into in my back quiver, then took another look back at the beech tree crossing. Even at a distance it looked inviting. I walked back once more and looked for a good place to stand this October. Perhaps just below the northern edge of the crossing, I say to myself. It’s down wind and the deer would be shielded by the bank until they walked into my shooting lane. The choices are many but hunting seasons are few, relatively speaking. The crossing will be here for me, or for whoever tends to it. I suspect I'll be back a few times.

Here's a story for ya before my HD dies. I have a new HD coming, on Monday, and will get this iMac back up and running properly. Anyway, the year was around 1976, and I was perched in a tree stand, 8 feet off the ground. Yep, back then, I occasionally climbed a tree. As the sun set, the leaves on the ground, out about 10 yards from my tree, began to move. What could it be? All I could think of was a rodent of some kind. Maybe a rat. As the movement under the leaves continued to the south of me, I came to full draw with my 50 pound 76er and let fly a Bear Razorhead tipped woodie. There was a quick struggle under the leaves and then silence as I drew another cedar and shot again, hitting next to the 1st arrow. I drew one more Razorhead and put that one next to the others and climbed down from my precarious perch. The three arrows were almost touching, so I grabbed the three, with one hand, and pulled up to reveal my quarry. Nicely cut in half, across the shoulders, was the biggest mole ever taken in Minnesota! I've seen no mole like it, before or since! This was the mother of all moles! I placed the mole on a stump, where a fox I'd been after could find it, and I headed for home triumphantly! These days, I wouldn't shoot that mole, but back then, anything within 70 yards was a target for a hunter who would, much later in life, become the last great bowhunter. The mighty legend of the North!

Joe

Long ago, in a deep dark forest, in Roscommon Mi. with light fading very quickly, I learned to never buy a discount compass in town....The end..

Speaking of foxes, here's a fox story for ya. I was home from college and running an illegal trapline within the city limits. As I approached my first rat set, a red fox trotted by, in front of me, carrying a nice muskrat! I walked over to my set, a drowning set, and found where the fox had somehow noticed the dead rat and pulled him ashore by the wire and pulled him out of the trap! I made some adjustments, reset the trap and figured it wouldn't happen again. I figured wrong! The next morning, as I approached the set, the fox took off with another muskrat! This time, he climbed out on a log and got my rat! I was irate! I went home and came back with a fox trap and made a trail set. I needed 2 traps to make it work, but I thought I'd just set one and probably catch him. The next morning, his tracks in the snow showed he walked right over the trap without being caught or even knowing it was there, as fresh snow had covered it lightly. He took another rat! So, I reset the trap and added another one. The next day, as I went to check the traps, I saw a German Shepard walking down the trail in front of me. I yelled a warning, but it was too late! He got caught! I ran up to him and said, "Poor puppy! Can I see your paw?" He cried and held up his paw, a perfect pad catch! I opened the jaws and released him, and he ran off for home. Not even limping. I pulled all of my traps and went home. I didn't learn my lesson though. I went back for a beaver, but that's another, awful story! Anyway, my brother and his wife gave me a big, framed photo of a red fox for Christmas that year, lol!

Joe

October 5, 1985. Everybody remembers their first deer, right? This was mine. But it was with my compound bow (before I knew better.)

I was always curious about this place I drove past every day on my way to work. On an earlier stop, the farmer gave me permission to hunt on his land, but I hadn't had a chance to look it over yet. It was modest looking farm place with a little grove. Beyond the grove was a fence line that ran west about 1/2 of a mile to a large piece of woods.

I had to pick up the kids on the way home and I was already late. I figured a little later won't really matter. I walked to the northwest corner of the grove and followed the fence line a ways and found a trail so heavily used you'd think a train went through daily. There was a cottonwood tree that I thought would be a great place to hang my stand. Just south of the fence line was four foot tall grass for about 20 yards, then a corn field.

That night, October 4, I went to my dad's place in the next town over. It was nasty cold with a wind out of the northwest that wasn't supposed to die down before the next morning. I asked my dad if I could borrow his insulated coveralls. He asked why? I told him I'm gonna shoot a 6 pointer the next morning. He laughed and let me use them.

I've always been an early riser, but for some reason I overslept the next morning. I grabbed my stuff, threw it in the car and took off. I arrived just after sunrise. Walking through the four foot tall grass toward the cottonwood tree, something caught my eye. It was two bucks headed my direction (east) and I had the sun at my back. They were about 150 yards away. I laid my home- made stand on the ground, crouched and tried to get my arrow on the string. I was so excited I couldn't do it. Finally, I took a deep breath and was able to get it on the string. I rose very slowly to see the bucks still headed my way, and as luck would have it, in this four foot tall grass there just happened to be a shooting lane. As the first buck stepped into the shooting lane, broadside, I realized the second one was a little bigger. I quickly figured: 1) Don't worry about size - just get your first deer. 2) Nothing says the second one will stop there. 3) God please!!!

I drew my arrow back and released, I didn't see where it hit, and even though I never heard the sound before, I knew I scored! Suddenly, deer were everywhere! My hit deer running apparently got the attention of the rest and I almost got run over by more than one as they ran out of the corn field and headed for the woods.

I couldn't help myself, I had to check. A couple minutes after the shot, I sneaked over and looked down the edge of the corn field and there he was, 40 yards from where I shot him.

Here's the kicker. I didn't realize that I peaked when I released the arrow, causing me to hit where I wasn't aiming.

Picture this. When I skinned the deer, you know those two pieces of meat on either side of the windpipe? I poked a hole through both. An inch from a complete miss and not an ounce of meat wasted. Best of all, you should have seen my dad's face when I pulled into his driveway with an 8 pointer! He wasn't huge, but he was mine!

The One That Got Away (ME)

It was September, 1996 and we were hunting Caribou in Alaska. We were hunting the Mulchatna herd west of Lake Iliamna. I was using a 65 lb longbow with Port Orford cedar arrows tipped with a 2-blade Magnus broadhead. There were three of us on the hunt. We had been dropped off at a high mountain lake by float plane. There was a small grove of trees above the lake that had a nice little stream running through it. My buddy Dennis had hunted the area the year before and had traced the stream out to to it’s head where it came out of the mountain just above camp so we knew it was safe to drink out of. Many stream in Alaska look inviting, but still may contain Ghiardia so you have to be careful.

We set up camp, with the kitchen set up 100 yards from the sleeping tents. There were lots of bears in the area. After we got camp set up we gathered firewood and relaxed for the afternoon. In Alaska you can’t hunt on the same day you’re airborne. This was on the tundra so there are very few trees. Fortunately, there was a lot of driftwood piled up on the shores of the lake and this supplied a ready source of fuel for the fire.

Next morning after a good breakfast we set out to hunt. I made sure all my necessities were loaded into my backpack. When hunting wilderness areas like this you need to be prepared for any emergency. Besides the normal hunting stuff I carry I had added some emergency items. I had a 2 day supply of freeze-dried food, a small folding back-pack stove, stainless steel cup, a space blanket, water purification tablets, extra socks, extra down vest, rain gear, water proof matches, small first aid kit, extra compass, signal whistle, signaling mirror and paraffin fire starter. I also had a walkie-talkie but figured it would be of limited use in the mountainous terrain. Russ and Dennis would be hunting the ridges north of camp and I would be hunting alone on the mountain south of camp.

After a couple of hours of hiking, I found myself on top of the ridge where I had a good vantage point for glassing. I made myself comfortable and started to glass. I could see a couple of small bands of caribou but nothing I wanted to take. I continued to glass and saw more small bands of caribou, still nothing I wanted to stalk. Just before it was time to start back to camp I spotted a black bear on the slope below me. Since, in addition to my caribou tags I had a black bear tag I was interested. He was moving pretty fast so I didn’t think I could catch up to him. But since he was between me and camp I decided to give it a try. I did not catch sight of him again. Russ and Dennis arrived back at camp 20-30 minutes after I did. Russ had taken a small black bear. We put the bear meat in the stream downstream from camp and Russ salted down the hide.

Next morning when we got up we could see caribou on the ridge across the lake as well as on the ridge west of us. Since the ridge across the lake was near where I had hunted the previous day I would try for them. Russ and Dennis would go after the ones west of us. It took a couple hours to hike to the ridge top, and when I got there no caribou could be seen. I prepared myself to spend the day glassing as the day before. I saw a few scattered caribou and a couple of black bears, but everything was too small or not in a good position to stalk. When I got back to camp Russ and Dennis were already there. Dennis had killed a caribou cow and he was taking care of the meat. Russ was grilling some bear steaks over a bed of alder coals. This was a young bear and he had been gorging on blueberries. That was some of the best meat I’ve ever eaten.

The third morning we elected to hunt the same areas we had the first morning. I got to my vantage point and settled in for some serious glassing. About mid-morning I spotted a band of caribou with a decent bull in the bunch. But they were moving fast and didn’t present an opportunity for a stalk. A few minutes later I spotted a black bear in a blueberry patch on the slope opposite me. It looked like he would be in the patch for a while so I decided to try a stalk. Using my binoculars I picked out a route that would take advantage of the alder thickets and a couple of ravines that would keep me out of sight until I was in position. I strapped my backpack on and started my stalk. One hour later I had arrived at the head of the ravine that abutted the berry patch the bear was in. It had been at least 30 minutes since I had last been able to see the bear so I was hoping he was still in the patch. As quietly as I could I eased out of my backpack and nocked an arrow. I gave myself a few minutes to prepare and then eased up out of the ravine, longbow at ready.

When I cleared the top of the ravine the bear stood up about 20 yards away and stared at me. He was black but he wasn’t a black bear – he was pure grizzly. We stood there and stared at each other for an eternity. It was running through my mind that if he came for me I was a goner. What should I do? I thought that if I just stood still he might not perceive me as a threat, but I also realized I was probably within his discomfort zone. He began to show some signs of irritation so I decided I needed to do something. I knew I couldn’t out run him and running would probably provoke a chase response. There were no trees to climb. I was confident that I could kill him with my longbow, but I could not stop a charge. I decided that my only course of action was to slowly back over the lip of the ravine. I began to slowly back up, never taking my eyes off the bear. When I was out of sight I dropped my bow and unstrapped the .300 Win Mag from my backpack. That big Magnum was a comfort but I didn’t want to try to stop a charge at point-blank range. As quietly as I could I gathered up my bow and backpack and eased my way down the ravine. It was still early but I made my way back to camp, I was through hunting for the day.

walking like a deer works, toe heel each foot,amazing, you can trick them if you try

The Bowhunters Predicament. by Codjigger

It was a frosty cold november morning And the bowhunter had been sitting in his Stand since pre dawn.He had seen a couple Of deer passing through at a distance, But nothing to get him excited. His coffee Thermos was long empty and he was now feeling An urgent need to releive himself. Having neglected to bring a pee bottle, he Climbed down and not wishing to contaminate His stand he hobbled some distance away from his tree. As he began fumbling for the necessary apparatus, his Brain desperate for releif, gave the go ahead to his Plumbing. As he felt the warm liquid flood his pants, The horror of his situation came clear to him, In the early morning fog of getting dressed, he had Inadvertently put his long underwear on backwards!

Abby and I are out one Autumn morning on one of the leased property's I have and we are into some Woodcocks and I hear the bell stop and its go time. I ease up on her and it's whoe girl steady up. She's on a magnificent point and I get up behind her and ease to her left side.

Up goes Mr. dodil and bang and birds falling and dogs already broke as soon as she shes bird shot and just as she gets to bird as it hits the ground a sparrow hawk swopes in an steals that bird. I was so ticked off I could have shot that hawk had I had a shot to get my bird back.LOL

Abby looked back at me like what the Hec's just happened. I was amassed and thought the hawk was going to hit her in the head at first because he dive bombed dog. He wanted that bird. Where he came from i don't know. I told Abby hawks have to eat also Abby.LOL

I called the dog come on lets go time to get to work we got enough lets go. What a deal a hawk stole our last bird that would have been a limit of 3 woodies for the day. I already have 2 woodies and a hen and cock pheasant on me it was a good morning out with dog and a lot of birds found.

Got back to truck and changed cloths and feed dog and off to see the Wizard. True story about 7 years ago.

It must have been when the woodcocks were moving through just right on the woodies. Might of had a mallard too at first light but the drake spooked me and the dog when he can off meadow and I missed him both shots. I didn't even see the bird on the edge until it was to late he saw us first.LOL

That was a great hunt just me and my dog no one else around mid week. I miss those days with her. Look forward to the new pup.

Run free Abigail in the golden fields of yonder see ya soon.

It has been 12 days since it happened. In spite of the nightmares, bed wetting, weight loss, and bills to Dr. FeelGood, the story needs telling. Like the Viagra commercial says, the time is now. THE PLAN: Quack slips up to me Sat morn after my unsuccessful morning hunt. "I have a plan." A sudden chill went down my spine, not a normal thing, I think it was spurred from His expression. The boy was grinning like he just caught the neighbor's cat in a leg-hold trap. He winked and said "don't worry", that's when the stomach cramps hit and I was stuck by 'the green apple quick step'. Returning from the nearest squat stump I could find, I gave Quack the thumbs up. After all, last evening of the hunt and stalking with him is a tradition. Like he says, "We Podnas". THE STALK: We left camp after everybody else, thought it was strange because my guide, my PH (professional hunter) as he likes to be called when he is in this mode of operation, normally would be the first one out. Standing behind him and slightly to the side, a position I was instructed to assume at all times, I got the feeling instead of wishing luck to the other hunters as they ventured out, that is was more like we were saying goodbye. That damn chill again, thank goodness my gut was empty by now. I had an urge to call out, but like deciding to put a Trojan for a second go, I knew it was too late. Quack with his beloved Black Widow and me with my new Mathews Chill,(the name fit), we left and headed for 6 & 7. We were going to stalk the area my PH was fondly referring to as the "Triangle of Death". He said it with a grin you couldn't wipe off with vinegar. We were to locate big boars bedded down and I was to get within my extended range now with the wheel bow for a quick kill. Soon the PH had one in a brush pile, nice hog. I was allowed to leave my position and start the closing. I got to within 6 or 7 yards, but the brush was much to thick for the shot. I looked at PH for permission to move around a tree. I got sign language that either said "OK" or "I'll gut you if you move". Not being real familiar with Mississippi finger talk, I was optimistic and moved around the tree for a better shot. I got to the only place possibly but could only see a hind quarter, his tail, and a black basketball he was laying on. Big decision, risk a maybe shot or face the PH with explanation. Oh ya, we Pondas, but the hog bolted and saved the moment. On we go, spotted many hogs on the move. We stayed down wind always thanks to PH consistently spraying a white powder that blew in my face. I now know why I was assigned my position. If my face looked like a cake mix, wind is ok. Spotted a bunch moving in our direction and we took set and waited. They moved right to us and one big boar walked straight to us. I was in front for the shot, but he was head on and I don't like head shots. When he turned, he stopped several times always behind a tree. They moved on and so did we. Another encounter much like the previous. While waiting for the targets to move to us, a huge red hog raises up out of nowhere next to us. PH is laying on his belly looking like a log and I'm kneeling down in shooting position. Big Red just stares at us and I'm in shock and can't move. He walks off, PH rotates his eyeballs up to me and I see a reflection of myself caught in that leg-hold trap instead of the cat. The flavor is kind of going out of my bubble gum, you feel me? THE ATTACK: Off we go. PH says "don't worry". Suddenly he stops, froze stiffer than a ,well he is just real still. Sign language, come here. He directs my vision to a black 55 gallon drum laying in a thicket about 75 yards away. When I finally determined it was alive, I told the PH I can't afford beef from one of Matt's price cows. He replied that I was paying him good money (first I heard of that) and trust him on this. Afraid I was now being charged by the minute, I moved quickly in the direction I was instructed to get the shot. The ground was pretty noisy so I had to move slow, had to cross over a small berm with thick brush beside it, good cover. Wanted to go around a bit instead of the dictated route, but could feel a strong gaze in my back, remembering the blade my PH liked to display, I stayed the course. As I approached the spot for the execution, the big boy stood up. He was not alarmed but just stretching a little. It has come back to me now that this is when I had my last functional thought before my breakdown. I remember vividly thinking that this is perfect, a standing shot well within range of the biggest boar in the "Triangle". PH, my Podna! Then it happened. It's still a little shaky and a comes and goes like a LSD flash back from the 60s so bare with me, I may lose it again. Meds are on hand. Noise, what the hell? Sounds like Secretariat coming home at the Kentucky Derby. As quickly as I heard it, I smelled it. Bigfoot? What a stench. My mind is moving faster than Rosie O'Donnell after a doughnut. An explosion from the brush pile on the berm. Then in slow motion almost, I remember having a very unrelated thought, here we are in a drought all over OK and my pants have soaked up water all the way to my waist from a lone water puddle I'm standing in. Mind works in funny ways, and I think was trying to protect me from what was coming. Flash back to present time as I turned to my left and and had double vision of Heaven and Hell. Hell was about 300 pounds of black and white muscles, stench dripping porcupine quills chomping on something he got from being crossed with a saber tooth tiger. He is coming for me and the noise is intense. Then it got quieter than a mouse peeing on a piece of cotton. And I saw Heaven! My Podna, Capstick PH Quack at full draw! The boy's got a pair so big they sounds like a Church bell when the wind blows. Then, and things are happening fast, I see something that is as shiny as a diamond in a goat's butt. Yep, it was Quack's razorhead that I had watched him sharpen to a finish that would cut you from five feet away. It was sticking out of the only thing between me and the Gates. The boar turned, he and I knew in an instant that our lives had been changed for ever. His was over, and mine would depend on the medication and the Doctors. AFTERMATH: The Devil hog was retrieved and made bacon. I made it home, but don't remember any details for many days to follow as I begin to slowly clear. Big brother drove me home and He and my Wife decided the familiar surroundings of my own house and being comforted by my dogs would be better than a hospital bed. I am pretty stable and able to work most of the week, and beginning to recognize my grand kids. With proper care and a strong Belief, I think I will be ready again by next September. If not, I know my life is complete and not many have 'seen the lightning and heard the thunder' as I have. Quack. Happenings that move the Earth are no more than "water off a duck's back" in his eyes and heart. What an appropriate name. I owe him my life and he just shrugs his shoulders. They say water covers two thirds of the earth, I'm living proof that QUACK covers the rest. My Podna!

Had a great hunt! Lots of shots and stalks. Had to go to the dark side to score on one. The Javelina were very spooky and the weather all but one day were windy, cloudy and misty. Not helping for a good hunt. This place is very hard to do a recovery, with the thick cactus.

2017 Idaho elk hunt... My 15th trip out and I didnt get a tag but went along with a group of young guys who were making their first trip. A million questions on the way out but one sticks out. " Any problems with bears?" I answered 10 times, NO, Never. Ive ony ever seen one.

Fast forward to the first full day of hunting. My friends Tyler and Blaise spotted a bull and a cow bedded on the oppisite ridge. They waited until the wind was good and made a long stock. When they arrive at the opening the bull was still there. Blaise prepares to shoot with his compound when a black bear busts from the brush and chases the elk down the hill. Seconds later cows rush out of the brush and Tyler nails one in the lungs at 8 yards. She disappears in the brush for a second then reappears with the bear chasing her. The bear grabs her flanks and pulls her down. Fur flying, squealing, groaning all with in 50 ysrds of the young hunters. They yell at the bear and he climbs a tree then jumps out and splits. They are stunned.

After an all day rain and snow I make it back to our camp at dark when I get word that Tyler had an elk down and there was a bear involved!! After a 3 hour hike in the rain and mud we find the guys and the elk and the much anticipated details of the hunt. We stumble into camp with the elk, tired, muddy and bruised but flying high.

That was one of my most memorable elk hunting trips and I never carried my bow.

Here is Tylers elk. If you look closely you can see the bloody paw print on the tree, where the bear climbed after dragging down the cow.

Jmorgan, it is reality. Tell it like it is, not like you 'want it to be'. Its truth. It happened, its not fake and Im not trying to appease some snowflake. Wolves and coyotes don't kill instantly and neither does nearly every bowhunter. Many bow shot animals take several hours (often overnight) to die. They told their stories. They are still telling them. You arent going to appease the antis no matter how soft you sell it.

Longbow Bison

This adventure started as many do, sitting around with good friends, sipping a bit of Jack Daniels. As I remember, it was a hot July evening. We were reminiscing about past hunts and someone mentioned that we should do something a little different. After tossing a few ideas around I suggested a Bison hunt. My hunting buddy David said he would be up for it. After a bit of discussion and research we decided we would do a cow hunt for the meat. I then started researching a location. Finally I hit on a location in North Dakota that seemed to offer what we wanted.

I talked to the outfitter and he recommended we come between December and early March as the hides would be prime. We decided to make the trip in December. It would be a three day hunt. Neither of us wanted mounts, but both of us wanted a nice buffalo robe. I decided that I would use my go-to bow, a 66” Jeff Massie 2 piece takedown Longhorn, 57 lbs at 28”. For arrows I would use Arrow Dynamics Trads tipped with 2 blade, 160 grain Magnus broadheads for a total arrow weight of 620 grains. My buddy opted to use his Black Widow recurve, 54 lbs at 28”. For arrows he used Grizzlystics tipped with a 2 blade,125gr Magnus Stinger for a total arrow weight of 600 grains.

We arrived at the ranch on December 6, met up with the outfitter, Orem, and got settled into the comfortable old ranch house. Orem took us for a quick tour to see the bison and where we would be hunting. It was wide open prairie with about 6,000 acres behind barbed wire. Orem said that the wire would not stop the bison if they decided to go somewhere. We went back to the house and settled down to rest up from the 2 day drive. Later, Orem picked us up and took us out to a local bar/café for dinner. We had a couple of drinks and ate some excellent T-bones while we planned strategy for the next day. Next morning when we got up it was 19 degrees and there was about 6 inches of snow on the ground. We climbed into Orem’s pick-up and drove out to the pasture. We had decided we would start out by trying to stalk. This proved to be difficult as it was wide open prairie. There were some gullies and some trees along the watercourse, but the bison pretty much stayed away from them. By crawling and taking advantage of the low cover we were able to close the distance to about 50 yards, much too far to shoot with our trad equipment. We spent the morning trying stalks but were never able to close the distance.

After warming up with a hot lunch of chili, we discussed the afternoon hunt. Orem decided to put out some bales of hay and we would hide behind them to ambush the bison. We crouched behind the bales and waited for the bison to approach. The herd of approximately 200 finally came in and we were virtually surrounded. I examined the herd searching for a cow with a really good coat. Finally I spotted one that suited me, and waited for her to separate out from the herd enough that I could get a decent shot. Finally, she separated from her companions and turned almost broadside at about 20 yards, just slightly quartering away from me. I figured that if I held for the off shoulder I could slip an arrow through both lungs.

I picked my spot, came to full draw, hit my anchor, and dropped the string. I watched my arrow arc through the air and make contact just behind the rear rib, headed for the far shoulder. As she ran off I could see the arrow fetching protruding from her side. David was watching through binoculars and said it looked good, but penetration might be a little lacking. Then he said “She’s down”. She had made it about 100 yards before going down. When we walked up on her she was still breathing but couldn’t get up. I slipped another arrow into her and it was all over. We waited while Orem went to get the tractor and front end loader to load her onto the truck for the trip to the processor. She weighed about 900 lbs and I wound up with over 300 lbs of packaged, prime eating.

My penetration was a little less than I would have liked. I think this because she was somewhat quartering and the fact that I was using a 1 1/2” wide broadhead. I took out he near lung and was into the far lung. I think with a slightly narrower head I would have fully penetrated both lungs.

I started a 'story' thread several years ago -

http://leatherwall.bowsite.com/TF/lw/thread2.cfm?threadid=204708&category=88#4521563

As long as 'truth' isn't an absolute requirement ;-)

"The Good, The Bad, And The Goofy"

by Dana Charbonneau

We all have a mental picture of how hunting and fishing should be, what the perfect day in the outdoors would be like. It would not be too easy. No, we're skilled outdoorsmen, after all. We want to catch fish, or shoot a deer, but we want enough difficulty to challenge our skills. (Of course, all that hard work makes those 30 fish days seem like 'just desserts.')

The ideal is to fish smart, using the right bait or lure, presenting it just so, and hooking the biggest fish in the lake. Or following a buck in fresh snow, sorting out tracks over hill and dale until a perfect shot ends the hunt. However, the realities of the outdoors are often less than ideal.

The best anglers and hunters know that in spite of their skills, Lady Luck often takes a hand. Sometimes it will be easy. The fish wake up hungry as heck, and feed on anything from soggy pickled minnows to the rattiest flies. Or we're eating a candy bar and an eight point buck walks by 30 yards away. Upwind. At times like these you roll your eyes heavenward and sigh, "I'd rather be lucky than good." At other times it's just the opposite. The deer vanish like beer money on a Friday night. You couldn't catch a fish in a hatchery with worms. Guns jam, lines break, your bow develops a mysterious new 'creak' when you draw. As you head home, you realize you didn't bring a knife. Probably just as well.

Then there are those really exceptional days when, as Robert Ruark said, you hang a world class 'silly' on your trophy wall.

You decide the compass is wrong. "That can't be North." You wind up hunting in Vermont during the rifle season. You're dressed in camo, carrying a bow, with a Mass. License hanging off your hat. Hunters in red plaid wave as you pass by. Of course, being Vermonters, they're too polite to laugh. And far too polite to offer directions if you don't ask.

You hook a heavy fish in a small river. After masterfully fighting it for 10 minutes, careful of your ultralight tackle, you net the biggest fish of the day, an 18-inch red sucker. Fortunately, nobody is watching except your best friend, the very soul of discretion.

You leave your favorite rod leaning against the car while you shed your waders. The wind gusts, simultaneously knocking over the rod and slamming the door. Guess which way the rod fell.

You drive a 150 miles north to backpack into the White Mountains for some wilderness fishing. Arriving, you realize that the only shoes you brought are a 99-cent pair of rubber flip-flops. The trail is very rocky, where there even is a trail.

Or you drive to Vermont for a day of deer hunting, only to find that you left your rifle back at home. Luckily, you brought a sidearm. You decide to hunt anyway. Heck, you always wanted to try hunting with a handgun. Now you just need to get within 10 yards of a buck, who has spent the last two weeks dodging other hunters, so you can shoot him with your .38 snubnose.

An honest picture of hunting includes all the things an outdoor sports lover really needs to be successful. You need skill, for those days when skill makes all the difference. You need luck, too, for those days when skill is not enough. And perseverance, for those days when skill and luck take a back seat to stubbornness.

Most of all, you need a sense of humor, for those days when you do indeed catch 30 fish, on dry flies no less, and every one is a three-inch dace.

Great story and writing style George D. Stout of "The beech crossing.". Felt like I was there.

PM sent.

Cut pasted from a post I made a while ago.

http://leatherwall.bowsite.com/TF/lw/thread2.cfm? threadid=292739&category=88#4299367

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From: Fletch Private Reply Date: 28-Oct-17

I posted the following response in another thread tonight ( "What can you be proud of?" : It is a story (lesson) of my first "deer hunting" experience with my dad. It isn't about trad archery. It's about sporstmanship, and respect of your quarry, not about "filling your tag." Delete it if you wish.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ my response to thread: "What can you be proud of?"

I'll take a different view...

I don't agree that a 10 year old needs a "trophy", or for that matter ANY deer, "just to make it a success."

My dad did a SIMILAR thing to me when I was about 14, but for a different reason. I was too young to deer hunt (rifle season) then, but my dad wanted me to go deer hunting with him. (I was his "gun bearor."). He wanted me to have exposure to the hunting experience and used it as a training/educational/wisdom-imparting /bonding with dad-son experience.

We were in the Catskill Mountains in NY state, just south of the Pepacton Reservoir. He had a Savage 99 in 300 Savage. No doe permit.

We were on a ridge, posted above a draw. We waited and waited. Finally 3 does came out. He unloaded the rifle and gave it to me, with the action open. He told me to put the crosshair of the Leupold 3x scope at the base of the neck of the first doe. I did. Then he told me to do it to the second and third doe. I did.

After the 3 deer slowly walked by, he said, "Sometimes a buck will follow." A few minutes later, forkhorn buck came out in the same path as the 3 does. He told me to do the same thing, put the crosshair on the buck (gun still empty and action open). The buck kept on walking and disappeared in the brush. I gave the Savage back to my dad. I was confused.

He said it was a lesson. First, he wanted me to get a good look at a deer, in the "ready to take it" condition. He said, he wanted to take away "first deer" jitters/buck fever when I was old enough to deer hunt.

The second lesson he said is, "You don't have to shoot every deer you see. Some may present a good or bad angle, and a related high or low chance to cleanly take the deer." He said there was no need to shoot at a running deer. Too much chance to miss, or wound. He believed in the OSOK approach (one shot, one kill).

We chatted about that during that hunt the next few days about what was a "good shot" and when not to take a shot. (too brushy, obscured view, deer on top of horizon line /no back stop etc). He didn't shoot a deer that trip. I felt bad. I told him that "I felt I cost him a deer." He told me he couldn't have had a better hunting and teaching experience. He was hoping for a situation like we saw for the past 10 years, with him waiting for the day we went deer hunting/"gun bearoring" together.

It's just one of those times you never forget. My dad wasn't waiting for a deer "to be proud of." He was teaching me being a responsible hunter and sportsman. When I read the book, "The Old Man and the boy" 40+ years later, I was continually reminded of my dad as the "old man" , always teaching.

So, my view is different. I don't think the original poster telling the story of that father/child deer hunting "proudness" issue was a true lesson in sportsmanship, but it sure did remind me of that hunting season with my dad, and hoisting and holding his Savage 99 on those deer. Falls in the "priceless" category for me.

Dad passed away 25 years ago, way too early. Hunting is obviously more than harvesting. That is what my dad taught me.

Just my view, and chance to say "thanks" to my dad.

What can I be proud of? I'm proud of my dad, and his teaching methods, which made me a sportsman, not just a "tag filler."

The day was wearing on and it was time to think about heading back to camp. Daylight was beginning to fade and I was getting a bit hungry. A bit thirsty too. I had just spent the afternoon in my treestand after installing it near the Kettle River earlier that day. The time had passed uneventfully although the peace and quiet of the winter woods was like a tonic after months of stress at work.

I'd tried a new technique for installing tree steps. My friend Dennis had lent me his cordless drill and a one-quarter inch bit. Oh I can hear the whining now. No, it wasn't hand-powered and yes it used stored electricity. Sometimes I think we can carry this traditional thing too far. All I know is that it made twisting the screw-in steps into a frozen pine a whole lot easier. I had also brought along a pole saw to remove a couple of branches that blocked a shooting lane. It was a handy little device made from three foot lengths of one and a quarter inch PVC pipe with some one inch doweling and a few screws and wingnuts for connectors. Bolting the three sections together had allowed me to remove any branch within ten feet of my stand.

I attached my bow to a line I keep for the purpose and lowered it to the forest floor. Reaching around the tree I retrieved and shouldered my daypack, which contained the pole saw and the drill. After folding up the seat of my treestand, I searched out the top step with my right foot and descended to the ground.

It is about this time of day when everything seems to come to a halt for a few minutes. A hunting partner from my younger days called it the Witching Hour. Every creature in the forest seemed to stop what they were doing at the same time. There were no bird songs, no clatter of a squirrel climbing a tree or the cacaphonous irritation of its argument with a neighbor, no movement anywhere. And there was not a breath of wind. The only sound was the swirl of open water in the river and my own breathing.

My route to the truck would take me directly away from the Kettle for about a hundred yards and then due south through the timber for a quarter mile. The snow on the ground reflected what light there was and would prevent total darkness from enveloping me before I cleared the timber and made my way through the young second growth to the truck. Unhooking my bow from the safety line, I took one last look around and headed out. I'd made the easy trip before and would soon be driving back to the cabin. Or so I thought.

I hadn't gone fifty feet when I heard a low moan coming from directly behind me. It sounded like it came from across the river. I turned around and listened intently. An unusual sound, it was something I couldn't quite place. There are cattle in the area but it wasn't the cattle. It wasn't a moose, a cougar, coyote, wolves or a bear. And it didn't sound like someone in pain or trouble of some kind. I chalked it up to one of the forest noises of which I had yet to learn and moved on.

As I moved away from the river and into the timber the light faded even more. The rhythm of my footsteps pushed me along like the beating of a drum while the cold snow crunched and squeaked underfoot, seeming to shatter the deep silence with every step. It was almost hypnotic, one foot in front of the other…in front of the other…in front of the other. And then it came again. A low moan that defied description. It sounded closer this time but still seemed to come from across the river. I turned around and scanned my back trail for a few minutes, waiting, watching, anticipating, hoping for a clue to the noise. Nothing. Just the sound of the river and the empty stillness. And the feeling of being alone.

I shook it off and continued on my way through the timber. Whatever it was it would have to cross the cold water of the Kettle to get any closer. Swinging to the right I headed south and began to parallel to the river. It was dark enough now that I could see the brighter stars through the treetops. I began to think of the warmth of the cabin and the dinner that awaited our return, not to mention a glass of good scotch. The cold air always seemed to sharpen my appetite. As I pushed onward, past the tall gaunt forms of the pines I came to a tree lying across the trail. As I stepped over the tree I heard it again. The sound was still behind me. But this time it was different. It had crossed the river.

It's amazing the way the mind can delve onto one's memory and instantly retrieve items from the past. The unwelcome item my mind had just retrieved was the story of the Windigo, a being of whom the Ojibwa people speak. The Ojibwa were the forest dwellers that had inhabited the part of southern Ontario where I grew up. Their legends tell of a frightening creature that caused people to vanish, never to be seen again. Was it real? Was it a supernatural being? Was it a madman? No one can say. But that was just a legend…wasn't it? My pace quickened. I didn't know what was following me and it was getting to the point that I didn't want to know. I've spent most of my life in the outdoors, working, hiking, hunting and I've never feared being alone in the woods. That was beginning to change. Part of me said "Get a grip Gordo, there's a logical explanation for this". But another small and increasingly insistent part of me said "Get the hell out of here".

With discretion the better part of valor I moved forward with somewhat renewed energy. I was coming to a section of the trail where I would have to bend over several times to pass underneath some trees that were partially blown over and I didn't want to be slowed down. The rhythm of my footsteps had increased slightly and my breathing seemed a bit more laboured. My mouth seemed a bit dry, probably due to this dry interior air I thought. I came to the first tree and crouched over to pass underneath it. I heard it again. That accursed moaning was right behind me and getting closer. I hurried to the second blowdown and crouched to pass underneath it. Again that damned moan!

And then I began to laugh. Sometimes life's biggest jokes are on ourselves. Lordy, if there was a fool in the forest tonight I'd see him when I looked in the mirror at camp. I bent over and as expected the ghost began to wail immediately behind me. Again I bent over, again the ghost wailed. I rested my bow against a tree, loosened straps of my pack and swung it from my shoulders. I knew the name of this ghost now. It wasn't Windigo, it was "Makita".

True story...

Earlier that afternoon I had crammed Dennis's drill into my pack along with the pole saw and assorted other junk. Each time I bent over or moved in a certain way some of that junk had pressed on the drill trigger, switching it on for a few seconds. The hollow PVC poles against which the drill rested had acted like a soundbox, a megaphone, amplifying the sound of the drill slowly turning over. After rearranging the contents of my pack to silence the drill I fastened and tightened the cover. I smiled and shook my head. "Eason you'll need a couple of drinks tonight before you'll have the guts to tell this story." I thought.

Shouldering my pack, I picked up my bow and headed out. Ever notice how quiet and beautiful the forest is on a snowy evening? It doesn't get much better. Lordy how I love the woods.

Here's a poem I wrote:

We live in an old chaos of the Sun or old dependency of day and night Island solitude, unsponsored free of that wide water.

Deer walk our mountains and quail whistle their spontaneous cries.

Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness and in the evening casual flocks of pigeons make ambiguous undulations as they sink toward to darkness on extended wings...

well gee,

it got

reformatted

rather poorly!

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