WELCOME, Md.
I had just glanced at my watch and the first visitor I saw atop my tree stand was a bewildered gray squirrel. It was 6:35 a.m. The little fellow nearly touched my face; that’s how close he came as he scooted around the oak tree’s trunk on his way to the ground to scour through dense layers of leaves, hoping to find a few acorns. Off in the distance, a shot rang out.
This being deer hunting season, I figured this particular pulling of a trigger was a bit premature, considering the meager amount of shooting light that was available. But by 7 a.m., amid the arrival of bright sunlight, the dense hardwoods, swamps, farm fields and thickets of western Charles County echoed with occasional reports of shotguns that fire solid-rifled slugs intended for deer.
I sat 12 feet off the ground in a comfortable seat that was attached to a metal ladder stand belonging to a friend. My own slug gun hung on a hook embedded in the oak. The time: 7:45.
Now four squirrels were busy chasing each other around a huge beech tree across a woodland path near my stand. Soon, a pair of turkey vultures cruised high above the hardwoods and, less than a quarter-mile away by the shores of the Port Tobacco River, a bald eagle emitted its odd cackling call that doesn’t seem to match the otherwise proud demeanor of our national symbol.
I soaked it all in, glad to be in the forest, happy to hunt deer with three good friends. Then, without hearing even the tiniest noise, it happened.
Like ghostly apparitions, four deer appeared in a dense thicket behind me. One moment, that place seemed devoid of life, save for a noisy woodpecker that insisted on finding sustenance in a long-dead locust trunk; seconds later, there they were. Three does and a buck slowly worked their way into a section of white oaks, picking up acorns here and there, never making a sound that I could hear.
Removing the gun, looking down the sights and sliding off the safety came in one motion. Sadly, there were too many saplings and brushy spots obscuring the deer, especially the buck who appeared to be far more cautious than the females. He’d pick up an acorn, then stop and look sharply in all directions before resuming his feeding. The does never stopped scouring the ground for tasty morsels.
Eventually, the buck moved into a tiny open spot about 70 yards away. I could clearly see a soup bowl-sized portion of its right shoulder - nothing else. It was now or probably never.
When the shot rang out, the buck leapt straight up and took off like a rocket. There was no sign that he’d been touched by the 12-gauge projectile.
I waited a good 20 minutes before climbing down, hoping that the deer - if badly wounded - would feel the urge to bed down, rest and perhaps stiffen up enough to make it difficult for him to rise from the ground. The ensuing slow walk, me scouring the woodland ground to check for a blood spoor, resulted in disappointment. Nothing was seen that would indicate a wounded deer.
But no hunter should ever assume that, after firing a shot, the intended target was missed. This buck proved as much.
After walking slowly and looking sharply into the leaves for about 100 yards, suddenly there were some red spots on the ground and then - well, then I nearly stumbled over the buck. From being an upright deer only a half-hour before, this buck had turned into venison - tasty, delicious venison.
Look for Gene Mueller’s Outdoors column Sunday and Wednesday and his Fishing Report on Thursday, only in The Washington Times. E-mail: gmueller@washingtontimes.com. Visit Mueller’s Inside Outside blog at washingtontimes.com/sports.
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