Lurch12
Lil-Rokslider
As I get closer to forty, I’m finding that filling a tag matters less to me. What I look forward to most now is the time at camp—the new country, unfamiliar ridges, and quiet mornings you can’t get close to home.
This year worked out well. My dad had already tagged out, and he and my oldest son could hunt closer to the truck while I pushed deeper. Three generations in the woods, even if not side by side.
The morning started with pancakes and bacon on the Blackstone griddle on the porch. After breakfast, I canoed across the cold river to a quiet stretch of public land. I pulled the canoe behind a log, tightened my pack, and started up the mountain. Half a mile later, I reached the top just as the first light filtered through the oaks.
The woods were busy—shots everywhere—so many that I stopped counting after fifty by 8:30. My first deer was a sub-legal buck. By nine, I was chilled from the sweat of the climb. When I stood to move, I noticed a hunter right where I planned to go, so I swung wide and still-hunted along the ridge.
I was deep in a secluded section of public land, and I was surprised by how many hunters I’d seen, including two with young kids. I gave them as much room as I could. Eventually, I settled in a quiet hollow and watched four does feed through, followed by a flock of longbeards working the slope. After that, I eased toward a point where I planned to eat lunch before still-hunting back to the canoe.
At the point, I leaned against a tree overlooking a lower bench of oaks and checked my phone. @Fulldraw had messaged me about my adventure, and I had just told him how I hoped to have success and canoe a buck back to camp. My dad texted that he and my son had seen seven does and were enjoying their hunt together.
I had just started snacking when I heard leaves crunch. Sunlight flashed along a deer’s back as it fed up the bench. I glassed him—legal. I switched to the rifle as he closed from eighty yards to twenty-five. He stopped behind a tree, head up. When he finally took a half-step, I shot. The buck dropped. My phone read 12:14.
Only then did I realize how nice a deer he was. I called my wife, then my father; everyone was excited. My son wanted to come help, but I was across a cold river and more than two miles from the canoe—no easy way for them to reach me.
I sat down, looked over the map, and thought through my options. I could quarter him where he lay and pack him out, but I was worried I’d have trouble caping him in the woods. In the end, I decided to drag the buck downhill to the river. Four hundred yards later, I left him there and headed for the canoe.
It was 1:45. By 2:40, after scrambling over rocks and through laurel along the shoreline, I reached the canoe and paddled downstream to the closest take-out. My son helped load gear, though he looked confused not seeing the deer. We hurried—daylight was going fast. My dad then drove me back upstream for the long paddle down.
We slid the canoe back into the water shortly after 3:00. I paddled hard, knowing darkness would settle in quickly. The river was quiet. Deer fed along the banks, turkeys moved on the hillsides, and a lone hunter waved as I passed. By 4:45, I reached my buck and loaded him into the canoe as darkness settled in. I pushed off again, tired but steady, and paddled the final stretch while eating a sandwich and drinking a Pepsi.
By the time I heard my son’s voice on the radio, it was fully dark, but it gave me a jolt of excitement as I knew I was closing in on my final destination. At 5:30, I slid the canoe onto the shore where my dad and son were waiting. A few quick photos, some laughs, and relief all around.
Back at camp around six, I was worn out but satisfied. It was my best buck, my first one taken at camp, and the whole day had been earned the long way—exactly what I was hoping for.
Total of around:
This year worked out well. My dad had already tagged out, and he and my oldest son could hunt closer to the truck while I pushed deeper. Three generations in the woods, even if not side by side.
The morning started with pancakes and bacon on the Blackstone griddle on the porch. After breakfast, I canoed across the cold river to a quiet stretch of public land. I pulled the canoe behind a log, tightened my pack, and started up the mountain. Half a mile later, I reached the top just as the first light filtered through the oaks.
The woods were busy—shots everywhere—so many that I stopped counting after fifty by 8:30. My first deer was a sub-legal buck. By nine, I was chilled from the sweat of the climb. When I stood to move, I noticed a hunter right where I planned to go, so I swung wide and still-hunted along the ridge.
I was deep in a secluded section of public land, and I was surprised by how many hunters I’d seen, including two with young kids. I gave them as much room as I could. Eventually, I settled in a quiet hollow and watched four does feed through, followed by a flock of longbeards working the slope. After that, I eased toward a point where I planned to eat lunch before still-hunting back to the canoe.
At the point, I leaned against a tree overlooking a lower bench of oaks and checked my phone. @Fulldraw had messaged me about my adventure, and I had just told him how I hoped to have success and canoe a buck back to camp. My dad texted that he and my son had seen seven does and were enjoying their hunt together.
I had just started snacking when I heard leaves crunch. Sunlight flashed along a deer’s back as it fed up the bench. I glassed him—legal. I switched to the rifle as he closed from eighty yards to twenty-five. He stopped behind a tree, head up. When he finally took a half-step, I shot. The buck dropped. My phone read 12:14.
Only then did I realize how nice a deer he was. I called my wife, then my father; everyone was excited. My son wanted to come help, but I was across a cold river and more than two miles from the canoe—no easy way for them to reach me.
I sat down, looked over the map, and thought through my options. I could quarter him where he lay and pack him out, but I was worried I’d have trouble caping him in the woods. In the end, I decided to drag the buck downhill to the river. Four hundred yards later, I left him there and headed for the canoe.
It was 1:45. By 2:40, after scrambling over rocks and through laurel along the shoreline, I reached the canoe and paddled downstream to the closest take-out. My son helped load gear, though he looked confused not seeing the deer. We hurried—daylight was going fast. My dad then drove me back upstream for the long paddle down.
We slid the canoe back into the water shortly after 3:00. I paddled hard, knowing darkness would settle in quickly. The river was quiet. Deer fed along the banks, turkeys moved on the hillsides, and a lone hunter waved as I passed. By 4:45, I reached my buck and loaded him into the canoe as darkness settled in. I pushed off again, tired but steady, and paddled the final stretch while eating a sandwich and drinking a Pepsi.
By the time I heard my son’s voice on the radio, it was fully dark, but it gave me a jolt of excitement as I knew I was closing in on my final destination. At 5:30, I slid the canoe onto the shore where my dad and son were waiting. A few quick photos, some laughs, and relief all around.
Back at camp around six, I was worn out but satisfied. It was my best buck, my first one taken at camp, and the whole day had been earned the long way—exactly what I was hoping for.
Total of around:
- 7 miles hiked
- 9 miles canoed
