| Deer Articles |
John N. Felsher's Deer Hunting Adventures
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Stinging raindrops mixed with sleet projectiles pelted the foreboding forest
like fine birdshot fired from a thousand distant shotguns as I walked up the
trail toward the deer stand.
In thick darkness, I followed the path as it snaked through the somber
rolling hills of western Tennessee. As a guest of Mike Hayes’ Reelfoot Lake
Blue Bank Resort in Hornbeak, Tenn., I tried to conquer one of the mossy-
horned legends known to live among these clay hills, forests and fields.
The previous day, I spotted several does, merely shadows floating on the
side of a grassy hill in the enveloping blackness. I fired the muzzleloader at
extreme range. Rich music erupted from the smokepole, propelling the
lead forward.
Perhaps, my bullet would find its mark. However, it didn’t cut a hair.
Somewhere well short of my intended quarry, the blazing chunk of lead
impacted the hard red Tennessee clay. The herd scattered; perhaps in the
morning I would bag my first deer.
A large buck usually pokes his head out of the underbrush every morning
near this tree stand, the guides said. Perhaps today would forever
emblazon itself in my memory as the day that I bagged my first deer. I could
only hope that luck would shine on me.
Few things shined on this miserable, dreary morning. The skylighted
metal perch loomed aloft in the mist as I approached. Numbing cold
clutched at my unprotected fingers as I broke ice off the iron ladder steps
leading to my forlorn post. Wind ripped through the forest and every
particle of clothing on my body.
Reaching the top of the tree, I climbed into the bare, frigid seat anchored
so exposed on the side of this tree about 30 feet above the ground.
Although effective, I’ve never liked tree stands, but this one offered more
comfort than most, but not much.
Still, it remained a bare, exposed metal edifice in an alien environment
suspended above all terrestrial denizens. I am a terrestrial denizen. This
sniper’s post offered scant protection against wind, rain or boredom.
I loaded and positioned the borrowed .50-caliber in-line muzzle-loading
rifle across my lap and tried to find comfort in the seat. I hunkered down
into my woefully inadequate jacket as best as I could, thinking that I’ve
never fired a muzzle-loader at anything other than paper.
To the east, a pink fringe gripped the black swirling clouds, offering just
the hint of the coming dawn. Elsewhere, I may as well have been sitting at
the bottom of a Tennessee coal mine at midnight. Overwhelming darkness
choked the land and all creatures slithering upon it.
Slowly, darkness loosened its grip, exposing skeletal trees and
impenetrable underbrush. The sun couldn’t break through the swirling solid
overcast cauldron this day, offering only a teasingly pitiful remnant of its
once and future brilliant glory.
Slowly, wild creatures reluctantly emerged from the half-light at dawn.
Unable or unwilling to hibernate, migrate or seek shelter in this storm, they
scurried about their daily business below the stand. Robins greeted the
coming dawn with raucous laughter, their mottled rusty breast feathers
offering the only hint of color in the overwhelming gray half-tones of a
stormy winter daybreak.
Across the field, I spied a brown moving object. My muscles tightened in
eager anticipation -- until I rested the binoculars on the “critter.” Only a
bush swayed in the vicious, biting north wind. My eyes, eager to grasp
something alive, imagined the rest, growing antlers where branches stood
starkly naked.
A dull roar erupted some distance away, edging ever closer. Then, it
exploded with awesome sudden power. The former slow, steady drizzle
escalated into a major downpour. Deer had better sense than to roam
about on a day like this. Deer are smart animals.
I wrapped my jacket around my face, blocking my hearing from nearly
anything but the pounding rain. Not seeing anything, my eyes could only
focus on opaque sheets of water pouring in front of my face. Numbing cold
permeating my entire body. Brutal winds slashed at what remained
exposed of my face.
Storms and deer stands lead one to deep thinking. I couldn’t help but
remember the many times I tried to down a deer, but failed for whatever
reason. I remembered the first wild deer I ever encountered. Three
magnificent animals walked into a clearing and stood looking at me barely
15 yards away one winter noon many years ago as I chased rabbits three
days after deer season ended. I thought back to another time during deer
season when a giant buck burst from a brush not 10 feet in front of me
while I carried only light squirrel shot.
I remembered how a 10-pointer materialized out of nowhere on another
dark and stormy night. This time, I swerved just in time to avoid crashing
into the majestic beast as it stood on the highway. On the night before the
season opened, it crossed the highway, going from public hunting land to
private land posted with “No Hunting” signs.
I recalled how I once nearly hit a deer with a fishing boat at it swam along
a winding bayou deep in a Louisiana swamp. Had I been a cowboy, I surely
could have roped that rascal, although putting it in the livewell may have
proved more of a challenge. As Toby Keith puts it, “I should have been a
cowboy!”
On several occasions, my hunting companions fired at deer, and missed
each time. One fired five times, with my own gun. Still, up to this time, no
member of my hunting parties ever bagged a deer while in my presence,
although most killed deer on other days. Deer always seem to jump out in
front of others – never in front of me.
I remembered other hunts and other storms. I recalled the time my father
and I scurried under what remained of a collapsed trapper’s cabin in an oak
forest to escape another biting storm long ago. Only the rotted roof of the
once-comfortable structure remained resting on the soggy ground – and
little of that remained intact! The camp blew down during some long ago
hurricane, old, decayed and forgotten in the dismal swamps.
That day, though, it provided enough shelter to a man and a 6-year-old
boy as we huddled together for mutual warmth and security. Hiding under
the rotting timbers, I wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to make sure Dad wasn’t
afraid, so I snuggled close to his comforting loving muscles as rain pelted
the leaky tin roof overhead.
Soon, my current storm subsided, propelling me back to a dismal perch in
a barren tree. Still, pale gray mists blanketed the dark drab world. Before
me, the once verdant low Tennessee hills rolling through forest and farm
fields seemed ancient and ethereal as they stretched into eternity.
After two hours, good sense prevailed at last and I surrendered to the
elements. I climbed down from my stand and trudged back toward my truck
a half-mile away. Even squirrels showed better sense, refusing to come out
on this bleak winter day. A hot meal and lots of black coffee waited for me
back at Mike’s restaurant.
As I reached the ground, an eight-point buck leaped from heavy wet
underbrush across a field about a hundred yards away. All coldness and
numbness vanished in me as it loped across barren soggy ground toward a
distant tree line. Perhaps, at last, my first deer would fall today.
I centered the scope cross hairs on its massive undulating muscular
shoulder. Although quartering away, he still presented a worthy shot. I
squeezed the trigger.
Click! The thunder stick misfired with a sickening metallic manifestation of
disappointment. The percussion cap apparently absorbed too much water
despite all my futile efforts to keep it and me dry. The heavy-racked stag
loped to the edge of the forest, stopped briefly and looked back for a
moment as if in mocking delight. In another instant, the king vanished into
the eclipsed forest and another memory.
like fine birdshot fired from a thousand distant shotguns as I walked up the
trail toward the deer stand.
In thick darkness, I followed the path as it snaked through the somber
rolling hills of western Tennessee. As a guest of Mike Hayes’ Reelfoot Lake
Blue Bank Resort in Hornbeak, Tenn., I tried to conquer one of the mossy-
horned legends known to live among these clay hills, forests and fields.
The previous day, I spotted several does, merely shadows floating on the
side of a grassy hill in the enveloping blackness. I fired the muzzleloader at
extreme range. Rich music erupted from the smokepole, propelling the
lead forward.
Perhaps, my bullet would find its mark. However, it didn’t cut a hair.
Somewhere well short of my intended quarry, the blazing chunk of lead
impacted the hard red Tennessee clay. The herd scattered; perhaps in the
morning I would bag my first deer.
A large buck usually pokes his head out of the underbrush every morning
near this tree stand, the guides said. Perhaps today would forever
emblazon itself in my memory as the day that I bagged my first deer. I could
only hope that luck would shine on me.
Few things shined on this miserable, dreary morning. The skylighted
metal perch loomed aloft in the mist as I approached. Numbing cold
clutched at my unprotected fingers as I broke ice off the iron ladder steps
leading to my forlorn post. Wind ripped through the forest and every
particle of clothing on my body.
Reaching the top of the tree, I climbed into the bare, frigid seat anchored
so exposed on the side of this tree about 30 feet above the ground.
Although effective, I’ve never liked tree stands, but this one offered more
comfort than most, but not much.
Still, it remained a bare, exposed metal edifice in an alien environment
suspended above all terrestrial denizens. I am a terrestrial denizen. This
sniper’s post offered scant protection against wind, rain or boredom.
I loaded and positioned the borrowed .50-caliber in-line muzzle-loading
rifle across my lap and tried to find comfort in the seat. I hunkered down
into my woefully inadequate jacket as best as I could, thinking that I’ve
never fired a muzzle-loader at anything other than paper.
To the east, a pink fringe gripped the black swirling clouds, offering just
the hint of the coming dawn. Elsewhere, I may as well have been sitting at
the bottom of a Tennessee coal mine at midnight. Overwhelming darkness
choked the land and all creatures slithering upon it.
Slowly, darkness loosened its grip, exposing skeletal trees and
impenetrable underbrush. The sun couldn’t break through the swirling solid
overcast cauldron this day, offering only a teasingly pitiful remnant of its
once and future brilliant glory.
Slowly, wild creatures reluctantly emerged from the half-light at dawn.
Unable or unwilling to hibernate, migrate or seek shelter in this storm, they
scurried about their daily business below the stand. Robins greeted the
coming dawn with raucous laughter, their mottled rusty breast feathers
offering the only hint of color in the overwhelming gray half-tones of a
stormy winter daybreak.
Across the field, I spied a brown moving object. My muscles tightened in
eager anticipation -- until I rested the binoculars on the “critter.” Only a
bush swayed in the vicious, biting north wind. My eyes, eager to grasp
something alive, imagined the rest, growing antlers where branches stood
starkly naked.
A dull roar erupted some distance away, edging ever closer. Then, it
exploded with awesome sudden power. The former slow, steady drizzle
escalated into a major downpour. Deer had better sense than to roam
about on a day like this. Deer are smart animals.
I wrapped my jacket around my face, blocking my hearing from nearly
anything but the pounding rain. Not seeing anything, my eyes could only
focus on opaque sheets of water pouring in front of my face. Numbing cold
permeating my entire body. Brutal winds slashed at what remained
exposed of my face.
Storms and deer stands lead one to deep thinking. I couldn’t help but
remember the many times I tried to down a deer, but failed for whatever
reason. I remembered the first wild deer I ever encountered. Three
magnificent animals walked into a clearing and stood looking at me barely
15 yards away one winter noon many years ago as I chased rabbits three
days after deer season ended. I thought back to another time during deer
season when a giant buck burst from a brush not 10 feet in front of me
while I carried only light squirrel shot.
I remembered how a 10-pointer materialized out of nowhere on another
dark and stormy night. This time, I swerved just in time to avoid crashing
into the majestic beast as it stood on the highway. On the night before the
season opened, it crossed the highway, going from public hunting land to
private land posted with “No Hunting” signs.
I recalled how I once nearly hit a deer with a fishing boat at it swam along
a winding bayou deep in a Louisiana swamp. Had I been a cowboy, I surely
could have roped that rascal, although putting it in the livewell may have
proved more of a challenge. As Toby Keith puts it, “I should have been a
cowboy!”
On several occasions, my hunting companions fired at deer, and missed
each time. One fired five times, with my own gun. Still, up to this time, no
member of my hunting parties ever bagged a deer while in my presence,
although most killed deer on other days. Deer always seem to jump out in
front of others – never in front of me.
I remembered other hunts and other storms. I recalled the time my father
and I scurried under what remained of a collapsed trapper’s cabin in an oak
forest to escape another biting storm long ago. Only the rotted roof of the
once-comfortable structure remained resting on the soggy ground – and
little of that remained intact! The camp blew down during some long ago
hurricane, old, decayed and forgotten in the dismal swamps.
That day, though, it provided enough shelter to a man and a 6-year-old
boy as we huddled together for mutual warmth and security. Hiding under
the rotting timbers, I wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to make sure Dad wasn’t
afraid, so I snuggled close to his comforting loving muscles as rain pelted
the leaky tin roof overhead.
Soon, my current storm subsided, propelling me back to a dismal perch in
a barren tree. Still, pale gray mists blanketed the dark drab world. Before
me, the once verdant low Tennessee hills rolling through forest and farm
fields seemed ancient and ethereal as they stretched into eternity.
After two hours, good sense prevailed at last and I surrendered to the
elements. I climbed down from my stand and trudged back toward my truck
a half-mile away. Even squirrels showed better sense, refusing to come out
on this bleak winter day. A hot meal and lots of black coffee waited for me
back at Mike’s restaurant.
As I reached the ground, an eight-point buck leaped from heavy wet
underbrush across a field about a hundred yards away. All coldness and
numbness vanished in me as it loped across barren soggy ground toward a
distant tree line. Perhaps, at last, my first deer would fall today.
I centered the scope cross hairs on its massive undulating muscular
shoulder. Although quartering away, he still presented a worthy shot. I
squeezed the trigger.
Click! The thunder stick misfired with a sickening metallic manifestation of
disappointment. The percussion cap apparently absorbed too much water
despite all my futile efforts to keep it and me dry. The heavy-racked stag
loped to the edge of the forest, stopped briefly and looked back for a
moment as if in mocking delight. In another instant, the king vanished into
the eclipsed forest and another memory.
Stormy day on high deer stand lead
to deep thoughts, good memories
to deep thoughts, good memories
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