Hunting Among History

Posted on December 30, 2012 by

Reprinted from the December 2012 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal.

It was one of those calm, frosty October mornings that I found myself walking down the old two track road that led to nowhere. I guess it went somewhere decades ago, but nowadays it’s just a pretty-looking brushed in bird hunting road. Walking the road, I couldn’t help but think about the past that surrounded me and what the land might have been in times before.

At the beginning of the road, there’s an old foundation – concrete mixed with fieldstone – for a building that probably once housed a farmer, his wife and a whole pile of kids. Some of them lie in the ground in the graveyard just on the other side of the road. More than 100 years later, the names are still legible on the grave stones.

You can see the old worn out fields back behind the foundation where the house once stood. At one time the land was true wilderness, until some brave souls decided to clear it and grow crops, raise livestock and make a living from it. They broke their backs chopping down the trees, pulling stumps, burning slash and picking rocks. Surely the rocks must have been the most difficult part.

For decades the fields those pioneers carved out of the woods supported some type of farming enterprise. Then the time ran out for that farm, like it has for most of the old farms of New England, when there was nobody left willing or able to keep it working. They might have mowed it for a while, but that, just like paying property taxes each year, was an expense greater than they felt it was worth. So the fields slowly revert to woodlands, and each year they slip further from their glory days as shrubs and trees creep in from the outer edges. It’s kind of sad to watch, but it’s part of life in this little corner of the world, so we accept it and take advantage of the habitat these brushy field edges provide for the critters we hunt.

This particular morning I was fortunate enough to catch the sun rising behind my back as I descended to the river valley below. Across the valley a mile away was a stunning scene: a hillside of beautiful fields and well kept farm houses bathed in sun. That must be what this old farm looked like years ago. Perhaps folks on the other side of the valley sat on their porches and looked here as the sun set on their backs.

I kept on the two track through the woods and to an old gate, no doubt part of a long-gone fence that once contained livestock grazing the bottom lands. Now the only sign of grazers were the tracks of a cow and calf moose on their way to the river. I had to work this morning, so it was time to head back.

I climbed out of the valley and took a more meandering path home. Evidence of the old workings on the land was everywhere, but only if you bothered to look. Funny thing is, I’ve walked by these signs of the past so many times before without ever pondering their meaning. There was the old fenceline, barely recognizable, with resilient cedar posts still clinging to wire fencing that had long since collapsed into the ground. Rock piles were strewn along the edges of the fields, evidence of years of hard work clearing a land now returning to trees. And of course there was that same road I returned to once again, the road that at some point was used by more than just hunters on a morning walk.

In all of my daydreaming and nostalgia for a piece of land in a time I’d never lived, I had my head down when a partridge flushed out of the trees and flew past the old cemetery. Just enough time to pick up my gun and he was gone. I’d find him next time. It was time to go to work anyway.

Posted in Hunting, Upland Birds | Leave a comment

From Montana to Maine

Posted on December 30, 2012 by

The fall of 2012 brought on a big life change for me and my family. My wife and I moved from Montana back to my home in northern Maine as I began a career as a biologist with the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife. The following are a few reflections on the move.

Leaving Montana isn’t easy for an avid hunter and angler. The opportunities there are endless. Abundant populations of big game provide quality hunting for whitetail deer, mule deer, black bear, antelope and elk. Lucky hunters can also pursue bighorn sheep, mountain goat and moose in the high country and even bison in parts of the state.

If Montana’s big game offerings aren’t enough, the upland bird hunting is sweet icing on the cake. Ruffed grouse and blue grouse call the mountains their home, while the state’s prairies harbor populations of sharptail grouse, Hungarian partridge and sage grouse. Pheasants thrive in the river bottoms and croplands. Long seasons and abundant game make Montana a great place to hunt.

And the fishing…well, it’s tough to compare to anything in the East. Cold mountain water flowing through highly productive geology makes Montana’s rivers some of the best trout fisheries in the world. Combine that with floatable water, beautiful weather and prolific insect hatches and it’s hard to beat.

Given the hunter and angler’s paradise the West is often made out to be, though, it’s easy to forget the numerous opportunities available in the woods of the Northeast. While the choice to move wasn’t really hunting and fishing-related, I’m excited to take advantage of what Maine has to offer.

Sure, Maine doesn’t have mule deer, antelope or elk, but we do have some pretty big whitetails up north if you can find one. The moose hunt is among the best in the nation, and a hunter can harvest a black bear over bait every year.

Sharptails and sage grouse don’t live here, but Maine’s ruffed grouse hunting is tops, and all indications are that 2012 should be a banner year. Add woodcock for variety and bird hunting in Maine can be quite something. Waterfowl hunting in Maine seems to be a relatively untapped resource, with abundant migratory birds and relatively low hunting pressure. I never hunted ducks or geese growing up in Maine, but I plan to start.
Maine’s brook trout and landlocked salmon resources are both unique and robust. Add lake trout, whitefish, smelts, cusk, and numerous other coldwater and warmwater species into the mix and you’ve got something to be envied by many other states. With extended ice and open water fishing seasons, Maine anglers can get after it year round in many places.

One of the best things northern Maine has that Montana lacks is a strong tradition of public access to private lands. Despite the West’s incredible fish and game resources, it’s becoming tougher to access them all the time. Wealthy nonresidents are buying up large ranches at a fast pace, and the public is excluded from a large majority of private land in the state. It’s nice to know you can go out on a dirt road in northern Maine and don’t have to worry about property boundaries or navigate your way around posted land.

I’ll miss Montana, and certainly plan on going back to hunt and fish as often as I can afford. But Maine isn’t so awfully bad either. I’m an optimist. Instead of complaining about what we don’t have, I hope to spend my time enjoying what we do.

Posted in General Outdoors | Leave a comment

Hunting and Hearing Loss

Posted on December 10, 2012 by

Fellow outdoorsman John O’Connor was kind enough to guest post this article about the effects of hunting/shooting on hearing loss.  Visit John’s site to learn more.

The Effects of Hunting on Hearing

For many people, hunting season is just as important as football season. Everyone loves to purchase new guns, more ammunition and fancy gadgets. However, not many people consider the fact that shooting guns can seriously damage their hearing. Most people take their hearing for granted, since effects of hearing loss are gradual and not suddenly noticed. Many years of being exposed to loud noises will certainly cause hearing loss.  Of course, you can limit damage to your hearing by taking necessary precautions.

My father was a hunter for many years and often did not wear hearing protection while shooting.  Many years later he suffers severely from hearing loss and it is partly due to hunting.  In order to help him hear better he uses hearing aids.  His hearing aids amplify sounds around him to help increase his hearing levels.

How Does Hunting Affect My Hearing?

Guns always present a level of danger. Most people know that firearms can cause major traumatic injury if it is not being used properly, but the level of sound it produces upon firing can also cause traumatic damage to your hearing. The human ear is designed to only take in around 65 DB (decibels). However, a gunshot can produce as much as 160 DB. Even with a silencer, a gun can still produce as much as 144 DB. Over a period of time, exposure to these noises will cause permanent hearing damage. Here are some things you can do to prevent that.

Avoid Indoor Shooting Ranges

Usually, many hunters practice their aim at shooting ranges before hunting season opens. If possible, avoid going to indoor shooting ranges. Loud noises are amplified and bounced off the walls. Of course, there are sophisticated shooting ranges with treated rooms and a selection of top-quality hearing protection, but for the most part, many indoor shooting ranges let you shoot at your own risk.

Earplugs

Many hunters prefer the basic earplugs to help block loud frequencies from entering the ear canal. Earplugs are usually made out of a foam material that helps absorb and block loud noises. They are inexpensive and lightweight. Of course, some people don’t like sticking something in their ear as it may become uncomfortable.

Earmuffs

Earmuffs cover the ear, rather than go inside the ear canal. Like earplugs, they are usually made with a foam material, though many also are made with leather and an inside foam barrier. These earmuffs provide excellent protection against loud noises, but they also inhibit the wearer’s ability to hear low frequencies, such as a whisper, which is essential to hear when you are hunting with a partner.

Electronic Earmuffs

They are the perfect alternative to regular earmuffs. They amplify low frequencies while protecting against loud frequencies. They act as a gate. These earmuffs are perfect for serious hunters.

Your hearing is important. Once it’s gone, it may never come back. Take steps today to protect your hearing for tomorrow.

About the Author

Hi my name is John O’Connor, I am a father, outdoorsman and passionate about living a healthy lifestyle.  Over the past few years I have become more and more interested in hearing loss.  My father and grandfathers, who are and were all hunters, are affected by hearing loss.  I feel that there is a general lack of understanding around the issue and it is our job to spread awareness where we can.  Check out my new blog at bloggingwjohno.blogspot.com!

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Ice Fishing 2013

Posted on December 2, 2012 by

One of the things I missed most while living out west was ice fishing season.  Sure, there were places you could fish out there, but there’s something about ice fishing in northern Maine that’s tough to duplicate.  Anyway, I’m back and it’s December: time to get the fishing cabins ready.  It’s also time to go through all of the tip ups, tackle boxes, jigging rods, smelt rigs, and all the rest of the various tackle items.  The ice fishing craze usually only hits me within a few days of January 1st, when the season opens on most lakes up here.  Maybe it’s the 6 year hiatus, or perhaps the cold weather we’ve been having recently, but I’m prepping early this year.  Welcome to ice fishing season on Wood’s Outdoor Journal.  Stay tuned for updates, articles, trip reports and tips and tricks.  It’s gonna be a good winter!

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Wood Family Montana Bucks 2011

Posted on February 21, 2012 by

Reprinted from the February 2012 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal

2011 is sure to go down as one of the most memorablehunting seasons of my lifetime – not only because of my good fortune in the field, but also because of the great hunts and memories I was able to witness others create. At the top of that list was my father’s largest whitetail, and my wife’s first. The two experiences are closely tied, which made them even more unforgettable.

It was our second day in the field, one of those cold, cloudy November days that are made for deer hunting. The peak of the whitetail rut was upon us, and while we were searching for both mule deer and whitetails, the latter seemed more active in this area. My dad, my best friend Nick, Pete and I were driving slowly down a Forest Service road at the edge of the Beartooth Mountains. The guys had just flown in from Maine two days ago, and their eyes still bugged out every time we saw deer, a habit that wouldn’t be too healthy for their eyes if they kept it up. There were plenty of deer, especially does.

We eventually reached the spot where I wanted us to leave the truck, split up and comb through the woods. Elk were known to hang out in this area, and we all had elk tags in addition to deer. But there were a couple of miles of road left to drive, and we decided to go on to the end and see what might be there.

The road came around a hard corner and began to descend into the relatively flat, sheltered valley of a high mountain stream. I’d done some trapping here and knew the terrain, but I had never seen much for deer.

Nick was driving and I think we both saw the doe about the same time. He hit the brakes and there she was, looking at us from the not-so-thick shelter of a stand of lodgepole pine. I looked behind her and saw a large, brown body, its head hiding behind one of the pines.

“Back up, Nick, I want to get a better look at the other one”, I said.

“There’s another one?  Oh yeah, I see it!” He put the rental jeep in reverse and slowly crept back.

My heart went into overdrive when the tree cleared from view and I got a look at the massive, swollen neck and the beautiful rack. “That’s a shooter!”

My dad didn’t waste any time. He’d been talking about shooting for two days straight, so when he jumped out of the truck, cleared the road and jacked in a shell, it wasn’t long before he fired.

The woods exploded as several deer bounded away. Nick, Pete and I all thought we’d seen another buck in there somewhere but soon forgot about it as we walked up to dad’s whitetail after the finishing shot.

Talk about some excitement packed into a short piece of time! We had the deer tagged, gutted and hidden in the brush in short order. Since it’s not a great idea to put a freshly killed deer in a shiny new rental car, we dropped Nick and Pete off to hunt the woods and headed back to my place to get my truck.

My wife Sara was excited to hear the news of dad’s whitetail. She quickly accepted my offer to take her along for a ride to go pick it up. Sara had never killed a deer before, and just recently we’d been out on an exciting hunt, but she hadn’t had the opportunity for a shot. So we brought her shotgun and my rifle with us. I’d use the shotgun if we found birds, and she would use the rifle for a possible deer.

We made it back to the hidden deer and got it to the truck in short order. Dad headed into the forest to look for elk, and Sara and I stuck to the road. After a couple of short hikes looking for grouse near the end of the road, we headed back to where the guys were hunting.

About a hundred yards before reaching the site where dad had taken his deer, I saw something truly astonishing. In a small meadow to the left of the road, a whitetail buck was standing in the open below a lone pine tree, head raised, licking a branch. It was picture perfect.

Sara made quick work of the deer, her first whitetail, taken within shouting distance of the buck my dad had harvested just a few hours earlier. Snow started falling and dark was approaching. We got the buck in the truck and took off to meet our fellow hunters.  As you might guess, it was an exciting reunion.

Posted in Deer, Hunting | Leave a comment

Bighorn Sheep Hunting in Montana’s Beartooth Mountains

Posted on January 2, 2012 by

Reprinted from the January 2012 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal

If I never kill a bighorn sheep in my life, I’ll at least have the memory of how close I came to the ultimate hunting experience in late November, 2011. Descending the snow-covered trail out of the mountains that afternoon, I scanned the steep terrain across the valley and below me, looking for the figure of an animal amongst the rock walls, boulder fields, slides and patches of timber. It was the second to last day of the sheep season, and my hopes of being successful had waned long before now, but I continued on. If nothing else, I determined to put in enough effort to prevent that feeling of regret that would surface during the long winter, with the knowledge that I could have done more, worked harder, and maybe been successful.

Halfway down a switchback in the trail, I stopped cold. Something wasn’t right. Down below me, at the base of a rock slide across the valley, something was out of place. Through binoculars I could see two figures close together, and the high powered spotting scope revealed that they were hunters. They were prone, facing uphill, looking at something that was obscured from my current vantage point.

I watched the two hunters for a few minutes, then moved down the trail to get a better view of what they were looking at. I saw the sheep and heard the gunshot at about the same time. In three consecutive years of hard hunting for bighorn sheep, these were the first two legal rams I’d ever seen while hunting, and one of them was about to be harvested. Another shot fired. The large ram bedded down and the hunters began their ascent up the steep mountain to finish it. Though only 300 yards away, it would take them half an hour to reach the ram.

Meanwhile, I began racing back up the the trail I’d just descended. I wasn’t sure if they’d seen the other ram near the one they’d shot, and even if so, the other hunter might not have a tag. Rather than go down the mountain and follow their trail up, I decided to get back up the trail and come around the side of the mountain from above. It was a race against the clock: I only had about an hour left of daylight and a lot of difficult ground to cover, but this might just be that once in a lifetime chance at killing a bighorn ram. I ran.

……..

Montana’s Absaroka-Beartooth mountains hold a unique gem of opportunity for the dedicated sheep hunter. Within these mountain ranges lies the only place in the Lower 48 states where a hunter, regardless of residency, can purchase a bighorn sheep tag over the counter every year. It’s a dream come true for sheep enthusiasts and adventurous hunters, but there is a catch. The tags aren’t cheap and the hunt isn’t easy. In fact, the Montana unlimited sheep hunt has been described by many as the most difficult hunting experience in the country.

Several small herds of bighorn sheep roam the vast wilderness area in the unlimited districts of Montana. The severity of the habitat and tough winter conditions keep the populations in a naturally low state. That means there are only a few sheep and a vast wilderness in which to search for them. The terrain is so steep and rocky, and the sheep live in remote, high mountain valleys and plateaus above 10,000 feet elevation. The hunter has to compete with severe weather conditions, extreme hiking, grizzly bears, enormous country and extremely low sheep densities.

To kill a legal ram, the hunter must verify that the horns measure a minimum of ¾ curl, and each zone has a quota, or a specific number of sheep that can be killed before the season is closed. Hunters must climb to a peak to find a radio signal with which to listen for the quota status that is announced on the local station each evening. Once the quota (1 to 3 sheep per zone) is filled, the season closes after a set period of time. The hunting is so difficult, however, that the quota in the zone where I hunt has not been filled in several years.

All of the challenges associated with this hunt make it that much more addicting for the few hardy souls who roam these mountains looking for sheep. And if the season remains open late into November, and the mountains get enough snow, there is always the chance that a ram or two can be found heading to lower elevation winter range.

……….

That’s where the rams were headed when I spotted the two hunters pursuing them that Saturday afternoon. It took all of the motivation I could muster up to climb back up that slope, but I soon found myself walking across the opposite side of the mountain, approaching the rams that the other hunters were after. Excitement built up, adrenaline rushing, I closed in on the sheep as the skies grew darker.

I made it there with little time to spare. I saw the two hunters below me, dressing out the ram that one of them had indeed killed. My heart raced as I passed by them undetected. I made it to the opening where I’d last seen the other ram and hoped for the best.

But he wasn’t there. It grew too dark to see anymore, and I returned to the successful hunters to congratulate them and help pack out some meat.

Bill, the successful hunter, was a 41 year old who looked like he was in his twenties, both in physical appearance and enthusiasm. Like me, he had been after sheep in this area for several years, and couldn’t believe he had connected. It was his 22nd day hunting bighorns this season, and these two were the first rams he’d seen. He certainly earned it.

The next day I returned and spent all of the daylight remaining in the season searching for the other ram I’d seen, but he had vanished from the area. Two ewes and a lamb were all that remained. Bill’s was the only sheep harvested in the zone in 2011.

After three seasons participating in one of America’s most challenging hunts, I can finally say that I almost killed a bighorn ram. And if it’s as close as I ever come, I guess that would be okay. I had the opportunity to witness an amazing animal being harvested right in front of me, and I’ll always be able to think to myself that if Bill and his friend hadn’t been there, it might have been me who connected. Just the idea gives me that much more motivation to get back out and chase sheep in the mountains again.

Posted in Bighorn Sheep, Hunting | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Spot and Stalk High Country Mule Deer

Posted on December 6, 2011 by

Reprinted from the November 2011 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal

Spot and stalk is the best way to take big game in the West, but the skill isn’t easily mastered by uninitiated sportsmen who learned their hunting skills in deep woods and thick cover.  In my fourth year of hunting in Montana, I was finally able to connect with a trophy mule deer buck, but not before a lucky ‘spot’, and a long, drawn out stalk that made all the difference.  Here’s how it happened.

The Setting

On a cold, drizzly mid-September day I found myself sitting in my truck near the top of the world, by the town of Cooke City, Montana, just north of Yellowstone National Park.  My hunting partner and I were taking advantage of some of the best, and perhaps most challenging, hunting opportunities in the nation.

Montana’s early backcountry hunt allows the pursuit of mule deer and elk with a rifle beginning September 15th, well before the late October rifle opener offered in the rest of the state.  Only a few zones have an early hunt: all are in areas typically snowbound and inaccessible during the rest of the season, so wildlife managers here allow the opportunity for harvest while it’s practical.

In addition to deer and elk, we also had tags for bighorn sheep, mountain goat, black bear and wolf.  This land of harsh conditions is also a land of incredible hunting opportunity, but more on that another time.

We were spending our time glassing the high country morning and evening.  Most of the hunting here is done around tree line, and much of the land area is vast, wide open country where you’re most effective by sitting back with a good pair of binoculars and a spotting scope and thoroughly glassing for game.

I’d spent a couple of days looking through glass with limited success, spotting mostly doe mule deer, small bucks, and ewe and lamb bighorn sheep.  With the weather getting wetter and the cloud ceiling dropping below the mountain peaks, hopes were dwindling.

Through the light drizzle of mid morning, I spotted movement in a clearing halfway up Henderson Mountain, about a mile away.  There were three deer.  One looked like a buck.  Seeing antlers a mile away through 10-powered binoculars got me excited and I pulled out the spotting scope.

Through 45-power, the antlers looked big.  Bigger than any I’d seen during other hunting trips here.  But the cloud ceiling kept getting lower, the rain got heavier, the buck moved into the timber, and soon I couldn’t see deer anymore.

The Stalk

One of the most important aspects of spot and stalk hunting is to memorize where your target is located throughout the entire stalk.  The best way to do this is to identify several prominent landmarks that you can see from different angles and locations.  Over the years I’ve executed several stalks where I failed to get adequate landmarks and constantly doubted whether I was going to the right place.

This time I made sure to memorize several landmarks.  There was a big patch of timber that the buck had entered, where he probably bedded.  The timber was surrounded by several grassy meadows, which were bordered by two ravines.  A couple of large outcroppings bounded one of the ravines, and three patches of last year’s snow remained above the meadows.

With my landmarks and the buck’s location pinpointed, I hurried to the valley bottom where I would make my stalk up Henderson Mountain.  One of the ravines would provide great cover to make the stalk unseen, but I’d have to take my time ascending the 45 degree angle rock-laden drainage covered in rain to avoid spooking the deer and killing myself.  It would take time.

I made my ascent slowly but surely.  Every few steps I’d stop, look around and listen.  It was hard climbing, but I worked slowly and the rain helped quiet my steps.  Eventually, I made it to the meadows above the timber where the buck had gone.

I scoured the meadows for sign of the deer.  It was everywhere.  It looked like the muleys were spending much of their time feeding in the lush, high elevation grass and using the timber for cover to bed in.  I found a well used trail that led into the timber and went in.

Working through the timber was kind of reminiscent of hunting in New England.  It was thick and hairy, and you couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead of you in any direction.  Trails zig-zagged through small fir trees and under larger ones, places where the deer had moved between feeding areas in the meadow and ideal bedding locations in the thick timber.  Movement through the timber was at a snail’s pace.  With every step, there was potential to snap a limb and spook the deer I believed was in there.  I kept moving slowly, working my way downhill through the timber to the location where I remembered seeing the deer hours earlier.

The Results

At about the three hour point in my stalk, I neared the bottom edge of the timber patch and took a few noisy steps.  That’s when I heard them.  Hoof beats.  I took a couple of steps out of the timber and looked through the tall scrub brush and saw a beautiful set of velvet antlers about 50 yards away.  I shouldered my rifle, found the outline of a deer in amongst the brush, and took the shot.  Down he went.

All of the crazy thoughts and doubts going through my head during the long stalk were gone when I walked over to the beautiful high country mule deer.  Spot and stalk had worked again.  I’d identified my target, found good landmarks, taken my time, kept confident, and followed through with the stalk.

If you ever get the chance to hunt in open country, try spot and stalk hunting.  If you follow these simple techniques, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with the results.  I know I sure was!

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The Memorable Mountain Goat Hunt

Posted on December 6, 2011 by

 

Reprinted from the December 2011 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal

I first saw the goat around noontime. I was several miles into the backcountry of Montana’s Beartooth Mountains, glassing the rugged mountainsides and patches of snow. It was already a month into the season, but after over ten days of hunting in abnormally hot, late September weather, I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of one of the creatures.

It was now mid-October, and the strong winds rushing across a cold Mystic Lake were quickly forgotten when the goat appeared. I was first struck by the enormous size of the animal. He fed among the grass and brush near the mountain top over a half mile away, and dwarfed the snow patches that I’d nearly mistaken for goats several times that morning.

I set up my spotting scope on the shore of the lake to get a closer look. It was a big animal. While too far away to confidently say it was a trophy billy (male) goat, the large body size and the fact that it was solitary helped me come to a quick decision. I was going for it.

I watched the goat feed a while longer, until it moved over to a large patch of snow between several trees and bedded down. After getting a good bearing on its location, I then scanned the surrounding terrain, looking for a way to make the stalk.

The ground between the goat and I would not be easy to cover. I’d have to cross the outlet stream at the base of the lake, hike partway around the other side, and embark on an almost vertical hike through huge boulders fields, rock slides, and steep forested terrain to reach my destination. Piece of cake, right?

I shouldered my rifle and frame pack loaded with food, water and survival gear, and began the journey. The stream crossing was simple, but the rock cliffs and huge boulder fields on the other side of the lake were tough to get over, through, and around. With adrenaline running through my veins, I made it through quickly, knowing there was a rare opportunity at the end of this hike. If only I’d known the trouble those cliffs would give me later.

Through the rockslides and scattered timber I ascended, stopping periodically to rest and breathe in the thin air. I was closing in on my quarry. I couldn’t see the mountain goat anymore, but still had the location pinpointed and kept my bearing through the steep climb.

I neared the top. The closer I got to the goat, the more I doubted that it was where I’d first seen it. It was about two hours from the time I’d started the stalk. Fog was rolling in from the north, threatening to sock everything in and remove all visibility. I began taking just a few short steps at a time, scanning all around. I was in the snow now, right near where the goat should have been.

I turned to my left and there it was, bedded down in a snow bank, 50 yards away!  The mass and curvature of the horns told me this was a mature billy, and I crouched down to make the shot. I couldn’t get my gun steady without a rest in the steep, loose rocky terrain. I struggled to get in position without making too much noise. The big billy stirred. He’d heard me. Was this it? Would he get up and take off?

I rested the rifle on my knee, found him in the scope and fired. Hit in the vitals, the mountain goat didn’t get up.

Walking over to such a beautiful, majestic creature was quite an experience. He had a great set of horns and an amazingly thick hair coat. I set out to work on him. I planned to case skin the entire hide from legs to head, and bring out the head and hide in one piece. Because of the remoteness and difficult terrain, I’d have to quarter the animal out and bone all of the meat to minimize weight.

About two hours later, I was finished with the hide and meat, and packed things up. It had been tiring. In the meantime, the fog that had threatened earlier had filled the entire mountain valley below me, blocking all views, and was moving its way up the mountain. Soon my visibility would be cut down to almost nothing, and dark was approaching.

I shouldered the pack and got going. It was the heaviest pack I have ever had to carry in my life. The head, hide, meat and personal gear had to put it well in excess of 100 pounds. It was torture just to stand up, let alone carry the thing down the steep mountain.

Progress was slow. I’d take maybe a dozen steps at a time and have to stop for a break. It was truly excruciating. I was in the fog and it was getting dark. Visibility dropped to 30 feet, then twenty. Soon it was pitch black and the light from my headlamp hardly penetrated more than 10 feet into the foggy abyss.

I finally made it to the lake. It would be simple now, I thought. Just had to make it along the shoreline a short distance and I’d be at the base of the lake, cross the outlet and be back at the trail in no time. In reality, it turned into three of the toughest hours I could have ever imagined.

After a short distance along the lakeshore, I encountered those vertical rock cliffs that dropped straight into the water. On my trip back down to the lake, I’d veered off course a bit to make the hike more manageable and had trapped myself on the wrong side of those cliffs. Now the rocks were wet and slippery, and I could only see about 10 feet into the dark and fog.

There were rock cliffs below me, above me, and straight ahead. It seemed like there was no way out. I hung the meat in a tree to lighten the load and proceeded to scramble among the rocks for what seemed like an eternity. I made wider and wider circles in an attempt to get around this huge obstacle, but I still kept running into vertical rock.

I was exhausted. Twice I laid down to rest, but remembering how easily hypothermia can set in, I pushed on. When it seemed that finding a way out was hopeless, I came to the conclusion that I’d have to spend the night here and find my way out in daylight. I found a good spot to start a fire and set down my pack.

There was just one problem: I needed water badly. I pulled my empty water bottle from my pack, determined to find a way to the lakeshore for a drink. While I knew there was no passage along the shoreline, at least I might get down to the water at some gap in the cliffs. I found a small chute in the rocks I hadn’t tried yet and made my way through the boulders down to the lake.

And there it was – the outlet of the lake! The one place I hadn’t tried was my ticket out of there. I hurried back to retrieve my pack and made the journey across the outlet and to the trail. It was now a relatively easy three miles back to the truck and a short drive home.

Two days later, I returned to the place I’d stashed the goat meat, this time in the clear, sunny morning hours. With dry rocks and unlimited visibility, it was easy to see a passage through the rocks that I’d missed before. With the meat in tow, I journeyed back home, relieved that I’d been able to experience a hunt of a lifetime, and made it out with a story to tell. If you can survive it, a hunt for the beautiful Rocky Mountain goat is a true adventure.

Posted in Mountain Goat, My Stories | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

My First Buck

Posted on November 6, 2011 by

It was a Tuesday morning.  Adam and I had skipped school today to go hunting.  For us, this would be the year of the whitetail.  We’d prepared all summer and fall.  We scouted for sign, found prime locations for tree stands, built and hung the stands, and did everything else we could think of to increase our chances to kill a whitetail buck.  We bought all of the gear that we had heard and read that a real hunter needs.  Included in our outfits were buck urine, doe urine, rattling antlers, scent pads, some special clothing that would keep us warm, and more than enough “Scent-a-Way” spray.  We washed our clothes in the special scent-free detergent, dried them with the scent free dryer sheets, and hung them outside in plastic bags with fir boughs.  One thing was for sure – no deer was going to smell us.

We met at my house the night before to talk over strategy and prepare for the next morning.  I remember my dad saying, “You guys aren’t gonna find any deer.  I guarantee you’ll be back here at the house at eight o’clock, done hunting for the day”.  I’m not sure if that was his motivational speech or if he truly doubted us, or if he was just jealous since he had to work that day.  Either way, we both felt pretty serious about deer hunting at the time, and determined to stay out there as long as it took.  My dad’s words were further motivation.

I can’t say that dad was totally wrong, either.  Deer densities in northern Maine were so low that it really was difficult to believe that a couple of newbies could go out there and bag a buck.  This was an area where old timers had hunted the woods for decades with little to no deer to show for it.  The odds were certainly stacked against us.

The next morning we were off in the dark, walking up the old dirt road behind my house and headed for our deer stands half a mile away.  Our stands were a few hundred yards apart, on the edge of some old potato fields that had long since been retired but were still mowed each year.  We set up and waited for daylight.  I could see a good piece of the narrow field my stand was in, and could have swore I saw deer, or things that looked just like deer, in those pre-light moments that seemed like hours.  Finally the field got lighter and lighter, and each ‘deer’ turned out to be either a rock, bush, or some other mundane object that had taken the form of a whitetail buck before there was enough light to see.

About a half hour after dark, Adam and I met up.  I can’t remember whether I walked over to his stand or he walked to mine.  Regardless, we both felt that we weren’t being very productive just sitting there.  The day was cloudy and calm, with a two day old snow on the ground.  From Adam’s stand, one could see a vast expanse of field, the largest fields in the entire township, but there really wasn’t much to see.  No deer, anyhow.  The deer were in the forest, we thought, and we’d better try and find them in there.

We made our way back across the edge of the fields and into the woods.  The old roads that served as trails through these woods were like arteries that cut through our hunting grounds and allowed us to make quick time through the forest.  Today, though, we took our time.  We were looking for deer tracks in the snow.  After walking about halfway back to the house, I veered off the trail, looking for sign in the snow.  Not long thereafter, I cut a track.

Though the snow wasn’t fresh, this track was.  The quick freezing and thawing of the snow in this weather aged tracks quickly, and it was easy to tell that this track had likely been made early this morning.  The track paralleled our hunting trail, but never crossed it.  Clever, I thought.  Maybe this was a big old buck who was too wise to cross a trail used by hunters.  If I hadn’t left the trail, I never would have seen the sign.

I followed the deer tracks a ways further.  Up until this point, I wasn’t sure that the tracks I was following were actually those of a buck.  Sure, they looked big, but I hadn’t seen too many tracks in the woods – deer were scarce here – and couldn’t easily tell a buck from a doe track.  Then I found it.  A rub.

The buck had rubbed its antlers against a small sapling along its path, leaving fresh wood shavings atop the aging snow.  It was then that excitement really hit me: I was on the track of a buck!  I waited for Adam to catch up and showed him the rub.  We looked down from our high vantage point on the buck’s trail.  I could see my house below here, the driveway and the main road.  I could see the spot in the driveway where the school bus picked my sister and I up each day to take us to school over an hour away.  Not today, though.  I was amazed that this buck could have been hanging around so close to my house, close enough to watch me each morning as I boarded the bus and took the long trip to school, reading Outdoor Life magazines and dreaming about being in the woods.

Returning to reality, Adam and I discussed the buck track.  We had plenty of tracking snow and the trail looked pretty fresh to us.  We would follow it.  In fact, I think I even insisted that we follow the track until we found the buck, no matter what.  So we followed.

The buck track led back into the woods, running up the side of the ridge toward its peak.  In the last hundred or so yards below the peak, however, the buck did something strange.  (I thought it was strange at the time, but have since learned it’s a tactic some deer use to shake followers off their trail)  The trail started zig-zagging through the hardwood trees.  Back and forth we went, intent on not losing the trail.  We zig zagged up the hill and reached the top.

Along the top of the ridge the trail went, then headed down the other side.  The moment I looked down the backside of the ridge I saw it.  A huge buck standing still just 50 yards below me!

I wish I could remember my emotions more clearly at the time.  I was certainly dominated by a feeling of excitement and anxiety, but none of the ‘buck fever’ that I’d heard so much about.  Adam’s feeling was one of surprise.  He had dropped his hat while walking on the trail behind me, bent down to pick it up, and looked up to see me aiming my gun at the deer.

I cocked back the hammer on the .30-30 Winchester and lined up the open sights.  KA-POW!  Missed.  Why?  I wasn’t sure, but the buck didn’t move.  He had just gotten up from his bed and likely wasn’t ready to take off running just yet.  I jacked another shell in, or thought it did.  The next shot resulted in a ‘click’.  No shell in the chamber.  I fully cycled the action this time and made sure a shell was in the chamber, leveled the sights and gave it one last try.

I fired and the buck dropped.  The feeling of elation that overcame me was something I’ll always remember.  My first deer, a huge bodied buck with a nice rack, tracked down right behind my home.  It was unbelievable.  We celebrated.

I tagged the big brute and we tried to figure out how we were going to get it up over the hill and down to the house.  Even with all of our preparation for hunting, we really hadn’t taken into account the fact that we might kill something!  How would we dress it?  Neither of us had gutted out a deer before.  It seemed fairly simple from what I’d heard and read in the magazines.  But we really didn’t know what we were doing, so we tugged and pulled and tried our best to get the buck up the ridge, guts and all.  We couldn’t move the brute more than a few feet.

I called my grandfather, who was just down the road, for help.  He and my uncle showed up soon and Adam, my uncle Mark and I dragged that deer up over the ridge, down the other side and to the truck where my grandfather was waiting, knife in hand to show us how to gut the deer.

I called my mom, who was the secretary at the elementary school in Eagle Lake.  She was excited.  She told the principal, a fellow hunter who was excited despite the fact that we both were supposed to be in class.  Our truancy was forgotten in the wake of our success.  We felt like kings.

We went over to the tagging station in town to officially get the thing tagged.  Killing a buck in this area was a big deal, and the latest big buck always became the talk of the town.  We did the paperwork, showed off the deer and headed to Portage, since Eagle Lake no longer had a scale with which to weight my buck.  Weight matters in northern Maine, where trophies are referred to in pounds of dressed weight, not antler scores.

He tipped the scales at 228 pounds, well over the 200-pound requirement to qualify for the “Biggest Bucks in Maine Club”.  Back at the house, the next task was to get the thing hung up.  After some brainstorming and different attempts, we ended up attaching a rope to the four wheeler on one end and the buck on the other.  The rope was wrapped over top of a beam in the garage, and with a tug from the four wheeler, the buck was hanging in the air.  I left it there, attached to the machine.

When my dad got home from work it was well after dark and he didn’t have a clue what had happened.

“Hey dad”, I said to him.  “I think there’s something wrong with the four wheeler.  It won’t move anywhere, no matter what we try.  It’s in the garage.  Check it out.”

Dad figured he’d take a look.  When he opened the door and saw the buck hanging from the rafters, his face lit up.

My first buck was cause for quite the celebration.  It was a memorable event, but just the beginning of many hunting adventures I’d be lucky enough to have in my future.  I still can’t help but enjoy thinking back on it.

 

 

 

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The Early Years – Birds and Such

Posted on November 3, 2011 by

Like most hunters, my formative years were spent hunting small game.  In fact, if I wanted to go way back, I could recall hunting for really small game.  I remember adventures in the woods with my boyhood friend Nick.  We built small wooden spears with the crude instruments available to us, and attempted to impale squirrels in the woods behind my house.  Sure, we never actually killed a squirrel, but the excitement of the hunt made it that much more alluring to move on to other weapons.

Next were crudely made bows – fragile pieces of saplings that we tied together with string.  With them we made very crude arrows, which we could launch perhaps 30 or 40 feet through the woods, if we aimed them high enough into the air.  Needless to say, we didn’t kill any game with them either.

Still, it was great fun finding a red squirrel, holding still for a opportunity, and launching all our weapon power at it with a great frenzy of activity.  Soon thereafter we made ourselves busy clearing a ‘hunting trail’ and cutting down small trees with our saws and axes to build a lean-to, our very own sporting camps.  We’d stay there during our hunting trips, and soon we’d have several of these lean-to’s available for others to stay in while they hunted in our sportsman’s paradise.  As you might guess, this vision never materialized.

One day my dad came home with a small bow.  I think it was made of plastic, and he put it together with a nice string.  I couldn’t believe my good fortune.  I’d really be hunting now!  I started by using home-made arrows with this thing as well.  It never seemed to shoot straight, but I fine tuned it a bit when I received a gift of some wooden store-bought arrows.

One year, during hunting season, some relatives came up to hunt deer with my dad.  Since we were supposedly too young to hunt alone in the woods with guns, two cousins were relegated to spears, and I to my bow.  It amazes me to think of it now, but somehow I guess we thought we’d be able to kill a deer with those weapons if the opportunity presented itself.

Instead, a partridge, the local name for ruffed grouse, presented itself first.  The bird stood in some thick brush behind a downed tree on the side of the trail we were on, only about 10 yards away.  With excitement, I fired.  The arrow managed to make it through enough of the brush to startle the partridge into flushing.  That was the last time I hunted with the little plastic bow.

Like most boys in rural places, I got a Red Rider bb-gun for Christmas around my tenth birthday.  Compared to my more primitive hunting methods, the gun was great.  Some squirrels fell prey to my hunting, but I spent most of my time plinking around with it.

I got to the age where I could trail my dad through the woods during hunting season.  At first it was with no gun, just following close behind him and watching his every move, learning how to be a hunter.  There was very little game in the woods in those days, and today, over 15 years later, there are even fewer whitetail deer there.  Most of our time was spent walking around, looking for sign and hoping we’d happen into a deer.  For many it might be boring, but for me it was incredible.  I didn’t care that the odds of ever seeing a deer were slim to none, I just enjoyed those woods and the opportunity to spend time hunting in them immensely.

I knew I’d arrived when dad let me carry a gun in the woods with him.  The first gun I used was his huge, long barreled 16-guage pump shotgun with adjustable choke and a stock that had been cracked and taped over.  The gun seemed to weigh a ton, but I proudly carried it into the woods, excited that I could finally shoot something if I saw it.  I remembered how my dad had taken my friend Shawn and I partridge hunting on the Pennington Road with that gun.  A bird ran across the road that time, and dad took the 16 guage out after it, leaving us in the truck to listen and wait.  Sure enough, we shortly heard a BOOM! and dad returned with gun in one hand and a dead bird in the other.  He had also told other stories of shooting deer with this gun, so I thought it must be a formidable weapon.

The 16 gauge never did kill a deer for me, but it allowed me to create some good memories.  With it, I could split away from my dad a bit, or hunt a ways back from him in case, like he said sometimes happened, a deer circled back to catch his wind and wound up right in front of me.  Other times dad would set me down in one place and do some walking around.  This gave me plenty of time to think, and to pay attention to all of the small critters in the woods around me.  It was fun, but I was ready for more.

One day, dad took me to the store to buy my first very own shotgun.  It was a huge step for me as a hunter.  I got a New England Firearms 20-gauge break action single shot.  It was the simplest, and cheapest gun on the market, but the most cherished weapon of my younger days.

I still remember the first time I shot at something with that 20 gauge.  We were hunting out back of my dad’s childhood home in Winterville.  It was deer season, so I had slugs and buckshot for the gun, but there were so few deer around that we’d usually take a shot at a partridge if we could.  My dad and I split up to cover more ground.  The area we were hunting comprised of old, grown-up farm fields – most of Winterville was farm ground a century ago.  I found my way into a small clearing, and spotted a partridge feeding under an old apple tree.  Excitedly, I put the bead on the bird and fired, somehow not realizing that the barrel needed to line up with the bead for the gun to shoot level.  I shot over the bird and it flew.

If the first miss was memorable, my first kill was even more so.  We were driving along the Pennington Road one evening looking for birds.  It was early in the season and the trees were still full with green leaves.  We crested a hill, and in the low spot in the road about a hundred yards ahead, the partridge ran across the road.  Dad stopped the truck and told me to go ahead after it.  I walked down to where it had entered the thick woods and stepped into the trees.  I saw the bird quartering away and walking slowly, head bobbing like they so often do.  I fired and it dropped.

The first bird was the beginning of many exciting years of bird hunting, which still continue today.  In the northern Maine, of course, we mostly shot birds on the ground or in the trees……we weren’t interested in the ‘sporting’ way to do it.  Plus, it was darn near impossible to shoot most birds on the fly due to the thick woods, or at least that’s what I thought.

My bird hunting has changed a lot over the years.  After a long hiatus to accommodate trapping and big game hunting in the West, I’ve started bird hunting in earnest again this year.  This time I don’t just have ruffed grouse on the mind.  Sharptail grouse, hungarian partridge, pheasants, sage grouse, blue grouse, and yes, hopefully a few ruffs for old time’s sake.  It’s a whole new world of upland bird hunting though, and I’m excited to learn more about it and become a better wing shooter.

The early years helped shape me as a hunter, and hold memories that I’ll always picture in my mind.  While they prove to be very humble beginnings, I hope they’ve helped me become the person, and hunter, that I try to be today.

Posted in My Stories, Upland Birds | 1 Comment