2009 Great North Woods Deer Camp - Finale

November 15, 2009; Day 6, Sunday; Departure day.

When I trodded out and down the stairs and eyed the Moose-head on the hearth at camp I was reminded of Wayne’s; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son, encounter with a cow Moose yesterday that had startled him beyond function for a brief moment.

He was hunting in a locale that was covered with young Spruce and some semi-thick cover. At one point he unknowingly walked on the directly opposite side of a Spruce sapling from a Cow Moose he never knew was there. It bellowed at him from essentially point-blank range, enveloped him in it’s cloud of out-pouring respiration fog, and startled him so that his senses went haywire for a brief moment and was so shaken that he wasn’t sure what was happening to him being that close to the deep and loud bellow of that big Cow Moose.

He said it took him a couple of seconds for his brain to put it’s synapses back in working order in which he was disoriented and wasn’t sure what was happening. It all only lasted for a very brief second or two, but he got a rude awakening that was quite exciting.

The Cow apparently simply turned and moved away, which certainly was a good thing considering the proximity. Wayne was able to laugh about it and when he related it to us, and it was a welcome respite from his usually intense all-for-business demeanor during the hunt, which probably has a lot more to do with our perception of him than his own actions or behaviors. He has a sly and dry sense of humor that he sneaks into conversations with the mischievous nature that betrays his often stern exterior, and he does like to laugh and smile much more than he gives away sometimes. It is likely his drive and skill as a woodsman that takes him the furthest out and a prolific hunt coordinator that makes us think he’s all-for-business when he actually makes the time far more enjoyable for all of us with merely his presence and endeavors.

With the self-confidence and easy-going nature forthright enough to laugh at himself in his tribulations; just as I do, it makes things a fun, jovial, and rewarding experience being around him and the whole Clan on these hunts.

We helped ourselves to a last breakfast of hearty cooked meals to get rid of any left-overs we could concoct into breakfast food. And turned our attentions to the busy tasks at hand to clean-up and prep the camp for departure.

We prided ourselves on leaving the place in a better condition than it was when we arrived so that we are always welcome back to such fine accoutrements and accommodations. We have a special place for our hearts for this log cabin camp in The Great Northwoods.

We can always hope that something changes in the plans for it’s designation as a permanent residence of the owning family and that maybe we’ll get a chance to utilize it once again to house our glorious hunt-camp adventures.

I have known and been a part of my core Hunting Clan family for 30+ years and have enjoyed every moment of it as a true miracle and blessing in my life. Not having any brothers of my own and estranged from my own biological father, they have taken me into their family and treated me as one of their own for no other reason than the generosity and goodness in their hearts and souls. I know how it feels to have brothers and hunting memories with “my dad” thanks to their embracing me as one of them. There are no words that do my gratitude and thanks for their gracious acceptance and constant communion. They are my family…

Once the chores were done, we solemnly rechecked and inspected our own cleaning and organizing work, packed up the trucks and gathered up in the silence that was our melancholy acceptance of another hunt-trip over-with.

In this new age of digital media and gadgetry, it makes it much easier to utilize and endeavor the pictures that will instantly/immediately invoke smiles of reminiscence and recollection when we gaze upon them. We broke out the digital cameras and snapped away, including the ever cherished group picture that we all look at with such fond memories when we are lucky enough to have one.

Hunters on this trip: Myself; Jim McCullough; (American-Nimrod) member York Hunting Clan, Wayne York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son, Dave York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son, Billy York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s youngest son, Dave Peich; newest of the York Hunting Clan’s affiliate members, and Mr. York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch @ a spry 70 years old, Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch Joe and son Todd, exceptional hunters and honorable gentlemen of the highest quality.

The York Hunting Clan partner missing from the action again this year, last but not least is my huntin’-buddy John; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 3rd son who is my age exactly and was with me on my very first Deer harvest ever in The Granite State 20+ years ago. I missed him on this last stay in Pittsburg, NH in this particular camp that was so very fine for our accommodations, I very much would have enjoyed his company and camaraderie.

All the departure instructions set properly for the camp, camp locked and secured, we climbed into the trucks and took a last look over the shoulder as we headed out the driveway, and we started on the long trip home.

Laughs, recounts, stories, and communions shared for the several hour trip back to lower parts of New England in our homestead in The Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts. Another Great North Woods region of New Hampshire Deer hunt came to it’s conclusion. Our success isn’t always measured in racks or venison for the freezer, although we did have at least that with Dave; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son’s Doe harvest, it is measured in much more cherished and meaningful ideals and measurements.

* * *

Upon our return we got right to the business of MA Bow season finale and then the week after Thanksgiving; Shotgun Season Deer hunting in our own neck-o’-th’-woods, and it didn’t go very well at all. No deer harvested by the Clan, but many days of collective communion and hunting shared where I got to hunt w/my closest hunt-brother John; a treat and honor I cherish and appreciate greatly.

The end…

Great North Woods Deer hunt 2009 - Day 5

November 14, 2009; Day 5, 4th day of our hunt; last hunting day.

Crunch-time…

Saturday, the last day of hunting on our Great North Woods hunting trek for 2009. The pressure was on, but it didn’t seem to weigh heavy on our minds other than a cursory passing thought.

We were returning to Indian Steam, the east branch again. Getting right back into the Deer we encountered where Dave; my York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son, harvested his fork-horn Buck last year and seemed to show the most potential for activity and hopefully a Buck to bring home again this year.

A little harder to get under-way now than early in the hunting trip, the miles and strenuous efforts we endeavored to find and harvest Whitetail Deer tend to catch-up with us after some time. We’re not traditionally stand-hunters, we are trackers and stalkers. We prefer to hunt ‘em down rather than waiting for ‘em to come to us almost to a fault. We track even in the most antagonistic of conditions for tracking. It makes for much expended effort and a gamble against the odds, especially when out of our home territory where our scouting puts us onto the current travel routes of the local Deer herd. Up here in the big woods, we rely upon our shared and combined knowledge of years of hunting Deer, both out-of-state and back home to locate and intercept Deer.

It doesn’t always pan out, because as illustrated previously in this year’s exploits, what was prime last year isn’t always even fair-to-middlin’ this year. I will confess to our superior to average tracking skills due to just this flaw in our hunting existentialism. We don’t need snow to track Deer, and even though it’s slower, tedious, and often painstaking, I’d put any of my Clan’s tracking skills up against even those of Indian ancestry, and truth-be-told; we got a touch of that in the Clan’s heritage too…

We are still-hunters, stalkers, and trackers and it has brought us a storied history of success and noteworthy respect as such among hunters and outdoor enthusiasts in our area to the point where other local hunters utilize us by scouting us and our endeavors in order to put themselves onto a chance at collecting any of our quarry that escapes our own exploits.

I’ve seen groups of hunters recognize us in the woods and as soon as they think we aren’t looking, they will grab their own radios and hastily set themselves up to capitalize on our own efforts and surround our hunting party on the out-skirts and perimeter to pick-up the over-spill of our hunts…

Without snow for tracking in order to search out a good Buck’s track/movements or pre-season scouting of specific locations, it’s always a crap-shoot… But that’s why they call it huntin’, and not killin’…

We got in another hearty breakfast of oatmeal, toast, vegetable juice, and whatever pasta leftovers were available. Checked the weather channel forecast again on our way out the door, and as we suspected today was going to be the best chance of snow all week. Precipitation was coming in and the elevations might just eek out snow instead of the rains expected for the area.
We’d know by noon if we were going to get snow or not, the sky was clear this early, so I opted not to don my Northwood’s Wools and instead chose my BDU style camo cargo pants in Realtree APHD. A double-check of the gear and we were off. The ride up and Into Indian Stream bred anticipation as it always did. When traveling semi-slowly up the dirt forestry roads to between 12 & 15 miles in, you have plenty of time to contemplate the upcoming hunt.

We broke off Indian Stream road and took the right at the Y where what appeared to be an older snowmobile shed stood in the middle of the Y across from a camp on the main Indian Stream road proper. It’s dark but weathered green color was barely detectible in the darkness of the slowly growing morning light.

We continued on past The East Branch Camp were the logging equipment; inclusive of a tall tracked processor sat idle on the side of East Branch road across from the camp. We negotiated the turn to the right and went up the spur-road. We traveled up to same log landing in Todd’s Ford Expedition while once again our partner party stayed back in The Peich mobile to give us some separation. Another hunter’s truck was across the road from our log-landing parking spot, so Billy and I hopped out and proceeded back down the road in the direction we had come from while Todd and Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch Joe continued on to find a parking spot a little further up so we didn’t intrude upon this hunters locale even though we had no idea where he might be in the woods.

We cut in on the eastern side in a direction that was vaguely south-east to south south-west as the turns in the road left us facing. I said a quick prayer for the safety of all of my hunt-brothers and for our potential success and headed in.

This time I was skirting the swale-grass swamp ahead of me to it’s left instead of down the far end to my right where I traditionally made my point of entry in this hunting spot. I wanted to extend my incursion today and get a bit farther “out-there.”

I had walked by the spot in the spur-road where yesterday on our ride in for the afternoon hunt we had encountered and witnessed a strutting/drumming Partridge (Ruffed Grouse) in it’s ritual mating dance trying to impress some females that were nearby and gain attention over another male that was also strutting. It was a really fantastic display of nature in all it’s dynamic glory.
It made me think of years gone by of listening to the drumming of Partridge as I endeavored my scouting and hunting exploits in that seemingly far-off sound that you can’t quite pinpoint that almost sounds as if the ground is settling in on itself that the ritualistic drumming resonates thru the forest with…

I slowly came up upon the edge of the swale-grass swamp ahead and off to my right. My suspected direction of travel was spot-on and I was going to pass right by the end of it. Here I found another couple of Spruce groves that had grown in together so tightly and in their own way that it made for a dark blackness that seemed impenetrable. It did, however, provide for some good concealment cover shadow that allowed my movements to go seemingly unnoticed.
As I broke out away from the darkness of the Spruce cover, the terrain changed dramatically into an open hardwoods of Beech and Birch trees that contained only a scattering of Spruce here and there.

I noticed that the sky had darkened and become grey with cloud cover and the temperature seemed to be dropping. I grinned to myself with the hopeful wish of a lightly falling snow to come that I would openly embrace for my benefit. I gradually climbed a slight slope away from the swale-grass swamp on it’s back side. I remembered this area from last year and some of it looked familiar to me today. I recalled the frolicking Deer tracks I had found on the plateau above the slope that wound their way among the Spruce and pines that could be found up on the ridge plateau above.

I gingerly made my way up and crested the top and moved into the area I had gotten into the year before. Back from some distant point behind me the lonely haunting wail of a Wolf howling for some unknown urge came to me across the slight breeze. It sounded large and ominous…
I recalled how some of the Clan had heard a Wolf howling on our second day while we were at the Moose devastated region on East Inlet road between mile-marker 8 & 9 and how I hadn’t heard it at all that time. This time there was no mistaking the wild predatory nature of that unique sound. I closed my eyes and committed it to memory.

I continued across the plateau in and out of Spruce and hardwoods which had more low cover and brush that looked to me to be perfectly inviting for the Deer. Thru the trees and cover I could see a hint of hunter-orange and knew I wasn’t alone.

I slowly made my way toward the blaze-orange color and eventually could see it was my Hunting Clan patriarch; posted up on a deadfall log giving him a field of view above the plateau from a slightly raised ridge knoll that ran across the plateau from right to left. He had put himself in the perfect position to capitalize on anything that might move thru his large field of view.

I walked up to him as quietly as possible and sat down beside him on the log/deadfall. He was the closest thing to a Dad I’ve ever had, even more than my own biological father with which I have an estranged relationship and never seemed to bond with. If it wasn’t for this man I’d never have found the gift of hunting and a life in the outdoors. Hunting and the outdoors is my world and I owe it all to him and his family for taking me in as one of their own and his raising me right along side them as if I was one of his own.

I always like these quiet moments where I feel like I’m alone with my “dad” experiencing a bond like no other in a communion of True-North American hunting and outdoor existentialism. It is epic in nature and as priceless as anything I’ve ever known. He’s a remarkable man and at 70, I can only hope I’ll be as active and able still trekking in The Big Woods and wilderness as his is. I have a hard time keeping up with him and he has set the standard bar high for me to live up to, but that’s just fine by me.

My own father grew up in a rural family with rich farming and hunting heritage where he raised bird-dogs and hunted in his youth. For some reason which I still don’t understand he never attempted to share or even address that with me while my parents were still together and we shared a home before their divorce in my mid teenage years. I suppose I’ll never know why he chose not to exercise an activity that would have produce a happiness and tight bond like no other in our mutual communion… It simply never happened.

I literally never even knew hunting existed until we moved to the rural/suburban town that I still reside in to this day. As my new neighbors at the age of 10 in 1978, I was instantly introduced to hunting as a simple natural part of every day life the mesmerized and enthralled me like no other interest or entity ever has. Almost immediately I clung to it as the “this is it” righteous existentialism I had been yearning for all of my childhood.

I had some catch-up ball to play in learning the etiquette and propriety of firearms in the home and the spoken and unspoken rules of a life of hunting and outdoors, but I wanted nothing more in life and I endeavored to successfully adapt it as my own True-North American lifestyle. I am eternally grateful and beholding to my Hunting Clan Patriarch and hunt-brothers that are the epitome of my own family.

We traded encounters, strategy, and tactics and parted ways to continue this hunt. I went off smiling as I always do when spending a moment alone with “my dad.”

* * *

I found that the back side of this plateau fell away into a finger valley of open swale-grass along a creek bottom. Both sides of this finger valley were bordered by a higher ridge of Spruce cover; dark and inviting. Here along the over-looking ridge that rimmed this finger valley that was no more than 10 yards lower than my current elevation along the rim, I found Deer runs full of scat and tracks. This seemed to be the heaviest concentration of Deer sign I had encountered and it weaved in and around young Spruce saplings and the moss covered quiet ground hidden along the ridge that gave good views down into the swale-grass valley where Deer runs crossed and ran along thru the bottom.

I was certain I was destined to encounter a Deer at any moment. In the back of my mind I also recalled that Wayne; my Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son had encountered a wounded Black Bear that appeared to have been shot or broken a leg in some other fashion and was tending to his injuries with some distress and had a terribly crippling limp that gave the impression that this poor specimen of apex predator wasn’t going to make the winter.

Wayne had toyed with the idea of doing what was right and putting this poor beast out of it’s misery, but the threat of ignorant consequence on the part of the local constabulary, the local community, and/or the New Hampshire state game wardens might bring upon him unwanted strife and the turmoil of difficulties we didn’t need to bring upon ourselves so far from home. With the acceptance of the sad state of being helpless to do the right thing for fear of an over-regulated and ignorant reprisal of persecution, he decided he wasn’t in a position to do the right thing.

It was a sad situation that we saw no positive outcome over and could only leave that Black Bear in God’s hands to take or heal as he saw fit. Only now I had to keep a slight vigilance of alertness to my surroundings as not fall victim to a wounded Bear’s natural instincts and reactionary if I were to stumble upon him in a position where it thought it was cornered or simply had a good grouch-on over it’s injury.

Such are the hazards of hunting in The Big Woods with apex predators in the area. I took solace in the knowledge that my .300 Savage would well be enough to defend myself if such a situation arose. With ballistics nearly identical to the .308 Winchester cartridge, I knew my own firearms and marksmanship skills would be more than up to the task if it were called into action.

I opted to cross the swale-grass with echoes of the children’s song; “The bear went over the mountain,” running thru my head. I explored to my ever present desire to see what was beyond my horizon as always, like my distant relative; Mountain-man Jim Bridger, and made my way around and beyond a couple more of these swale-grass finger valleys. I eventually cut to my left intending to close the last leg of a loop that would take me back out to the spur-road.

I angled back toward my original point of entry just as the first crystalline flakes of cold snow flurries began to trickle down from the sky. So sparse and minuscule as to be barely noticeable, except to those praying for snow…

My sense of direction and orienteering skills shone thru once again and I came out very close to my original point of entry, just a touch further up the spur-road than where I had gone in. I knew I had gone a bit over a half mile in, and there was still considerable time left in the morning hunt, so I proceeded up the spur-road to the log-landing where we usually parked.

I noticed the other hunter’s vehicle had since exited the area and was no longer there. I felt encouraged that I wasn’t going to stumble in on some stranger’s hunt and decided I’d like to explore the recesses of this log landing.

I went in and made my way back thru the over-grown with whippets, prickers, and swale-grass lined skidder trails utilizing heavily worn Moose and Deer runs that exploited the ease of movement along these old man-made pathways that always seem to conflict with the ideology of goin’ into the woods to find the game, and found the going pretty easy and pleasantly comfortable to traverse.

There were a series of old, now over-grown clear-cuts and pathways that were bordered by Spruce and hardwood tree-lines that made for optimal cover in between the openness of the cluttered old skidder-ways.

Down a slight incline about a quarter mile in, I found a tree-line that bordered a big wide swale-grass bog that was the size of several football fields grouped together. Throughout the swale-grass were lone Spruce saplings of varying sizes and age. Across the width of this rectangular shaped field-swamp I could see large tree-rubs on some of the saplings almost 100 yards from my current position. I could tell some were high Moose rubs, but some appeared to be obviously different and closer to the ground.

I suspected a Big Whitetail buck was running this swale-grass bog along with a couple Moose. I posted up for a bit and watched for any movement or activity. It only took a couple minutes to realize my folly of expecting a big mature Buck to come prancing out into the wide open nearing midday in order to inspect the rub-line that stretched across the length of this mammoth field before me. So I decided go search one out rather than wait for one to come to me.

I wanted a closer look at the starkly lighter than their surroundings rubs across this bog. I stepped out onto the combination swale-grass and peat-bog surface to find it strangely unstable and seemingly alive with it’s own movement as I stepped. There was standing water everywhere and running water along infrequent streams of flowage throughout this field-bog.
With an ever-present fear of stepping off into an abyss of a Moose-wallow, I kept carefully picking my way along the lively surface of this bog. As wet and swampy as it was, it seemed to support me well enough to merit chancing the crossing so I kept going. On a couple of occasions the slow sinking and impairing suction of the peat and mud beneath the surface slowed my progress to a crawl that was laborious and effortful; like walking thru crusted over snow and the snow underneath is shifty and unstable. After many minutes of great effort I began to close in on the great rubs I had been admiring from across the bog. They were magnificent and surrounded by Moose rubs on nearby neighboring Spruce, but a couple of them were obviously from a large Whitetail Buck and were fresh enough to have been made within 24 – 48 hours from my experience and estimation. I was duly impressed.

The temperature had been steadily dropping and the wind was picking up to strong gusts of up to 30 MPH. It made for visions of the barren cold desolation of these Great North Woods in the dead of winter. I can’t imagine the heartiness required to survive such conditions out in the wild all winter long.

I eventually exited the field-bog on the far shore and marveled at the oddly unique nature of it’s make-up. I turned to my right and made my way along the outer edge of my grid-like loop I was intending just inside the woods-line from the bog and found more well-traveled Deer runs thru the Spruce cover.

I crossed out of this patch of woods and across some hillocks and ridges to find an area that looked vaguely familiar to me. I found myself on the back side of the swale-grass finger valley I had explored upon my first incursion this morning, which made perfect sense as I put the 2+2 together from my directional account and distance traveled. I was building a fairly good understanding and sense of direction for this particular area and was becoming slowly familiar with it all.

The radio broke the silence with reports of no jumped Deer and the intention to regroup and hit another spot to try and garner some activity required for a successful harvest. I formed an expectation that I was approximately ¾ miles in and my heading needed to exit the woods at the Peich mobile.

On this final leg of this hunt, my Hunting Clan Patriarch Mr. York reported an encounter with a spike-horn that walked right up on him in the rear vicinity of where I had found him posting on the ridge. It had been with a Doe and gave him a good look at the spikes that made it not legal to harvest. He inspected it closely hoping for another point to grow, but there was no mistaking this to be a spike which was illegal to shoot without a permit during this part of the season.

I eventually broke out of the woods nearly at the exact spot I intended and as the parties gathered up for our lunch-brake more flurries floated down between the whipping torrents of cold gusts of wind that made us a bit chilly sitting around in the open air eating our lunch.

* * *

After filling our hungry bellies, and trading spoken stories of encounters and exploits, we motored up to the very end of this spur-road that branches off the east side of Indian Stream East Branch road. Here was a group of old grown-in cuttings that were a tangle of swale-grass, prickers, pucker-brush, and the kind of ground cover that gave ample browse to Whitetail Deer, not to mention some good ground cover.

Above and to the east north-east were two knob peaks that were the outer edge or our horizon view. The one on the left was slightly taller than the one on the right. Our 2 parties elected to make our final incursion on these two mountain peaks.

I could feel the temperature starting to climb and the extreme lightness of the crystalline snow-flakes hadn’t changed and I suspected that we were not going to achieve any accumulation from today’s snow-fall. I also knew it was likely to turn into rain before long, but that would quiet down the noise of my movements so that was a plus.

We geared back up and climbed out of the trucks and split-up. We bade each other good-luck and went our separate ways; one group assaulting one hill and my group assaulting the hill on the right. Dave Peich and Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch; Joe had chosen a third option and were hunting the lowlands near the spur-road and even across the spur-road near the peat-bog from hell that I refused to go visit again as I had last year at the end of opening day.

Todd; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch’s son was on my right crossing the next over-grown cutting over, and Billy; York Huntin Clan Patriarch’s youngest son was on my left skirting the edge of the main log-landing cutting, and I was heading up the middle between the two in the woods-line that contained good Spruce canopy cover and a tight enough woods to maintain a natural draw and funnel for Deer that ran along the run-off stream that came down between the two knob-tops above me.

It didn’t take long working up this natural funnel before I found it was indeed home to a Deer run of classic detail. The ground was worn down lower than the surrounding forest floor and the tracks in the mud where the run-off creek wound it’s way up & downstream back and forth within this draw betrayed the presence of a good mature Buck.

I’ve seen the infamous Benoit DVD’s enough to memorize the .30-06 cartridge comparisons in the tracks of a mature Buck to know that this one was a dandy! My .300 Savage cartridge wasn’t as big as a .30-06, but the way the track dwarfed my Remington’s .300 Savage fodder made me take particular interest in such a track.

I looked up and around carefully hoping this big bruiser was standin’ around watchin’ me just a-wonderin’ what I was up to, but he wasn’t. Just as detailed and explained in those magical DVD’s, the track was huge and splayed apart with the right main hoof print showing a wear-pattern, size-asymmetry, and curve that betrayed the heavy footsteps of a large bodied Buck. At first I doubted myself and wondered if a recently born Moose calf was runnin’ with Momma along this draw, but the nearby tree-rub and ground-scrape told me my first instinct was spot-on. The dew-claw prints lower and more involved in the print showed it was a Buck and not a Grandmother Doe-of-all-Does, not to mention the way the main hooves splayed apart under the weight of such a mighty majestic Buck.

I slowly picked my rifle up from my one hand and clutched it with both in the up-ready position as I stalked up the run at a snails pace watching and listening for any movement ahead or off to the sides.

I’ve seen so many hunting shows where the subject’s success came down to the last moments of the last day that I chose to be ready for just such a potential occurrence. I had a few hours to go, but I was getting ready now…

The temps rose just enough to turn the light crystalline snow flakes that were still barely visible, into a wet sloppy spattering of freezing rain that was driven hard into my face from time-to-time as the gusts came and went. I utilized these gusts as noise-cover to move when I had ample rustling noise to cover the noise of my own movements.

I watched Todd disappear over the crest of a knoll in the cutting several hundred yards to my right, and bumped Billy once to my left where he moved up the ridge over-looking the draw I was creeping up. I advised all over the radio of the best Buck sign of the whole hunting trip that I was running into and along that went right up this draw. Ground-scrape after ground-scrape and tree-rub after tree-rub came into view and were left behind me as I snuck along as stealthily as possibly in the ever-quieting conditions from the rain soaking into the hardwoods leaf-litter that lined the forest floor along this wooded draw.

The air became heavy with moisture and my respiration became more visible as the afternoon went on. The rains became slowly more heavy to a light mist as I climbed the first truly rising slope toward my lofty goal ahead. Where the angle sharpened and the ascent grew steeper, the swale-grass grew heavier in the openings and slopes between the tree cover that was slowly thinning out of the draw as I climbed steadily forward and up.

I crossed some more open swale-grass areas as open fields of the outskirts of the over-grown cuttings gave way to the more natural and typical wooded forests of the mountain slopes as I steadily moved inward and upward. I moved across the open areas as quickly as my cover-noise gusting winds would permit and climbed a long and steep slop carefully picking my footing in the semi-unstable run-off area that the Moose seemed to have no trouble navigating in their travels as evidenced by their prolific tracks in this area.

Up I climbed continuing toward the apex of my goal, breaking out of the open hardwoods and into the darker cover of the Spruce that lined the top of the knob to the right of the draw. I was following the most voluminous evidence of the Deer run and found a position that over-looked the semi-open lanes below that I had just climbed where I inspected and watched for my monster Buck that might have circled to out-flank my pursuit. I was right on the edge of the semi-open hardwoods where the gusts of wind quickly robbed me of critical body heat, so I didn’t stay too long.

I turned and continued up and in to achieve the pinnacle of my goal. I crested a very steep part of the climb where the ground turned from the damp soft unstable footing into a hard rocky solid ground under the better cover of the Spruce that topped these knobs.

I achieved a plateau that was merely a few dozen yards from the very tip top of this knob and slowed my advance down to a painstaking crawl. Some of the huge Buck tracks were still found up here, but I had obviously walked into a Moose’s living room.

The carpet of Moose scat in the open areas between the juvenile Spruce masts and cover told me I was intruding on his place of residence. This was Mooseville and I was an outsider. I kept myself alert for a point-blank encounter that was likely in these tight Spruce that limited area awareness and vision to a few short yards. I kept the locations of larger Spruce trees close to mind in the event I required their assistance in stopping a tight-quarters charge.

The outcroppings of granite laced ledge-rock rose to the peak areas above me and I chose a path that was the easiest to move. I followed the rocky ridgeline along and into the bedroom of the resident Moose. The fresh beds, scat, and sign all betrayed the homestead of the areas Moose royalty.

I looked down and found a pile of freshly fallen Moose hair at the edge of one of the beds. I knelt down and inspected it closely, from the lack of blood, flesh, or other evidence of trauma or conflict, I surmised that it was simply the rob-off of an antler edge/point during a scratching moment. I picked up a clump of it, inspected closely for any signs of bugs, ticks, or scabies, and finding none I squirreled it away in a chest pocket on my woodland-camo Ranger-vest as a souvenir of my 2009 Great North Woods hunt-quest; which I have since secured away at home in a zip-lock baggy for my hunting memory triggers, and a keep sake from a high mountain top along The Canadian Border in my Great North Woods of New Hampshire hunting experiences where I was a solitary witness in the home of a Massive bull Moose one of God’s most awesome creatures in this most majestic of locales in all the world.

I stood back up after packing away my tuft of Moose hair and walked over to the edge of the escarpment where I could see I could get a grand view of my surroundings.

I looked out and could see miles and miles from up here. I knew I could see into Canada, and in my back direction I could see way far below me and realized the edge of the long over-grown cutting and realized I was about a full mile from the spur-road. The distance seemed impossible and fantastic, but there it was in plain and simple evidence before me. I had crossed all of that distance and space in pursuit of my glorious quarry; a big mature Whitetail Deer Buck.

I breathed in deep, closed my eyes, enjoyed the fragrance of Balsam fir, Spruce and the musky scent of this Moose haven atop a grand promontory deep in The Great North Woods where very very few men have gone, or will ever go. I felt my kinship with historic Mountain-Man; my distant relative, Jim Bridger, now more acutely than ever.

I turned to pick a path to the nearby tip-top rock outcropping that marked the highest point on this particular peak, took a few steps and got a little wake-up call back to reality. There in the leftover snow of these higher than their surroundings mountain-tops were tracks…

Wolf tracks!

Another apex predator, capable of hunting and harvesting me had crossed this peak on his hunt-quest and exploration of the big woods. I was surprised and somewhat alarmed at the sheer size of this canine track. None of my Northeastern Coyotes from home measured up to the nature of this track. Something in the track itself gave off the ominous feeling of the brutal violence and epic nature of the cycle of life and the wild relationship between predator and prey.

I carefully performed a detailed visual inspection of my surroundings and situation. I suspected these tracks were approximately a few days old, maybe even a week since no precipitation had fallen which would have produced the snow found in this elevation during the duration of our hunting trip. Little solace when the simple fact that such a creature exists in this proximity to my own incursion here made the simple fact that it could be here again at any moment primary among my personal concerns for my own situational awareness.

I chose to meet the challenge and I smiled to myself when I looked down at my Remington and knew I was safe no matter what I encountered. I was capable and savvy enough to meet any such challenge head-on and I welcomed such a unique encounter with open arms.

I climbed up the rocky outcroppings and found the very pinnacle of this peak and stood atop a marvel of my own accomplishment and that of the primary miracle of existence and God’s creation.

* * *

Oh ya, I came here to Deer hunt. I brought my situational awareness back to my quest and task at-hand. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the time. The complete lack of cell signal here, in these big-woods, just added to the intensity of the “out-there” feeling one gets this far from civilization. I carried it as a watch when up here because no where in Pittsburg can I get signal, it’s not until traveling back toward home for nearly an hour that cell signal comes back.

It was after 3:PM and I wanted to get in reasonable proximity to the cutting from which I came that I could see deep in the distance from my current position. I chose a careful path down and left my pinnacle achievement behind.

The descent is often harder and slower than the ascent. Picking sure footing is harder and more laborious when climbing down steep slopes. After some time I finally achieved one of the lower plateau levels that was nearly level for a bit where the stress and strain on my legs and body lessened to more comfortable movement and allowed more concentration to be focused on hunting.

Down at this level I bumped into Joe Jarosz; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch, and traded details and plans. Daylight was waning and we had about a half hour left at best and I descended along the heavily utilized Buck run in the draw where I hoped my hunt would come to a successful conclusion to post-out the last moments of this year’s (2009) Great North Woods rifle Deer-hunt.

The rain was still increasing in intensity and the temperature was now dropping toward nightfall. My soaked non-waterproof clothing was starting to let the cold creep in and discomfort was growing in these conditions. I was determined to last-it-out to the very end and refused to give-in to the temptation to throw-in-the-towel until all daylight was exhausted.

I began to suffer the ache of the cold in my wet-gloved hands, damp-collared neck, and cold/wet back and shoulders. It was a battle of will and determination that I knew I would win, but wasn’t sure at what the cost would be. I knew I was no where near frost-bite levels so I toughed-it-out and held-my-water on-post.

Eventually the radio broke with inquiries of the last of the hunters; Todd and I were the last two in the woods and shooting light was waning quickly. I slowly arose and carefully stretched-out my aching stiff joints and body and began to hobble my way along until my circulation came back well enough to make my movements easier and more fluid and normal-like.

I recognized the land-marks on my way back in from the peak in a path that was a few yards off of my incursion. I never even checked my compass on the way out as my confidence in my sense if direction had grown with re-proven success time and time again throughout this hunting trip.

I almost walked by a turn in my way of entry that would have put me back out slightly further from the truck, but caught myself and back-tracked and finally came out at the log-landing at the end of the spur-road.

There I found both vehicles full of our Hunting Clans warming in idling trucks. The rains were a steady and cold offering of ice-rain and heavy wet slop that wasn’t sticking or accumulating to the unfrozen ground. It was just making everything wet and slick.

I opened up the hatch-back of the Ford Expedition and stowed my gear and showed Billy my Moose hair treasure. I shed my excessively heavy wet outer layers and closed up the back. I went over to where the cooler was in the back of the Peich mobile and retrieved my last two cold beers.

I closed it all back up and climbed into my back-seat position next to Billy in the Ford and handed him the other of my two last beers for a hunt ending toast amongst hunt-brothers. It had been another wonderful wild ride!

Todd appeared out of the wet woods right after that and we all settled in for the ride back to camp. The melancholy acceptance of no more successful harvest, coupled with the late-hunt find of the best Buck sign we had encountered on the whole trip being at this last hunt location made for the topics of conversation on the dreary way out.

A heavy wet trudge up the stairs onto the porch of camp and we filed in to see camp-mouse Dave’s hopefully expectant eyes. He was pullin’ for us the whole day hoping one of us would collect. Once again a plethora of finger food, appetizers, and hors d'oeuvres were awaiting our return whether triumphant or not.

Hunting clothes were hung to dry, gear stowed away in preparation for packing away for the trip home, and ice cold beers were passed all around. A turn at a hot shower and setting-down for a much needed respite and I decided it was time to make our Clan’s journal entry in the camp’s log. I don’t hand-write nearly as well or fast as I type so I make an abridged entry of our 2009 exploits which you all have just read. I gave voluminous thanks for the opportunity to enjoy such fine accommodations and accoutrements. I have only started keeping written accounts of my Hunting Clan’s exploits in the past few years and am receiving very warm receptions for my efforts, so I endeavor to record for historic account as much as I can.

All the while I was writing I could smell the meatloaf that Billy; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s youngest son was preparing for our last supper in this pristine log cabin hunting camp along with the second run of Darlene Peich’s fantastic twice-baked potatoes. They made the finest of side dishes to go with the hearty warm goodness of the meatloaf. Dave Peich’s wife customarily prepares dishes to-die-for with common-place repetition, these potatoes were no exception.
More cheers and beers and the communion of the Clan’s was the stuff life is made up of. It is the icing on the existential cake of life! Often the communion between hunt-brothers is as paramount as the hunting itself, if not more so. Many of us wouldn’t labor to make such a pilgrimage if it wasn’t for the hunting-camp camaraderie and fellowship we all share in welcome helpings of our bond of Blood-Brotherhood.

Fatigue got the better of me and I began to nod off midway between evening and night. Several heartfelt toasts to another safe and rewarding Great North Woods Deer hunts in the record books, and I was off to bed none-too anticipatory of the departure from our hallowed and sacrosanct hunting camp.

Sleep came without effort or delay…

To be continued...

Great North Woods Deer hunt 2009 - Day 4

November 13, 2009; Day 4, 3rd day of our hunt.

The morning broke with enthusiasm for new hunting opportunities. We were going to infiltrate a different area of the woods. Perrennial favorite; Indian Stream; specifically the West Branch above in elevation and to the northeast of Terrell pond; another Moose sanctuary and fly-fishing honey-hole; in the historic area of: The Republic of Indian Stream along the Canadian border.
This is the same location where last year Wayne; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son shot his awesome Buck last year. I was expectantly hopeful about today’s hunt as this area has become one of our favorites.

Although it seemed not as remote due to the popularity among hunters, it was even further up the Indian Stream forestry road; away from civilization than our hunting spots along East Inlet road are. It takes some patience to drive out the dirt paper company forestry road, that doubles as a snowmobile trail in the winter’s snow months, past the #14 mile-marker to the cross-over (Indian Stream) road that gives access to West Branch road and our coveted slice of hunting pie between the West Branch and the main run of Indian Stream.

The historically secluded and lacking in electricity or other amenities such as indoor plumbing of the camps and cabins along Indian Stream road make the ride interesting and thought provoking as the generationally grandfathered-in-zoning camps that dotted the forestry road all the way to the West Branch split left imagined histories of trapper’s shacks and cabins of the past running thru one’s mind.

The sheer and utter removal from civilization during the winter months made for such hearty souls as only the most resolute of hunters, trappers, and loggers of the past. With it’s inspiring native name, images of Indian massacres and incursions would run thru one’s imagination on the ride in…

Did Robert’s Rangers pass thru here on their way to clash with the warring Indian tribes in Canada, did reprisal attacks lay waste to those solitary souls that called this ancient water-way home far up in the mountains of The Great North Woods of New Hampshire? It left me with a certain feeling of pride and accomplishment knowing I experience, hunt, and explore these woods as few Americans have the privilege of doing.

Our trucks split us up into two parties once again, Dave York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch, Dave Peich and Wayne York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son went up around the bent and ascended to the log-landing area at the end of The West Branch spur-road while Joe Jarosz; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch, his son Todd, Billy York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s youngest son, and myself; Jim McCullough spread out along the lower section of The West Branch spur-road to ascend the slopes from below.

My position, just as last year was the furthest south leg of this hunt and I could be bringing up the rear and cutting off a means-of-egress for the Deer that would put them out toward Indian Stream where The West Branch joins it by the Terrell Pond and dam.

I eagerly delved into my memory of the area and indulged myself in the happy reacquaintance with the landscape as I recalled it so vividly from last year. The swale-grass was a touch thicker and the saplings were a bit bigger with even more of them making passage along the lower swale-grass belt a little tougher, but I quickly refound my path where I skirted the Spruce cover in order to avoid putting my moving form out in the open of the semi-treeless swale-grass belt.
I stuck to the shadows and crossed the belt at a diagonal angle that pushed me southeast to the base of the almost sheer rocky escarpment where I knew there was a secure path of ascent I can utilize to gain entry to the first plateau. I crossed the swale-grass bottleneck where the Spruce cover passed closest to the southwestern slope-face in a little point that made my open crossing the shortest possible. All the while I kept taking in the spires, knobs, and peaks I would be ascending from the furthest point out of all of my hunt-brothers.

About halfway up the rocky ledged slope I turned and admired the view. I could see the open swale-grass belt and inspected it for tell-tale movement, as I remembered the beauty of Terrell Pond in the distance. Nothing stirred below me so I turned and continued up.

I was once again amazed that the Deer tracks up and thru this lane of a climbing draw and their Billy-Goat abilities to navigate such a steep ascend and descent on 4 sharp hooves. The way was detailed and sharp in my memory and not much had changed other than the leaf-litter that covered the rocks and soil where it lay bedded atop the ledge rock and boulders of this promontory. The patches of scale and loose shale fragments where in exactly the same locations as I remembered with just enough securing soil to have made a path over and around the dangerous footing to allow me to continue on to breach the surface of this plateau from the shadowy Spruce cover of a juvenile Spruce sapling covered knob that stood sentinel over a wide swale-grass bog valley that contained just enough ground cover in patches to invite Deer bedding and movement.

I picked my way along the ridge-back of this knob behind the small Spruce trees that gave me concealment and a position to peer out and inspect the bog for signs of my quarry, or Moose and Bear. I sat on my camouflaged butt-pad cushion that hung from the back of my belt. This year I opted for the 1.5” thick version instead of the 1” thick version I lost here in The Great North Woods of New Hampshire last year on the last day. I was hoping the thicker version wouldn’t allow the Velcro strap to tear thru as easily, and I appreciated the added comfort of the thicker cushion. I found this once to be very comfortable and it absolutely prevented the cold “wet-butt” syndrome from putting an uncomfortable dampener on the days hunting. I took a quick respite to catch my breath and allow my body temp to cool back down from the strenuous climb so I didn’t sweat up my clothing as we expected today to be the warmest of the entire week. The morning seemed a touch crisper and colder, but midday was going to be even warmer possibly rising above the 50 degrees Fahrenheit mark.

This was a very temporary pit-stop as I didn’t expect to catch any majestic Whitetail Bucks cruising the open expanses of the bright swale-grass bog during daylight. This was the exact spot where Billy and I jumped out a Moose during one of last years forays into this West Branch hunt.

I kept eyeing the neighboring knob to my left out in front of me, one that offered great Deer sign last year and I expected would hold the same this year. I had climbed it last year and love revisiting areas out in the wilderness testing my memory for detail and comparison to the changes time makes in all landscapes. I hopped up and dropped down the face of this little knoll that over-looked the swale-grass bog valley flat-iron and crossed at the peak-point where it started to the base of the knob I assumed to climb.

As I worked my way up, I marveled at how quickly the open hardwoods obscured your vision and made the open swale-grass bog disappear behind me even though I was in relatively close proximity to it’s existence. I climbed steadily upward which made my incursion as much up as in until I crested to the plateau of this knob and it was relatively untouched to my memory of it.
Sadly, the Deer sign wasn’t as prominent this season as it had been 1 year ago. There were recent tracks and some scat, but not the plethora of fresh sign I had encountered here last year.

I tried to scan the slowly falling opposite slope as I crossed over to the north face of this knob that fell sheer into an open hardwoods valley that was deep and wide. It gave ranges of out to 250+ yards if you could pick out openings between the hardwood masts of Beech trees and Birches.

Along my crown-edge I could stay nestled in the cover of immature Spruce trees and the towering darkness of their larger brothers above my that topped this knob with a nice shadow covered area. I sat for a bit again to regulate my body temp and respiratory rate right on the edge of the sheer drop that put me in an advantageous sniper-hide that covered the hardwood valley for any egressing Deer.

Before me at he edge of my range of view in the thickening cover I could just see the saddle that I had found last year that was the best means of travel between this knob and the next and even higher one to my left and north. It would be the preferred method of travel across this divide for man or beast. After regaining a normal status on my temp and breathing condition, I stood up and slowly made my way to the saddle. I was having as much fun remembering all of my exploits and experiences from last year as I was pursuing my hunting exploits.

I worked forward and into the very same clump of immature Spruce trees I had utilized as a hide to cover the saddle from this position last year. The trees were a little taller and a little thicker and therefore the space inside them was a little tighter this year, but it was relatively the same. I enjoy such déjà-vu remembrances, especially considering how far out in the wilderness I was; approximately a half mile in and a half mile up or so.

I wanted to get even further in this year so I kept pushing myself to forge ahead and to get myself into the outskirts of the combined hunts being undertaken by our two parties. I crossed the saddle and committed it to memory even further knowing full well the more you detail your memory of something, the more it will change, as nature does, for the next time it’s visited.
I kept to the sporadic installments of Spruce cover as it spread thru the hardwoods and climbed the next peak. The ledge-rock thru this area was prolific and it grew the most twisted, shunted, and strange looking Spruce, Beech, and Birch trees from in between, on, and around such rocky outcroppings as made for almost stair-climbing during the ascent.

The radio gave short reports from members of the clans on Deer sign, some warm, some cold, and some even bleak. Nothing to betray the big Buck, even bigger than Wayne’s successful harvest from this area last year that we had been informed about by the Game Warden at the check-in. He simply told us our Deer’s big brother was still up here and that nobody had gotten him last year on our last day of the first week hunt after Wayne got his mature Buck.

Obviously it didn’t mean that Buck was still haunting this area, or that another hunter hadn’t gotten him since, but it still fed our fires of hopeful expectation that this area did and possibly still does hold a big mature Buck for the hunting, so I pressed onward in spite of no shots and no reports of jumping Deer.

I crossed the very top peak and worked my way down toward the peat-bog that resided in a little swamp valley bowl here that opened up and seemed to go on endlessly out it’s southern edge. I walked the ridge overlooking the bog from a distance and worked toward where I had made my entry into it last year, from a different angle but in similar proximity.

Just as I decided to torn downhill to head into it, I heard some crashing. There were definitely two sets of legs pushing thru the leaf-litter and moving across my horizon out of site over the crown of the crest and slightly down the slope to my right and ahead of me at the very southeast corner of this hunt.

As quietly as possible I tried to cross the crunchy crisp with cold, but rising, temperatures; leaf-litter. I angled for a line of intercept and tried to close the distance, but I could hear the evidence of my merger with another living creature in the wilderness moving further away and out away from me.

I got to the edge of the plateau and could see nothing thru the forested cover. In only a relatively short distance my vision was cut off by cover, brush, and trees of the thickening forest. The sound seemed to fade out in the distance and I knew I wasn’t going to catch whatever it was under these semi-noisy conditions. Coupled with the fact that it was going directly out of the hunt in a direction that would take me completely away from the rest of my Clan and party I decided to investigate the peat bog as it contained one of my Deer encounters from last year when I jumped a very big Doe out of the young Spruce saplings that grew along it’s outer bank very nearby.

The radio barked out some info. There were other hunters up here and they were criss-crossing our hunts in a strange fashions. Two hunters moving together, another solitary hunter, and their movement patterns seemed odd and out-of-place. Two of them were even talking out loud as if they were in a bar-room trying to speak to each other over the din of loud noise, which seemed really odd considering the stark stillness and quiet of these deep woods.

Nobody was throwing in the towel on this hunt area yet so I pressed on to investigate the peat bog before that happened. I descended the slowly falling slope and to the edge of the bog. It was just as I remembered it. The surface seemed alive or floating, it was thick green peat moss and clumps of vegetation that were unrecognizable other than to appear as if something that might grow on some far off planet. The tall Spruce trees gave a canopy of darkness and shadow that held out the majority of sunlight that you could see on the outside of the bog to it’s sides as the bright sun shone down in among the hardwoods that banked the bog on the opposite shore.

There was something very calming and tranquil about this bog. As I stepped out onto the carpet of green peat moss it did seem alive and you could hear the trickle of slowly running water coming from below and all around you. With every step you could hear a rush of air and swamp-gas bubbles releasing from their watery shrine below your feet. Every once in a while you could get the aromatic fragrance of the swamp-gas as it found a means of egress from holes carved by Moose hoof tracks; like cookie-cutters, in the live surface of this marsh.

The ever-present contemplation about a bottomless cold soaking pool beneath my feet always kept me alert and full of care, but it always seemed secure enough not to let you fall thru, in fact; I never once sank above the a depth that would allow any water to infiltrate over the top edge of my Rocky Rampage Gortex boots.

I found that the Deer tracks in this bog increased exponentially from the sign I had been finding before this point. The runs were deeply worn ruts and the peat was virtually pin-cushioned with tracks going in every conceivable direction. This peat-bog was obviously one of their highly coveted playgrounds and my enthusiasm grew with my excitement. There was always enough immature Spruce growth that was just tall enough to cover my and my movements yet allow me to look out and view over their tops to inspect my entire surroundings for movements and the edges of the surrounding hardwood banks that made this an ideal hunting spot.

While the mushy soft surface of the peat-bog wasn’t solid enough to support Buck-scrapes, it did however hold saplings and immature trees in abundance, which allowed for the ample potential for Buck-rubs, and I found the best one I had seen yet while here in The Great North Woods.
It was fresh as fresh could be and the little shavings of bark were still floating on the nearby breaks in the surface vegetation and hadn’t floated away yet or saturated and sank. I suspected this rub had been made that night or in the wee hours of morning before we had arrived in this locale.

While I was stooped over inspecting the rather large sapling mast rub…

POW!!!

One lone rifle shot from maybe 100 yards to the northeast of my location grabbed my attention like a swift kick to the groin. It took me by surprise and made me flinch. I took up a secure position putting the root-base of a blown-down between me and the direction of the shot and picked up my Remington 760 pump .300 Savage to the up-ready position and scoured the horizon of my vision for any signs of movement and Deer racing to escape the shot.

I stayed painfully still for several minutes listening hard, breathing thru my mouth instead of my nose for an even deeper level of my own silence in order to hear possible movements better.
And then a crash…

But it was from behind me coming toward the direction the shot had come from. Then another crash and some loud branch or deadfall breaking sounds. I suspected a Moose was somehow confused by the echo of the shot and was simply trudging thru the peat-bog at a hurried pace.
As the noises grew closer I knew beyond question that it was no Deer, and I lowered my rifle back down to my side in one hand as with this new noise nothing would be coming to me from the direction of the shot any time soon.

The temperature was rising quickly and just before the shot I had removed by woodland-camo Ranger-vest (designed for U. S. Army Rangers and their covert tactical exploits) and removed a couple layers of my could weather thermal underwear shirts and left only my thinnest Rocky moisture wicking under layer shirt beneath my 2X Realtree AP-HD camo long-sleeved pull-over shirt that I use as an outer layer, and stowed the excessive clothing in the pouch integral on the back of the Ranger-vest.

Then coming into view were two guys, one wearing a hunter-orange cap, and another clad in an excessively large hunter-orange down parka with hood up and secured into place with it’s draw-string. I thought that was a little bizarre considering the bright sunlight and the quickly rising temperatures.

These two fellas were almost racing in the direction the single shot had come from making such a racket as to disturb any intention of hunting he area in the near future. I was dumb-founded at the activity and could not figure it for the life of me. They crashed and plowed their way across the peat-bog marsh and up the back across from me into the hardwoods and disappeared in harried fashion in the direction of the lone shot. They had passed by within 40 yards of me in my hunter-orange Team Realtree cap with AP-HD camo brim and apparently never realized I was there.

I think I stood there with my rifle in one hand and I’m pretty sure with my mouth hanging open asking myself if it had just actually happened. I was stunned and had no clue what my next move should be. Finally my radio snapped me out of it and the head-count went up with our entire two parties worth of hunters denying it had been any of them that had shot.

I relayed the information of the deep-woods rally-race by these two jokers that had just passed by me like their hair was on fire and their @$$ was-a-catchin’…

The radio fell silent and then reports came from Todd; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch’s son, that he had bumped into a couple kids that were out hunting with their father, and they were from (of all the small world places – Massachusetts, specifically the) Bridgewater, MA. (of eastern MA area) According to them the father was ill and they were with him to drag out any Deer he might shoot. He (the father) had supposedly shot a Coyote the day before and it ran off into the brush and they couldn’t locate it, and the boys were out beatin’-the-brush lookin’ for a wounded or dead Coyote while the father of one of the boys was Deer huntin’.

That did explain the pell-mell bee-line for the location the sound of the shot came from, I suppose, but there was something that just seemed too bizarre and terribly lacking in common-sense, or any sense for that matter, about that whole kind of rushing around thru the woods. These two fellas were apparently the loud-talkers witnessed, once again without notice, by Dave Peich where he had entered his parties hunt from.

I did my best to put the whole strange occurrence out of my mind and continue hunting, even though the cardinal rule of being walked-in-on by someone making unreasonable noise had been broken and left me feeling that my chances of a Deer encounter were slim & none, and Slim had just left the building…

I decided to angle back in-between where I had come in and the other end of the line where my party had made their incursion, hoping to make a large circle of the perimeter of our hunt area. I followed the opposite bank/shore of the peat-bog back in the direction I had come from, until I found the very end of it that I had never seen before. This rose to a notch between two knobs, which was a natural draw that the Deer had been utilizing as a major run for their travel lane.
I climbed up the bank a slight sharp incline of about 25 feet and found it was a sharp ridge-back between two small canyon/valley draws and that this location gave me a great position to cover both draws from so I decided to set for a bit.

I settled in on my butt-cushion under the Spruce boughs in the shadow cover of a couple Spruce trees that lined the ridge-back between the two draws. I leaned back against the truck of a Spruce tree while sitting on a stump of it’s twin that had been cut/logged-off many years ago.
It didn’t take long when I heard some steps and crashing coming my way. I took interest and did my best to focus on my hunting at hand and put the previous happening out of my mind. There were definitely two sets of legs coming and I was hoping my luck had changed and I had chosen the best spot for a four-legged bovine to be making it’s escape from the hunting/noise pressure of the people in the forest.

The sound was coming down to the upper rim edge of the end of the valley maybe 30 yards in front of me, and I was certain whatever this creature would be was going to come right down the slope in front of me for a wide open shot opportunity. For some unexplained reason, I never even readied my rifle, I just held onto it where it lay across my lap with my right hand…

Then I saw them…

The hunter-orange cap and over-sized hunter-orange parka, still with hood secured in place by it’s draw-string in the excessively warm midday sun, as they approached the edge of the valley not 30 yards from me where I sat in the wide open for their view. Some odd back-tracking and pacing movements commenced as one or both seemed to pace back-and-forth along the rim edge across from me behind just enough trees and brush that I couldn’t see their activity clearly, yet I was basically in the wide open to their vision thru the branches and cover on their side, and then…

Bang… Bang, bang…

The silence was broken by the deafening report of the semi-automatic pistol that the one without the parka was wielding, unbeknownst to me. The bullets whizzed over-head as the shots were nearly directly in line with me as the loud-talking one of the pair of college aged fellas endeavored to dispatch a Red Squirrel from the branches of an old mature Spruce tree that grew up and out of the opposite bank of the valley between us…

I was so shocked I simply sat motionless is disbelief…

Here I am, in the middle of a deep-forest wilderness, less than 1 mile from The Canadian Border and I’m run into by these @$$-clowns that are cappin’ rounds from a 9mm Parabellum (I surmised from the report of the pistol, but in truth after the first shot my ears were ringing so bad that it could have been a .40 S&W or even a .45 ACP) at a fricken Red Squirrel and almost blowing my head off as they are shooting almost directly at and over me from across this little swale-grass lined rift…

I was beyond disbelief…

Then the shooter in his loud-talking tone, that I could barely hear as my hearing had clogged up from the down-range report reaction in my ears from the pistol shots, cussed and exclaimed in disbelief at the lack of recognizable remains of his target after 3 shots at nearly point blank range from his auto-loading pistol. His partner in crime the parka-clad fella simply responded in nervous stuttering unintelligible words that betrayed no emotional content whatsoever.

Then I heard some comment about a forgotten radio and that they’d have to go back for it and away they went in their hurried excessive noise-producing way…

I was still in shock and long minutes after they’d left I was still sitting there staring at the tree they had shot the Red Squirrel out of wonder what had just happened. There were no words to describe the shock, confusion, and growing anger that was mounting inside of me at what had just transpired…

At one point I do recall having to fight the urge to return fire from my .300 Savage just to wake these @$$-clowns up to my presence and scare the livin’ bejesus out of them, but somehow I refrained as I suspected such inbred boobs might have just mistaken my intent for an assault and actually shot at me on purpose to “defend” themselves.

I made a short report of the incident on our 2-way radios so the others would have some idea of what the rapid succession pistol shots were. I’m sure they could hear the disgust in my voice as I relayed the incident. I was all balled up and trying not to let it ruin my hunt, my day, or even my Great North Woods hunting experience for 2009… It was a chore and it took some serious effort not to let it over-shadow the rest of the pristine goodness of my beloved Great North Woods hunting.

I was mired in my confusion as to what hunting direction or method to employ next. I was rather befuddled and just couldn’t concentrate or decide on what to do next. I decided to simply work my way out lest the next encounter with these pinheads becomes a fatal tragedy for any of us.

I pushed myself up and over the slight saddle that connected the knob to my left and curled down and back up to the ridge-back I had been perched on before all hell had broken loose. My direction should take me down and out toward the very corner of this hunt before the West Branch spur-road turned up to ascent the back side of these promontories.

I picked the easiest to traverse path I could find wanting to put as much distance between myself and the ignoramuses that had offended my hunting sensibilities so with their flagrant violations of common-sensuality and rational behavior. I kept peeking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t going to her banjo music and see a hooded down parka following me as I descended. I told myself that if such were to happen I would possibly put a quick end to that insanity with suppressing fire from my .300 Savage; Remington pump rifle. I grinned at my own cavalier machismo and continued down.

I came upon an old over-grown skidder path that lead straight down the slope at an impossible angle that left me with visions of such a machine tumbling end-over-end as it tried to negotiate the nearly sheer descent. The footing was somewhat loose and a little bit treacherous, but I wanted out of that area in the worst way so I endeavored to safely make my way down the roller-coaster like hill drop.

Down, down, down I trudged carefully picking my steps and leaning back almost against the slope to maintain my balance as not to pitch forward and over which would most likely result in a never ending bouncing roll and slide-for-life.

When I reached a slightly less angled stretch of the skidder path I turned to look at the hill I had just descended. It was the epitome of a Billy-Goatish straight up affront that I was left in disbelief that I had somehow negotiated under control when it looked as if looking up a flat wall that I had just come down.

The warm early afternoon sun gave me the indicating shadows from the spires and peaks now above me that allowed me to angle around the base of the sky-reaching precipice back toward where the vehicle I was riding in was parked with my gear and possibles within.

I kept descending and hiking down and out and it took nearly 20 minutes of non-stop hoofing to see the faint beige shape of the road-bed far off below me. The slashing and whippets were a little thick in this locale and began to open up into the far northern end of the swale-grass belt that this incursion began at. In another 10 minutes of trudging I broke out exactly where I had entered the hunt off the same old abandoned log landing on a plateau about 40 feet above the West Branch spur-road below. I walked down the entrance drive and turned right on the forestry road and hiked the quarter mile to Todd’s Ford Expedition.

I let myself in and hastily changed out of my green Northwoods Wools, shed a couple layers of thermal long-johns and left on only my thinnest layer of Thermaxx and Rocky lightweight moisture wicking under-layer. I donned my BDU style Realtree AP-HD camo cargo pants and my spare Realtree HD over-shirt. I took a position in the back of the truck on my butt-cushion and awaited the arrival of my hunt-brothers.

Billy was the first to appear and I went into a dismayed recollection of the events that unfolded just previously in the woods. I was trying to wrap my head around the brazenly preposterous behavior that led me to suspect the presence of an extra chromosome in possession by my two miscreant encounter fellas. Todd then showed up and relayed that he had bumped into two “kids” that seemed really nice and were hanging out with their ill father who was Deer hunting so that they could drag out the Deer for him…

I spit out some vitriol of my own about how they weren’t nice and probably were deserving of a bullet in the head, to which Todd’s cooler head prevailed and he wasn’t even taken aback by my retort for his enthusiastic optimism for all things outdoors and hunting. I admired his ability to blow-off my own struggles with something seemingly ruinous of my own hunt and took the bitter pill of a forced admission that my own perception of the events may have been less than righteous in my own portrayal of their exploits, which may have been far more innocent than they had seemed to me.

Todd also mentioned that he thought the 2nd of the two fellas possibly did suffer from some mental illness or at least neurosis as he wouldn’t make eye contact with Todd who was a stranger to him and was hooded-up in his hunter-orange parka and seemed nervous and anti-social.

I supposed maybe the loud-talker of the two did that to maintain an audible contact with his buddy so as not to loose him in the wilderness in a way doting on both his father and his buddy. I suppose not all folks conduct themselves the same in the woods and I ought to at least leave the benefit of the doubt open for it’s potentiality. I still thought the behaviors were rather dubious, but may well have simply been those of staving off boredom in the long hours awaiting a Deer harvest that might never come for his father. I still wasn’t impressed, but was now open to letting the hostility that had built up in me to vent off and dissipate into a simple shrug which allowed me to put the whole thing behind me so I could go on to enjoy my precious Great North Woods hunt.

We ate our lunch in the warm sun after Dave Peich pulled up in his truck with our other party on-board. Some good, a really tasty apple, which Wayne had bit into without removing the little plastic label from, finding it floating around in his mouth he went to spit it out just as a small gust of a breeze came along and blew the spray side-ways and into Todd’s face… His embarrassment and the look on Todd’s face sent us into laughter which broke the hold over my mood and washed away the last of my discontent as Wayne apologized profusely while we all laughed, including Todd.

* * *

We moved on and for the afternoon hunt we retreated back down Indian Stream toward mile-marker 12 or 11 and The East Branch. We ventured up that spur-road to come to just about the Red cabin with a sign that read “East Branch Camp” on it’s front wall. There was a logging outfit with trucks moving equipment in to the landing directly across from this camp. Just as we were pulling up and big Dodge Ram pick-up came roaring up our tail out of nowhere and passed us by off in the ditch in a fury of throaty horsepower and hell-bent speed that seemed out of place in this still wilderness.

He came to a skidding halt at the low-boy truck carrying a processing excavator like machine that was being off-loaded. We had started to back out when our preceding party in Dave Peich’s truck notified us over the 2-way radio that the truck had moved and we could now pass by.

We drove up and the loggers had spread out all their equipment and vehicles all over the front and side lawns of this East Branch Camp. I presumed they must have been there at the behest of the owner or some such account. We threaded around trucks and machines thru the front yard of the camp feeling funny about driving on that front lawn even though the loggers had guided us to do so.

We proceeded onward past the little gravel bank on the right and up to the spur-road that cut back east south-east off of Indian Stream East Branch forestry road. We proceeded up a short distance and our vehicles had switched positions since Wayne had driven past the spur-road at first and I recognized it as where we wanted to go as Todd had driven up on it. The Peich mobile had stopped behind us where we had parked on the last day last year and we continued up ahead for another half mile to an old grown-in log landing.

We exited the vehicles and spread out on the southern side of the spur-road to head in toward the swale-grass swamp where Dave; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son and perennial successful harvest camp-mouse had gotten his fork-horn Buck last year.

I took up position the farthest west from our party on the outskirts of the outer edge of where our partner party was making their incursion. Almost immediately I bumped Dave Peich. We had inadvertently taken an almost identical path of entry and the thickness of the cover made it imperative to utilize the same lane for movement. I wished him luck and backed out to reposition myself along the road. I was afraid of bumping the rest of the party members so I continued on west down the spur-road past the Peich-mobile and past where everyone else had gone in to a position that was almost identical to where I had entered last year believing to have gone almost a full mile back down the spur-road beyond where all others had gone-in.

I really liked this area where we went in. The Spruce thicket had the trees close enough together to create a canopy of darkness that was carpeted with a soft silent layer of Spruce needles and moss. Some damp swale-grass from the moisture laden earth added to the silence you could achieve stalking thru the shadows.

I could vaguely see the open light of the swale-grass swamp ahead and too my left. I took a step and heard a snap…

Suddenly brown hind-quarter and the tell-tale flag of a Whitetail Deer erupted out of the thick brush and cover along the very edge of the swale-grass swamp. Instantly my Remington 760 pump came up to my shoulder as I strained to see antlers. After a few bounds I could no longer see the Deer and never did get a look at it’s head. I never even clicked off the safety because I never could get a positive ID on my quarry as a legal Buck for harvest.

Then, almost immediately, more crashing from behind the first Deer. I quickly knelt down into a crouch so not to give away my position if the 2nd Deer hadn’t yet seen me as the first surely must have. Closer and closer it came, but in the thickest brush and cover you could possibly imagine giving me a depth of view of probably no more than 10 – 20 yards at best and then only in windows…

Suddenly, nothing…

The noise stopped dead and nothing but silence filled the air under a graying sky. Whatever was coming, which I suspected was another Deer, but could well have been a Moose or even a Bear had simply ceased to make any more noise a mere 30 yards from my position.

I waited crouched until the pain was searing in my muscles and the cramping began to get the best of me. I slowly with trembling musculature stood up and stretched out my coiled up body. I never lowered my rifle, finger on the safety hoping for a chance to click it off and get a shot at a good Buck. I kept the rifle pointed up into the fat trunk of a large Spruce ahead of me hoping for the chance to lower it level and shoot…

20 minutes passed and nothing. I never heard whatever it was move off or make another noise. It simply seemed to dematerialize into the air. Nothing new there, we’ve seen this before…

I finally advanced in and found as I suspected, that whatever had been there had found a way to skulk-of undetected leaving me only to suspect what it may have been. There was enough Deer sign and tracks criss-crossing thru the area to make tracking whatever it was without snow to be a chore-and-a-half. I simply chose to still-hunt in a general direction of where it had come from.

I worked my way along thru the silent grove and past the swale-grass swamp until I came across a thicket of Spruce so tight and solid as to be almost black with darkness on the inside that would not permit my incursion. I back-tracked and went around the ticket and found a good strong Deer run that angled between it and the swale-grass swamp parallel to the slowly flowing waters of the swamp. I endeavored around and found an end to the open waters where I could cross. I worked my way out the back-side of the swale-grass swamp and up into a hardwoods slope that was much brighter and more traversable.

I kept making a slow looping arc and eventually worked my way in a big circle all the way around the swale-grass bowl marsh area of swamps and water never jumping another Deer. I popped back out onto the spur-road and chose another lane of entry near my original point of entry. I worked back out into a spot that went out further in the darkened cover of Spruce to a point that stuck out into the swale-grass swamp that appeared to be a natural cover bottle-neck lane of crossing the swamp by the Deer run/tracks that converged here.

I sat for a few moments and Dave Peich came up on me again. I waved to him expecting him to come over and share his observations of this hunt, but he turned and retreated out of sight to find a spot to hunt out the last remaining daylight.

I got a case of “the grass is greener” and decided another spot down at the edge of my view might be better for my posting until dark. I eased down a bit and located a position that overlooked where I had jumped the deer and the run that came thru and settled in for the evening.

The light waned and faded as it always does and I revisited my day in my head. All in all my afternoon hunting did completely engross my mind and focus and I was able to successfully put the bizarre happenings of the morning out of my mind. That; I was thankful for.

As final darkness came I could here my hunt-brothers conversing back at the Peich-mobile and I retreated from my spot to the spur-road and joined them at the truck. I made sure to tell Dave Peich never to be afraid to come up to me in the woods and commune/converse, he is now a member of our Hunting Clan and I am always happy to run into one of them in the woods. Todd’s Ford Expedition came down the road to join us all up and we all climbed in and took the journey back to camp with the creeping tired that comes with days of hunting hard.

The lights were on as we got back to the log cabin camp up the old Dairy Mill road. It was a warm and inviting place. Gear stowed back in it’s relegated positions and a cold beer in hand. I sat and rested a much needed rest at the end of a long but rewarding day. Joe; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch, and his son Todd set about preparing his home-made chicken soup and baked chicken. I prepared the salad works I had been delegated to provide and found that the refrigerator had worked so well the cucumbers were partially frozen. I cut and prepared and found that they tasted just fine and mixed a big bowl of salad to go with the Chicken dishes. The backed chicken parts were fantastic and the soup was as hearty and fulfilling as ever.More Benoit DVD’s played on the wide-screen TV as I nodded off sitting in a chair. I eventually forced myself up to settle into bed for the night and off to sleep I went in an instant.

To be continued...

Great North Woods Deer hunt 2009 - Day 3

November 12, 2009; Day 3, 2nd day of our hunt.

A couple things I forgot to mention from Day 1 of our shared hunt-quest; foremost was that we found out York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son Dave’s Doe weighed in at 129 pounds dressed and the biologist/game-warden informed him that the ol’ girl was 4 to 4-1/2 years old. A nice mature Doe of high stature and character that would make for great table fare. 1 on the meat-pole the very first day is always a confidence building plus that makes for icing on the cake…

Also the side-dish that completed the meal with epitomic delight was the infamous Twice-Baked Potatoes of Darlene Peich supplied by her husband that made the trip with us this year, had paid in full last year but was unable to attend at that time. Dave was already having the time of his life on his first trip with The York Hunting Clan to our legendary Great North Woods hunting grounds. An avid and successful hunter in his own right with a plethora of archery harvested Deer under his belt, he was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning after the face-to-face Moose encounters and Deer action on the first morning. That kind of enthusiasm is infectious and just builds the enjoyment to even greater heights for the whole Clan… And those Twice-Baked Potatoes are To-Die-For!!!

* * *

Much better sleep throughout the night made for a good strong morning awakening. A shower attended to in Hunter’s Specialties Scent-A-Way body wash & shampoo for myself, and some of the Primo’s Silver products for others and we delved into the more staple breakfast of oatmeal and toast, a splash of a generic (local grocery store from back home) brand of vegetable juice that was the equivalent of V8 juice, and as much of that perfect percolated coffee ala Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch; Joe’s olive green coffee machine. Weather channel checked, even though we already knew from watching it in the evening what to expect. Thermometer outside the front door on the porch roof support for convenient inspection, and as before it would be crisp in the morning and warm, for here and now, throughout the day.

Geared up and double-checked, Billy; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s youngest son and I hopped into the Jarosz Hunting Clan’s vehicle again. Checked gun, ammo, compass, and we’re off…
We headed out along Route 3 again and back to East Inlet road. Passing once again the locals gathered at the local pit-stop/general store for breakfast in Pittsburg center, I did think to myself how that might be a real great experience, but even I too didn’t want to slow our progress by taking breakfast there for the want of staying and taking in the local ambiance and vibe. Besides, we were flatlanders and outsiders, although in these parts hunters from any origination are welcomed with open arms and a cater-to ideology, we didn’t want to draw undue attention upon ourselves either by over-taking a place with our numbers.

As before we were split into two groups, this time in only 2 separate vehicles, to hunt as separate entities in order to meet the current NH state game law regulation regarding hunting-party size. 4 in my group and 3 in the other.

Once again we turned off Route 3, a touch short of the Canadian border and customs station and down the dirt road-bed of East Inlet road. Making the instinctual turns in this maze of paper-company produced forestry roads that were transformed into snowmobile trials come the onset of snow-bound winter months here in The Great North Woods of New Hampshire.

I let my mind wander to some observations I had made in the woods, although Coyote tracks and scat had been found by myself and others, their population was nowhere near as concentrated as it was further south in our home territory of Massachusetts. It seemed as if the woods was too big for them up here. An odd piece of existential information considering how scarce they had been in our home locale once upon a time some 25+ years ago. It was feral dogs that roamed our woods in small inconsistent packs which we all called Coy-Dogs. Once the true Northeastern Coyote; recent studies show they are more closely related to the Northern Timber Wolves, the more common Grey Wolves, and the smaller and less popular Red Wolves than they are their western cousin in the plains and deserts of the western United States.

Our Coyotes have shown a proclivity to pack-up and employ Wolf-inspired hunting tactics where out west they roam singly or in pairs. The Coyotes here in The Great North Woods do appear to be bigger specimens than we commonly see in our home hunting haunts, but the amount of sign and encounters is far less prolific than it is back home.

Having said that, actual Wolves are more common up here and can be encountered with some regularity. Last year Dave York; York Hunting Clan Patriarch encountered one in broad daylight in exactly the area we were heading to now; the infamous mile-marker 8-9 area where a long and steep hill passes by an old cutting/log-landing on the eastern side of the road-way. What was once a clear-cut was now a jumbled mess of new growth, prickers, whippets, and a tangled mass of just the kind of food sustaining cover that Whitetail Deer love for it’s rich browse-food offering.

The broken cover of swale-grass bog and spruce groves on the western side of East Inlet Road gave the Deer both access to food, water, and a comfortable bedding area that they utilized for their Rut activity last year where I had my grunting Buck encounter that had almost garnished me a shot opportunity.

I and others were as excited and enthused as we could be that we were headed back to the area where the biggest Buck tracks of enormous proportions and prolific intensity were encountered on last years hunt. We knew the Moose were in here in large numbers too, but more importantly the Deer had imposed themselves upon the territory in large numbers during The Rut last year. We expected the situation to remain the same for this season…

Right off the bat, in the barely receding darkness the brake-lights came on from the lead vehicle; Dave Peich’s 4x4 Chevy pick-up containing York Hunting Clan Patriarch Dave York, his second son Wayne, and Dave Peich. As the Ford Expedition I was riding in with Billy; York hunting Clan Patriarch’s youngest son, Todd; Son of Joe Jarosz; partner Hunting Clan; Jarosz Hunting Clan’s Patriarch, I lowered the power window to see a brute of a Cow Moose trapsing up onto the over-grown old clear-cut that had garnered the lead-vehicle’s attention.

She was of championship stature, absolutely huge, as big as most Bulls you will encounter. She could have even been the same Cow we encountered last year at this very same spot in the evening on our way out of this locale after hunting the back side of the Scott’s Bog area, only this year the Calf that was with her last year was absent, which made perfect sense because it looked like a two-year-old last season which would have been it’s last winter with it’s momma, if by sheer coincidence it was indeed the same Cow.

I noticed the stark contrast of the white color on her ham-hocks and legs, to the dark brown of her rump and the mottled almost piebald coloration of her back. She was a specimen to behold for sure. I took it as a good omen… I didn’t realize just how wrong I could be…

We spread out along the half-mile hill that took a westward bend right at the mile-marker 9 after both vehicles had driven completely past the area looking for any fresh tracks or crossing sign which was pretty tough in the now frozen hard ground of the cold mornings. We back tracked and parked halfway up the hill where the logging road cuts into the middle of the old over-grown clear-cut on the eastern side of East Inlet road.

I double checked to make sure my compass was till hanging around my neck on the lanyard string I had borrowed off of a recently purchased varmint call which I had transferred onto my compass because it was in much better shape than my compass lanyard and my compass was far more important a piece of equipment to me.

I hoofed all the way up to the very top of the road-way hill and went in at the base of a steep slope of a mountain-like knob that rose even further into the sky. I was the far end of the leg of our hunt going in at the base of the overly steep slope of this knob where we hoped the Deer wouldn’t try to go, but I was there to cut them off if they did, especially since the back-side of this knob was less steep and far more accessible, I had to make sure I got out there to cut-off any skyward retreat they might endeavor.

I immediately shed my fanny pack and woodland-camo Ranger vest and opened the snap on the back pouch and retrieved my quarter-zip collared Realtree camo sweatshirt and donned it to stave-off the crisp morning chill that had hoar-frost clinging to some of the swale-grass and vegetation that dotted the ground here. I wasn’t gonna need it later, so now while it was cold seemed like the best idea.

I applied a squirt of my Doe-in-estrus cover scent to my hat and boots, then re-donned my vest and fanny pack; possibles-bag. I picked up my Remington 760 pump, gave a quick check thru the scope, double-checked the full detachable box magazine was firmly in-place and inserted securely and with one up the pipe already I was good-to-go.

I started in picking my way thru the swale-grass and youthful Spruce trees that dotted the territory. I hugged the steep rocky escarpment on my left as I carefully picked my way inward and off of the East Inlet Forestry road. I was enthused by the quick-find of a few piles of Deer scat showing they had at least passed thru here even it if seemed a little bit aged and less fresh than I would have liked.

I was morally certain this hunt was going to contain some of my best opportunity of the trip so I was doing my “on-point” still-hunting stalk; treading lightly on the balls of my feet, rifle in both hands at the ready to quickly raise to my should as the hopeful expectations may call for, cap down tight over my eyes creating a shadow of darkness that helped to dilate my pupils so I could gain a sharp contrasting superior sight of my surroundings, and I eased along making a little noise as a field-mouse over the crispy frosted grasses being sure not to step on the icy water-spots of the boggy areas.

As I rounded a rocky out-cropping that bulged out from the rock wall to my left I felt as if the habitat seemed to open up, almost too much, almost like an open hardwoods from what I remembered of this locale.

The environment began to change from Spruce grove to Swale-grass draw, to Spruce grove and Swale-grass draw to the furthest Spruce grove I could make-out at a few hundred or so yards out.

The Spruce groves seemed just like the kind of cover the Deer would be looking for to bed or move undetected and I expected one to come bounding out of the darkened Spruce cover at any moment giving me an opportunity to make a halting blat sound and stop one in it’s tracks to look over at me while quartering-away broad-side giving me the quintessential perfect shot.
Right then I heard a crash in the cover coming from below me to the right. Then another, and it was growing closer. My excitement grew as maybe my fantasy was coming true, then I saw movement at about 60 yards out in front of me, and then I recognized two large dark brown forms moving from right to left across my path perpendicular to my direction of travel.

Two Moose, that I had the glorious privilege to observe afield rather than from a forestry road; a momma Cow and a Calf were doing their rolling trot and gettin’ outta Dodge. I got to see the two massive beasts clearly as they made their way along cool and confident of their intent, up and over a rocky outcropping in the swale-grass and out of sight they went.

Neither of them ever paid me any heed or even acknowledged my presence as they ambled across and away from me. The didn’t need to, the Cow was North America’s most dangerous animal with her calf and she new she didn’t have to pay me any nevermind as my puny form inched thru the swale-grass. It was probably a good thing I wasn’t mistaken for a threat as I realized I didn’t have a lot of tree cover to escape a charging stomp-fest if she were of the mind.
I presumed the egression of the Moose abandoning their ground, was at the behest of the movements of one or more of my hunt-brothers, as I had hoped a good Whitetail Deer Buck would do.

I began to note that area was once again growing more open and having far less cover than I had expected. The radio buzzed to life with disappointed voices, in the more boggy cover expected further down from my position, the area had been completely devastated by Moose browsing/feeding. Apparently there was zero Deer feed left in the area including cover trees.
After giving it another half hour or so, this push had been called off as there was zero fresh Deer sign in the area, no sightings other than a handful of Moose that had been pushed around by our movements, and Todd, Jarosz hunting Clan Patriarch; Joe’s son had found the skeletonized remains of a Cow and was retrieving the skull for a keep-sake souvenir.

I checked my compass and chose a heading/path that should take me out mid-way up the hill near Todd’s Ford Expedition that I had exited barely an hour-and-a-half or so earlier. The reasonable feelings of angst, disappointment, and slight dejection at the abject failure of this area that was so full of potential success from last year ran thru my head as I hoofed toward the road hopeful that the radio would come alive with unexpected Deer activity, it did not.

I began to note and observe that every single sapling was trimmed right off at waist height and there wasn’t so much as a bud on anything in this location. No pricker patches with their bright red berries, no whippet buds, no hardwood or mast crops of any kind. There was virtually no reason for Deer to come to this area when all the could achieve was the possibility of being trampled by a Moose if they were to bed-down in the Swale-grass.

The disappointment ate at the pit of my stomach as I exited the woods a few yards above the truck. I never considered that this area wouldn’t even hold Deer after last year’s virtual cornucopia of Deer sign and activity. I was very disheartened and had to drive it out of my mind with the big picture of pristine beauty and the epic nature of this place. Hell I got to encounter two Moose in close natural proximity with nothin’ between us but Swale-grass. That was experience enough to garner the value of the humility of my tiny presence in God’s country. You can’t shake-a-stick at that!

When we all gathered up, I pulled my thermos of coffee from my Realtree APHD camo backpack that I stowed extra possibles in for these day-long trips we took away from camp. Joe’s percolated goodness hit the spot and my mood began to turn again for the better.

Some in the group talked about hearing a Wolf howling deep and dreadful in the distance. I hadn’t even noticed it in my utterly intense focus on hunting the area. My focus had been so zeroed in on my task at hand I hadn’t even noticed anything outside of my immediate surroundings. I had become so in tune with my environment that nothing in the outside world mattered and it was all a feckless moot din that didn’t even register as my senses were so intensely fixated on Whitetail Deer potentiality I had even turned down the volume on my borrowed Icom 2-way radio so that the reports and communications wouldn’t bother my exploits.

I suppose I do take it rather seriously at times and so involve myself in my activities that the rest of the world simply fades out of my perceptions that I become one with the natural wilderness around me. That can’t be bad thing unless I stayed in that zone for too long, and that’s never been an issue, so I logged it in my memory banks as a successful “attempt,” even if no harvest had come of it.

A bad day of huntin’ is always better than a good day at work! -‘Nuff said!

The day was young and it was barely creeping up on mid-morning so I had enough positive thinking reserves to battle the diffusion of semi-dread at the idea of this monumental hunting trip coming to an end, knowing it will come and go like a dream isn’t something you can allow to become part of the experience while it is going on…

We regrouped and retreated back in the direction where the Deer action had been on opening-day. We stopped at a location about halfway between where we had just been and where we had hunted the previous day.

My group took the west side of the road and my Hunting Clan Patriarch’s crew took the east side. We parted at this stretch of East Inlet road that ran along this tributary to the East Inlet Flowage. There was nowhere to go but up.

On both sides of the road the hills turned into mountain slopes that rose to some rather tall peaks. The top seemed like a rather lofty goal. I could see a Raven or two flying about the top expelling their odd croaks and squawks from ahigh.

Billy and I split up from the old over-grown snowmobile trail that went down the an old crossing of the waterway that is no longer used. The saplings had grown up so prolific in the middle of this old trail that it took cunning and effort to traverse what was once an easement of movement in these woods. I went north and he went south on the western side of the forestry road. I climbed into the tight thick Spruce cover that gave me pause and reminded me of my opening day hunt experiences in the peet-bog hell of last year’s opening day last hunt.
I remembered how much I hate Spruce right then…

I could barely push thru the boughs between trunks and stems as I paused in a rare open spot where I didn’t have to feel the scratchy persistent twig branching of the juvenile Spruce trees reaching at me in an attempt to flay the flesh from any exposed parts of my body. I looked down in abject wonderment at how the Moose scat and tracks got into a place where I struggled so mightily to move about. I suspected the existence of Moose-scat fairies that must be little pixie-like beings that floated around above the trees and dropped the Moose scat like little balls of treasure to be found by those unfortunate enough to become entangled in the death-grip of these natural sentinels of God’s green earth…

But that didn’t explain the tracks, so I laughed at my own silly folly and pushed onward. I could see swale-grass ahead thru the tight dark Spruceness of my surroundings and I made for it. I hoped it wasn’t a bottomless peet bog to make the icing on my cake for today. I forced my way thru the last row of jail-cell bar-like branches and had to catch my balance and endeavor some fancy foot-work to keep my footing. Down in the swale-grass was a pick-up-sticks like pile of felled tops/logs from an old attempt by loggers to shore up an access trail over a vernal water-way that flowed freely underneath.

I was rather amazed that I was like 2-1/2 to 3 feet off the bottom which was a slowly flowing and silent passing of water run-off making it’s way toward the bottom water-way that was only yards away to my left. It looked passable, so with a quick prayer to the God’s of broken or sprained ankles I hop-scotched the moist log tangle and successfully navigated my way to the solid shore of a bank where the water ran underground until it met up with the brook only a few short feet away.

The saplings here were of the same non-conifer origins as those I had fought just so I could fight my way thru the Spruce once I left the trail-way, but they were a touch more sparse and passage was less of a struggle.

Here I found semi-fresh Deer tracks and what looked to be some of last years Buck rubs. Still no fresh Buck sign, but a step in the right direction. As I zigzagged back and forth, in and out of the sapling stems, I began to climb away from the water-way and a soft green and brown grass began to over-take the trail floor and angled up and out of the bottoms up the ridge in a vaguely northwest direction. The saplings eventually gave way to an open trail that was soft and silent to traverse. Just as I broke out of the stemwork of what looked like it must be some relation to the sumac of back-home, I noticed a clear game0-trail Deer-run that crossed this trail on this first ridge/plateau above the water-way bottoms.

Heavy traffic wear gave clear indication that this is a high-use travel route at least that the Deer are utilizing. It went right at where my hunt-brother Billy was making his way up to the taller of the two knobs we were ascending parallel to each other some distance apart.

Then the silence was broken by my 2-way radio as Billy gave a report of good Deer traffic sign, with much fresh Deer scat and some evidence of Buck sign. He was confident that he would surely jump some Deer at any moment.

I didn’t want to push toward him, not wanting to encroach on his area, I decided to leave him on this plateau belt and climb higher to eventually lop over and down from above him to cover that means of escape for our intended quarry. I continued up this heavenly, grass-covered trail, enjoying the wide-open space and ease of movement until a short distance later it came to a T intersection with what appeared to be a groomed snowmobile trail running north/south along this ridge/shelf. It was so clear, open, and well-defined that I could only presume it was one of the groomed snowmobile trails that dot the local landscape. I looked up high above me at the peak and made a decision to go for it.

I cut in and left the soft pleasantries of the grass-covered snowmobile trail behind and ascended the steepening slope above me, always looking for the tell-tale Buck rubs or ground-scrapes that would give away their territorial location. Such sign was simply sorely lacking in my mind.
Reports began coming in from the opposite slopes where our other party had entered into this hunt-time. The disappointment was clear in the voices as Wayne; York Hunting Clan’s 2nd son told of more Moose devastation and every thing being nipped off at waist height the higher up he went on the hill. He was heading to the top on his side as I was on mine. I presumed we were at about mirror elevations on our respective sides of the tributary bottoms and the forestry road that ran thru the bottom of this canyon-like stretch of East Inlet road.

I continued up, up, and up until I was within sight of the very top, still on the north side of the break in between the knob-top I was on, and the taller one over Billy’s position. I chose to head south and go for the higher peak.

I eased over the draw that separated the two peaks and began ascending the taller of the two on my side of the East Inlet, I began noticing the tell-tale stunted growth of a gray wall of waist high slashing that told of the same Moose devastation that was being found on the opposite slope. As I neared the highest knob peak, I heard more reports from Wayne and the others in his party on the opposite side which was clear and prominent in my view when I looked back out over the divide to their slopes. I could see that I was now as high as the very top on their side even though my knob peak was yet higher above me.

Their report was; don’t bother continuing up as there is nothing but Moose devastation and an abject void of any fresh Deer sign. They were heading back down to abandon this hunt. There was some Rabbit and Snowshoe Hare cover on an area he wanted to check out on his way back down which gave an edge of hope in his voice.

I on the other hand had come to an impasse. I wasn’t quite to the highest point of the knob I was now on somewhere above Billy’s position, but the top was within view and it showed only more of the same Moose devastation and disappointment. My way south and down was now blocked and an angle of descent so steep as to impress me with visions of stumbling, tumbling, and rolling injury. Although the lack of any sheer cliff face, it was so steep as to allow me to look several hundred feet down showing nothing but the trunks of Spruce trees growing up at sharp angles from the slope.

I had to back-track to find a path of safe descent, so I resigned myself to sit for a moment and take in more of the glorious beauty of the opposite side mountain and the distant peaks behind it as I looked out toward the state of Maine. Coos County New Hampshire is indeed an epic wonder to behold.

Knowing I could have fed the entire party for the week on Partridge (Ruffed Grouse) that I have flushed just within these first day and a half of hunting made for another recollection of differences between these Great North Woods and our hunting haunts back home. Whereas once the Partridge (Ruffed Grouse) were so prevalent at home and a little harder to find/discover in our New Hampshire hunting expeditions, the roles had reversed and they were now prolific and thriving here in The Great North Woods while their numbers are dwindling back home once again like they had done during the Coyote population explosion of the late 1980’s and throughout the decade of the 1990’s.

The more recent and further demise now I tend to attribute to an explosion in the birds of prey populations; The Owls were unprecedented in 2008 and the Hawks are just as much this year; 2009. A steady incursion by the now normal Coyote population, where they (Partridge) had been coming back for a bit which had allowed me to harvest one on my annual Thanksgiving day Partridge-hunt/Deer-scout in 2007 to prepare and consume as my wonderful Thanksgiving day feast, coupled with the vast increase in birds of prey numbers has not let me see a Partridge (Ruffed Grouse) back home since early summer, in the Red Brook Valley of Southampton, in our small town on The Manhan in The Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts.

I back-tracked in a descending loop that had me break out of the woods within 60 yards of where I had cut up and in off the groomed snowmobile trail, where I met Todd; son of Joe; Jarosz Clan Patriarch, and we hoofed-it back out of the woods together down along the grown-in trail, across the Inlet Brook, and back out to the trucks.

No deer jumped and none seen again. The damage the ever increasing Moose population was achieving is clear and present in these locations between approximately the 6-1/2 and 9-1/2 mile-markers. It was disappointing to say the least. I hope the New Hampshire Moose-tag numbers increase to address the problem before the problem reaches critical-mass crisis proportions…

* * *

Still shy of noon time, we decided to head back to where we had successfully harvested Dave’s Doe on day 1 of the hunt. We went back to the spur-road at mile-marker 4. Again some went up it and some of us spread out along East Inlet Road and headed in on the east side.

This time with more confidence and familiarity under my belt, I hunted the area with pleasure and the anticipation of knowing this area held Deer currently even if the adjacent areas didn’t.
I made my way up and in and hunted further than the first time. I hunted right to the base of the slopes of the steep knob. The radio opened-up with scouting checks and Deer sign reports. One of my hunt-brothers was clear up on the very top of the knob, it was Wayne; my Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son. He began to build the reputation of venturing out the furthest of most all of us hunters. He was cool, calm, and collected when hunting thru the woods, mostly all business.

Toward the end of this push Wayne; the 2nd son of my Hunting Clan’s Patriarch jumped some Deer and pushed them to the knob we had hunted the evening before. After another lunch-break in nearly the same spot, of cold-cut sandwiches, chips, an apple, and pickles, we regrouped, piled into the trucks and headed up the mile-marker 4 spur-road that branches off to the east. This time we took up positions on the northern slopes and around the spur-road to the eastern slopes of the steep knob we had covered in the afternoon on opening day of our hunting.
From this point of entry the knob wasn’t such a lofty goal. The peak was a much shorter climb as the spur-road climbed sharply as it rounded the knob. It took a little wind out of my sails for the personal accomplishment of achieving the very top from the western slope-face which is a far longer climb, probably a full half mile of constant ascent. On this side is probably just better than a quarter mile up, but at a much steeper angle of ascent making the climb quite a task.

We spread out hoping to hit the area in a two pronged attack from both the north and the eastern sides of this lofty hill with our two parties. We filed down the spur-road and took up points of entry every couple hundred yards, the spur-road curled around the knob and then took off away from it to the east allowing us to push over to it’s base at the eastern edge and the make an ascent.

I worked my way in below Mr. York; my Hunting Clan’s Patriarch, and above both Todd Jarosz; Jarosz Hunting Clan Patriarch’s son, and Wayne; my Hunting Clan Patriarch’s 2nd son who once again entered from the furthest-out position. I pushed thru a run-off draw and came across an old over-grown logging access trail and moved along a flat-iron that dropped into a marshy bowl before sharply rising up the northeastern slope. I found a position on the northeastern edge of this marshy bowl and settled in to post the position while the other ascended not wanting to bump either hunter on both sides of me as I presumed our routes would converge the closer we got to the top. I decided to cover this likely escape route to collect any Buck that may try to squirt out of the hunt down this draw.

Since my own collections of successful Deer harvests included mostly all tasty scrub-Bucks and no trophy class rackers, I had convinced myself to pass on any Doe as this was the last day we could take any Deer in this WMU (Wildlife Management Unit) A; contained within District 1 in New Hampshire’s Great North Woods Region.

The radio crackled with Moose encounters and bounding Deer reports. I decided I was too close to the guys that went in on the northern slope, so I headed back out to the spur-road. I was amazed to find a run that crossed the road right thru a swale-grass bog, so I took a gamble and walked thru it myself just to see if it was passable as it was only about 50 yards wide and ended right at the spur-road. Sure enough I found it to be walkable, something I hadn’t expected as it was itself in a low bowl which I had to ascend a 10’ bank up to the road bed.

I turned to my right and headed down and beyond where I thought Wayne and make his point of entry. Exploring and experiencing new territory I had never hunted or seen before. I do suffer from the same wander-lust that my kin; Mountain-Man Jim Bridger did, and exploring the lands was a large part of my enjoyment of the whole hunting experience.

I found the swamp that Todd and Wayne had traversed before ascending thru an old clear-cut to enter the hardwoods of the knob slopes. I found Wayne’s Woody-Max; Muck brand boot prints where I thought I was the furthest out of all. I wound my way along a Moose haven of Spruce saplings and swale-grass bog with rises and hillocks of rocky ground and underbrush. There was ample Deer sign in this location which made for some excitement and anticipation.
As the afternoon light began to fade, I wanted to go further out than anyone in my party and I looped back to the spur-road and traveled it out to almost it’s end. I got to a point where the forestry road curved back northward and I began to ascend with the road as it rose toward the next peak over. I saw another hunters vehicle parked on a landing that was surrounded by an old growing-up clear-cut log-landing. I was surprised as these were the first hunters I had seen in the woods. It looked as if they were all grouping back at their truck. I didn’t want to intrude on their deep-woods rendezvous so I turned back and left them to themselves.

I went back down to the bend in the road and explored the rolling swale-grass bog that descended down into a valley that directed run-off from both the mountain tops to it’s back. Light was fading fast and I didn’t want to find myself in uncharted territory as darkness fell, so I returned to my original position over-looking the marshy bowl at the bottom of the northeastern slope of this knob my hunt-brothers were covering.

Wayne and Todd were both just reaching the very top as I settled in and were starting to turn toward a path of descent. I knew they weren’t going to make it out before darkness fell and hoped they were prepared for that eventuality. Both had handheld GPS units and could take a direct path out, but they were still going to fall short of time before daylight ended…

Shortly thereafter, I heard a clear 4-legged skittering coming my way, one of my descending hunt-brothers from the party that entered upon the northern slope must have pushed it out upon his return trek to the trucks. It was very light-footed and agile sounding. It seemed to be coming right at me.

I brought the Remington 760 GameMaster to the ready-up position; finger on trigger-guard, and waited, the sound was drawing closer. It was about 12 yards out behind a clump of immature Spruce and ground-brush. Then it stopped abruptly…

The waiting game was on. I expected it was a lowly Coyote by the softer light-weight skittering sounds of it’s movements as opposed to the sharp and heavier sound of some real weight over hoofs on the ground.

Then I heard a crash back over my left shoulder, that at first I thought may have been a Moose coming down the hillside being pushed by my descending hunt-brothers, so I hunkered down and pulled up my Remington 760 into a high-ready position with plenty of time from the sound direction and distance to prepare for a hopeful encounter.

I kept peeking over at the last place I heard what I was certain was a Coyote back to my right, and then glancing back toward where more crashes and watery smacking rocky noises continued to come from. Those crashing noises began to take on the distinctive bipedal creature sounds of a hominoid walking upright. I began to suspect it was one of my fellow Hunting Clansmen descending the slope making for the spur-road or directly to the trucks with the aid of their GPS…

Shortly thereafter Jasrosz Hunting Clan Patriarch; Joe came into sight at the outskirts of my marshy bowl while making his egress from the hunt. I gave him a little wave of my hunter orange cap, and he came over to trade updates and relate his hunting experiences from this most recent incursion upon the knob. I gave him the heads-up of an easy walk out to the spur-road across the swale-grass bog that was indeed quite traversable, and he disappeared behind me as I wondered about the probable Coyote and scanned my surroundings for any sign of the retreating canine or any other mammalia.

Light was fading fast and the last two hunt-brother were still only about midway back from their trekking. The radio queries gave obvious airs of concern from fellow Clansmen, but the two hunters gave confident reassurances that they’d be out soon enough…

With the very last vestiges of daylight I retreated back across the swale-grass bog to the spur-road and headed toward the location of their point of entry below me to the east. I stood at the very top of the highest point in the road hoping that my sentry silhouette would somehow help in their navigation to the sanctuary of the forestry road back to the trucks.

With nary even a hint of worry the two simply stated that they had lights and their GPS and would be out momentarily, and true to their words both Todd and Wayne came into view below me on the spur-road in fairly short order.

Wayne joked about my shadowy contrast to the lighter shade of the road-bed looked like a sasquatch standing in the road, to which I replied; it must have looked like the smallest bigfoot in existence because I was probably the shortest guy in the camp, at barely 5’ 11” on a good day in my work-boot heels I think I was the only member of either Clan under 6’ tall.

We eased back up the road to the vehicles and climbed in for the trip back to camp. Disappointment was barely overshadowed by the age old adage of a bad day of hunting is always better than a good day of work. The Moose devastation of a place we truly expected excellent Bucks to be found was a bit of a shock and dismay. All in all the day’s experiences were noteworthy and remarkable enough to remember for our lives as part of the grandeur of our hunting heritage lifestyle.

We climbed back up the short stairway to the log cabin camp porch and retrieved a cold beer from the coolers left out on that porch for the free ice cooling of the frigid night air in The Great North Woods of New Hampshire in November. Guns and gear re-stowed in ther respective spots, we settled in for recuperation and a well earned respite after a tough day’s hunt. The perennial infamous Benoit DVD’s came out and drew our ever respectful attention until David; York Hunting Clan Patriarch’s eldest son’s dinner was served; the most succulent perfectly prepared tender steaks ever to grace a simmering pan along with a butter-sauced pasta dish, with all the gourmet culinary garnishment you’d find in a 5-star restaurant graced our paper-plates and plastic utensils with a most delightful meal that hit the spot as well as any ever had. A massive offering of customized nachos and assorted finger-foods showing Dave’s gift for cooking that reminded me of his father’s hunting camp cookery from my youth, barely left room for the filling main course.

A few more ice-cold adult beverages later and the nodding-off began to over-take even the heartiest of hard-core hunters. That Dave Peich though, he can go, He stayed up late with the perennial camp-mouse Dave and kept going late into the night while the rest of us were sawing-logs in preparation for the next morning’s hunt. Another fine day under the belt…

To be continued...