Just Don’t Call Me Greedy

Turning my head slowly at the low sound of rustling leaves, I pick-out a fisher moving down the hill at an angle that will send him behind my tree. I’ve seen them on occasion while hunting, walking along silently – the comfortable and confident movement of a predator, in contrast to the nervous caution of prey. Fishers own the deep woods, and I love to get a long look at one, but they’re pintsized vicious hunters and I didn’t want to meet this guy face-to-face in my treestand. There’s something about a fisher cat that makes pant legs feel like the Lincoln Tunnel. I twisted in my seat to keep my eyes on him as he crept in back of me, and then he was gone. Twisting one way and then the other to scan the woods in back of me, but no luck. He’d vanished.

7:30 AM and I’d been at it since first light. I live on 20 acres that are conveniently within the Maine Expanded Archery Zone so I can have a leisurely breakfast and just walk a few hundred yards to my stand when it’s beginning to get light. My morning stand allows for discrete entry and is located in a spot where deer are funneling around my field and buildings. This September morning I had heard my daughter, and then my wife, leave in their cars – my daughter’s on the Greely High School varsity volleyball team (seven years in a row state champs!) and they had a game up in Augusta. It was a beautiful day with forecasted temperatures to hit the 70s, but the dawn was crisp.

Where was that fisher cat?

This is my favorite stand and it’s in a hot spot. I thought of all of the deer I’ve seen in this particular corner of land over the years. The buck my son and I jumped as we still-hunted back to the house for lunch. The doe and twins that wouldn’t come into bow range because a woodpecker behind me had them spooked. The four-point I arrowed at 17 yards. Last year’s “birthday buck” that finally took the curse off my 12 gauge pump gun. In an effort to convince myself that this tree was the place to be this morning, I ticked through the 10 deer that I had seen here over the years. Certainly a great spot, by Maine standards, but nothing special this morning.

The noise of the fisher caught my attention as he trotted through dry leaves right below my stand. He crossed the path I walked in on that morning (scent-free everything of course) and stopped to sniff the ground. Liking what he smelled, he bloodhounded my steps right over to the tree. Pausing for only a second, he climbed straight for my pant leg 20 feet above. I really didn’t want to wait and see how it played out, so I made a kiss-kiss noise to stop his accent. Not only did he stop, he turned in one fluid motion and sprinted for the cut-over land to the north.

Bow hunting provides more than ample time for reflection. I love being out in the woods with the expectation and anticipation of imminent action at any time. Yet the anticipation of hunting requires the regular nourishment of action – without replenishment it will devolve into boredom. About 5 minutes after the fisher bolted I heard a screaming cry from the cut-over land. Thinking that a coyote had gotten the fisher, I took my bow from the hanger and kept an eye out for a possible shot opportunity. After several minutes I hung the bow back up, and 10 minutes after that I saw the fisher bounding away from me 100 yards to the east. Must have been the fisher’s rabbit breakfast I heard.

Ok, I like sitting in a tree as much as the next guy, but this is getting old. It’s now almost 8:30 and I’m thinking of all the stuff I should be doing today. My morning spot is between a forest of oaks to the west and the bedding area of the cut-over land. Any deer should have finished their foraging and be safely tucked into bed by now. These thoughts are interrupted by a noise behind me. I look over my right shoulder and see three deer coming in to feed under the oak tree 20 yards away.

They look a little nervous, but settle down to eat acorns. It’s the second Saturday of the season and I’ve been out of venison for two months – a tender doe in the freezer would really take the edge off this hunting season. I slowly stand and lift the bow from the hanger. After a few minutes the large doe walks under my tree, with the others right behind. She reaches my trail at the same spot the fisher did and puts on the breaks. The three deer bunch up directly under my stand, like a mythical three-headed beast looking around to see where the source of the scent trail is. I look down on their backs through the metal grate of my stand; each of the rubber boots they smelled is framing them from above. Can they hear the sound of the beating heart that fills my head?

The big one decides that she has had enough and moves toward the cutting. As she walks away from me I draw my bow and put the kisser button to my lip. She is quartering away hard as I put the pin behind her shoulder and release the arrow. She dashes for the cutting. The other two hop about a bit in confusion, settle down, and then wander off slowly. I have another doe tag, but the season runs into December and taking two does this early feels greedy.

Elation! The adrenalin rush of the moment begins to fade, replaced by the warm feeling of satisfaction from a difficult job well done. Settling in to wait a bit before recovering the deer, I text my wife, “I got a doe!”

Another noise and a spike buck is walking out from behind my right side, now standing near where the doe was when I shot her. He looks around nervously – can he smell her panic? Did he see her run off? The phone is still in my hand so I start snapping pictures. I love being this close to a deer during the hunting season – a vague feeling of power because he could be mine. He looks well-fed and healthy, but there is no way I’m going to put my one buck tag on him. I don’t even have an arrow nocked. After several minutes he meanders back to an oak that’s blocked from sight by the trunk of my tree. Twisting to see where he is I spot the two other bucks that he is traveling with. One is a very nice 3 ½ year-old eight pointer – bigger than anything I’ve ever shot. I know this guy from a few weeks back as I glassed him at dusk in my field. He is with his “toady” – the younger buck that serves as a pre-rut buddy. The older buck is definitely a shooter. Could even make the 125 inch Pope & Young minimum.

I like to remove the quiver from my bow when I’m in my stand so the bow is lighter and has less on it to get in the way. I hang it in the tree above me, and that’s just where it is now – holding my four back-up arrows. I stand up slowly and reach up over my head with both hands to carefully pry out an arrow. It’s an awkward movement with the bucks just a few yards away, foam in the quiver squeaking, blood pounding in my ears. My biggest buck and I’m fumbling around like a novice. Arrow in hand, I nock it and clip my release onto the string loop. The big eight-pointer is now walking toward the cutting, right to the spot where the spike had been standing a moment ago, where the doe was when I shot her 10 minutes back. He’s broadside as I draw and settle the pin behind his shoulder. I touch the release and he falls right over like a stuffed animal! Only later do I see that the arrow hit fine twigs from a dead hemlock branch, all but invisible in the shadows, and deflected to hit him in the spine.

I nock another arrow and finish him with a perfect heart/lungs shot. The adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream has me buzzed to the limit. I remember a hunter on TV describe this feeling, wishing he could get a drug that made him feel like this – I’m sure there is one … and it’s illegal in all 50 states. I text my wife again “got a buck too!”

As I climb down from my stand an element of doubt begins to fester – did I shoot the big guy, or his toady? It all came together so fast. Did I make a mistake? After taking the doe I wasn’t desperate for more meat this early in the season, though it wouldn’t go to waste. I made the snap decision to shoot him because of the size of his rack and body – a rare opportunity that no Maine hunter would easily pass. He’s facing away from me as I walk up, but there is no ground shrinkage. He is a perfect 3 ½ year old eight point that’ll weigh over 170 lbs, and come-in just short of P&Y.

I dress him and haul him up to where I can take him out with the tractor, and then go back to get the doe. It’s shaping-up to be a beautiful day – and the perfect start to the season.

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