Sitting on Hummingbird, Saturday evening just before 7:00 pm, a buck appeared on the bench, just above the game trail where I’d seen a mountain lion* that morning. The deer was a shooter: his horns were beyond his ears, his rack tall, but not heavy. The only trouble was that he was facing me, tightly positioned between two trees, leaving me without a shot.
Calculating all the possibilities, I figured on two plausible outcomes. He could turn towards Bill’s tree, exposing his broad side, which would give me a shot. Or, he could proceed straight. I’d loose sight of him down in the oaks, but if he came into the open area below, that would give me a shot. The buck stood his ground for several minutes, leaving me plenty of time to put in my ear plugs and steady my rifle against my pack. I was prepared for either possibility.
When he finally made his move, it was straight, and as expected, I lost sight of him down in the oak trees. Just in case he might come out of the thicket, and head towards Bill’s tree, I also kept watch on the bench. In a moment, the hunt was over. He hadn’t played into either of my scenarios; rather, he trotted off from whence he came. I saw him briefly on the bench, and in a second, he was gone. It was disappointing, yet at least I’d actually seen him leave. Otherwise, I would’ve been going crazy waiting for him, wondering just where in the heck he’d gone.
Well, that was the evening hunt. Exhaling, I leaned back against the tree dumbfounded with hunting. My earplugs were still in, and my rifle still supported by my pack, when from nowhere, a doe came out of the trees on the hill to my left. And in pursuit was a buck! Knew the buck was a shooter, and since I was already poised for action, it only took a second to swivel to the left, get him in my sight and pull the trigger.
I saw him lurch, then go down. Thought I’d made a good shot, but cocked my rifle, ready, just in case he got up. He got up. He tried to right himself as he attempted to run down the hill. I was going to take another shot, but he disappeared behind an oak tree. I waited. No movement. No sound. Even the doe stood calmly on the hill, watching.
With plenty of evening light remaining, and having a good orientation as to where he ran, I fully expected to find him, dead, under the oak tree. But there wasn’t any sign of him. The doe continued to idly watch me; it wasn’t until I was within 50 yards of her, that she sauntered off. Returning to where I’d actually shot the buck, I followed the blood until I lost the trail. Totally convinced he’d rolled down the hill, I spent the rest of the light looking in that direction. But I couldn’t find him.
At dark I returned to camp. Bill was there. Explaining that I couldn’t find the buck, I said, “Well, I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow morning.” It was heartening to hear Bill’s reply, “We’ll find him tonight.” Under the beams from our flashlights, I showed Bill where I’d shot the deer, the blood and where I’d lost the trail. Patiently, methodically, Bill walked, marking the blood trail by tying tissue to the grass.
About that time, Craig and David joined us, and I was happy for the reinforcements. While Bill was piecing together the blood puzzle, I was convinced the only way the deer could have gone was down the hill, and spent more time haphazardly looking for him. Craig, being the dutiful husband, joined me, but Bloodhound Bill kept ever on the trail of the disappearing blood.
Amazingly, and I mean amazingly, Bill found some more blood. The blood trail wasn’t even close to where I thought it should be. Rather than running DOWN the hill, the deer had taken a 90-degree turn and ran ACROSS the hill. Now having a bearing on which way the deer went, Craig made his way up and across the hill. Craig found the deer crumbled up, dead, against a tree. The deer had run about 100 yards, died, and left a slid mark, with the tree stopping its further decent.
Have to give Bill all the credit. He was confident that we’d find the deer that night, but I now confess to having doubts that we would. I couldn’t imagine being able to track the blood trail in the dark. Fortunately, I was wrong, and Bloodhound Bill knew his stuff. Afterward he patiently, and I mean patiently, instructed me in the art of finding, marking and following a blood trail.
It was a collaborator effort to harvest the deer. To keep the carcass from rolling down the hill, David held onto the horns, Craig, being the dutiful husband, did the skinning and quartering; I held the legs as needed and got the deer bags, and David, Craig and Bill hauled out the meat.
*Sitting on Hummingbird Saturday morning, with the rut in progress, it was a surprisingly quite morning. Only one, lone doe appeared, about 7:00. I sat for another hour. Then just after 8:00, movement caught my eye as something come out of the oak trees onto the bench. Knew from its heavy gait, it couldn’t possibly be a doe. But it didn’t look like a buck either. What a shock, when looking through the binoculars, I saw a mountain lion! Even though it didn’t appear to be in a hurry, he was in the open for only a moment. He was beautiful: a dark sable coat and the unmistakable, long mountain lion tail, which he flicked from side to side. It was one of those special times in hunting, and as fortunate as I was to have experienced it, I still can’t help but thinking that that mountain lion pelt would have looked awfully good on my wall.