Deer Camp!

 The cabin on the river -- one room, four bunks, kerosene heater, covered front porch, no electricity, no running water: the perfect deer camp.

Mike, Ronnie, and Scott enjoying Ronnie's deer chili.  The food at deer camp is unbelievable.

The company is even better -- this is the real reason you go -- not really to deer hunt!  Scott, Ronnie, Mike and Kevin enjoying a story about a season in the past.

Ronnie and Jim with a good seasons catch so far: possums, raccoon's, grey fox, red fox and coyote. 

I remember this year well.  It was just me and Ronnie that year, and my first year home after a five-year Navy enlistment.  I thought I could navigate in the dark and fell down a fifteen-foot embankment into the river; a limb lodged between Ronnie's legs as we hiked our way down one of the camps rolling hills -- he couldn't quite break free and tackled me like an NFL linebacker coming down the hill.  I drilled a bunch of holes in a Folgers Coffee can, placed an apple scented candle under it and a glass jar of Tink's 69 on top.  The nine-pointer came to it like he was pulled on a string and I had to shoot him before he stepped on top of me. 

This year the weather was not only perfect for hunting, but perfect for catching smallmouth bass out of the river, too, and Ronnie was happy to do both.

Mike is one of those rare hunters -- he hasn't gave in to the trophy chase.  A six-point buck is just as good as a twelve, and a doe is just as good as either.  This hoss' field dressed at two-hundred and twelve pounds.  I don't even know if Mike took the time to count the points, he just cut em' off at the bases and gave them to his son.

A Couple of Good Bucks!

 

 

 

Mum's the Word on These Guys!  I've Been Sworn to Secrecy -- Deduct What you can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There's not too many guy's out there like this one.  You will be hard pressed to find one with such symetry. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The season is starting out good for the hunters of this blog.  Last weekend a Hoosier National 200 pound brute of an eight-pointer walked within range and the shot was as good as it goods.  Someone asked me how long I waited, and I thought about the thirty minutes I sat on stand before he came along.  Then, I thought about the last time I killed a buck and the answer came clear and true:  "Seven years and thirty minutes."

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Big Rub!

I have kept my eye upon this rub high atop a ridge in the Harrison/Crawford State Forest for several years now.  It is in a hard to reach area, accessible from the only pull-off the property has by climbing through the dense undergrowth that a recent selective logging has created.  I hunt this area only when times allows because of the time it would take to get a deer out if the hunt is successful.

 

 

Come October the ridge and its accompanying saddle will be riddled with scrapes and rubs.  Just like it has been every year since I have discovered the place.  Last year I was able to make it in one time.  It was my first hunt of the year and due to the long hike up, the morning sun was well up into the sky by the time I fastened my climber into the tree.  I always tie my bow to the pull up rope with a square knot, but as I felt the weight of the bow on the rope a sinking feeling churned in my stomach -- I thought maybe I first went right over left instead of left over right on my first bend.  My doubt was confirmed when the bow reached about fifteen feet and tumbled back to the ground.  About a minute later, as I unstrapped my stand to climb back down, I glanced to my right and watched a nice eight-pointer -- a deer I definitely would have been happy with -- move past me just within bow range.  If I had put in the locking half-hitch I typically do I think I would have been fine, but I was too anxious to get settled in.

 

Several years ago my hunting partner Kevin killed an ornery looking thirteen-pointer down at the bottom of the ridge.  Last year on opening day of shotgun season we chose this spot to hunt.  But, when we reached the pull-off there were already five vehicles pulled in, so we opted for Plan B instead.

 

 



 

 

 

  

  

 

This year I will go in during squirrel season and do a little prep work on the ridgeline.  There is a large rotting oak I can clear out around its base.  There will be no noisy stand on my back to grab against the underbrush and no pullup rope -- just a light pack with enough food and water to sit all day if I have to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On The Trail Of The Last Mountain Man!

 Shorty Lovelace -- The Last Mountain Man!

 

 

 

 

 Shorty's High Mountain Domain!

High Mountain Golden Trout for Supper.

Hiking The High Sierra's!

The Beaver Tree

 

Last year after deer season had shut down until October I felt the onslaught of cabin fever coming on strong and I knew I had to do something quick.  I looked over at the old sixteen gauge leaning in the corner against the wall and thought of the perfect remedy.  I slipped in to my my boots, stocked up the stove, closed the damper, and headed for the marsh hoping to bag a rabbit or two.

 

Outside of a few kicking towhee's and some scolding titmouse's I don't think I saw much wildlife.  But, I did stumble upon the tallest beaver tree's I've ever seen.  When I saw the first one I thought a deer hunter had cut the sapling down to clear a shooting lane.  I spent a lot of time investigating the tree's and came up with the only solution: they were the highest cuttings from a beaver I have ever seen -- and I have spent close to three decades roaming through beaver habitat.  I have trapped beavers that have topped sixty pounds but, even these guys weren't reaching up and cutting as high as these saplings were topped, so I was still a little skeptical about what actually cut the trees down.

 

Several weekends later I took a tape measure down just to satisfy my curiosity.  If memory serves me correct the tallest cutting was at forty-two inches and the shortest was at forty inches.

 

A couple of weeks after that I was talking to a neighbor who had suffered some beaver damage and had shot one that tipped the scales at eighty pounds. Someone told him it might be a state record, but the very next day he was crappie fishing at Patoka Lake and he talked to a couple of trappers who trapped a beaver that tipped the scales at eighty-four pounds.  Maybe because trappers are a rare commodity anymore some of these rodents are getting a little super-sized.  

A Winter Walk!

New Years Day Judy and I walked to a place I call Judy's Ridge in a section of Hoosier National Forest that borders the Corp of Engineers property along Patoka Lake.  We hiked up to a small wooded knoll where an old forgotten homestead lays abandoned.  As we stood and talked we caught sight of a group of bucks moving out of a wooded thicket a hundred yards in front of us.  We stood motionless and quiet as the four bucks -- two small four pointers, a basket racked six and a big twelve pointer -- worked toward us.  The wind was perfect for us and the bucks had no clue we were there.  When the bucks were fifty yards out one of the small four pointers turned on the big twelve and we watched them spar for a good thirty seconds.  The three smaller bucks moved along a trail off the knoll, but the big twelve gave us quite a show and moved in to about thirty yards before catching our scent and busting away.

 

We moved through the timber to a hidden cove where a large group of mallards had taken residence and we stopped our winter hike to enjoy the sights and sounds of the migrating waterfowl.

 

 

I stopped hunting this section of the Hoosier National years ago.  I always plan to go back, but for some reason I always find an excuse not to.  Some of the sign we found along our hike makes me wish I had made it back this year though.

 



 

 

The snowy hike was a great way to start the year and we knew we were lucky to be a part of the winter woods.  We cut our tracks at the lonesome hemlock and followed our trail through the snow back toward the knoll where we saw the bucks.  We soon found we weren't the only ones following our trail on out -- a red fox, too, had cut our trail and we followed him out of the woods.