Hunting Adventures, From Father to Son

The trip to the river started innocently enough, but by the time we emerged from the last slough, the wind had started to pick up. The calm, even swells rose in height quite rapidly.  We had spotted a sizeable raft of ducks about 200 yards farther out in the open water, and our goal was to get them flying.

Two hundred yards doesn't sound very far, but in an increasingly turbulent expanse of water the size of the Delaware River, it seemed like a mile.  The boat rose and dipped in the waves with enough force to engulf us in spray with each sequence.  The uneven weight distribution of the occupants, coupled with the sudden look of concern in Dad's eyes, convinced me that our plan was in serious trouble and that the possibility of capsizing was real.

It was in that quiet predawn darkness that I heard the first unmistakable sound of deer approaching through the corn!  Muted at first, the noise from brushed stalks grew louder and pinpointed the location of two deer walking steadily on a diagonal path that would eventually bring them to a spot directly in front of my stand at no more than 30 yards.  The corn in that area was not as dense and would offer a shot, assuming good light conditions.  As hoped, the deer emerged from the heavy canopy of stalks where anticipated, but it was still too dark to even determine their sex let alone loose an arrow.  What happened next caught me by complete surprise, but did provide the answer to the deers' identity question.  A clash of antlers broke the predawn silence!

At 8:25, my reflective trance was broken by the rhythmic sound of hooves crunching dry leaves, faintly at first, but increasing in volume with each step.  Whatever was causing the noise was near the top of the ridge behind me and to my right (I was facing the cut cornfield with my back to Stonehill).  I stood statue-still, afraid that the slightest movement would reveal my location.  I could feel the breeze that accompanied the sunrise against the back of my neck, and I was relieved that my scent would not reach the approaching visitor!  The sound filling my ears was being made by a single deer, a large single deer!  There's a telltale difference between the pitapat step of a young doe and the heavy, swaggering gait of an old buck.  I didn't even have to look to know what was heading my way.  My long-awaited confrontation with "Big Boy" was at hand!

Tim signaled for me to follow him down the steep side of the ridge, where we quickly set up on a narrow level area beside a large hardwood.  Tim's third bugle was answered by a series of grunts and chortles less than a hundred yards away and moving closer!  My heart was in my throat as I chambered a shell and strained my eyes to spot any movement below us.  Tim scraped a broken branch against the hardwood just as a bull would do to demonstrate his rage by thrashing his antlers against any and all available saplings and trees!  Then I saw Tim point and whisper, "There he is!"

At 5:30 p.m. the eight rams arose in unison and started walking and feeding in our direction.  Our patience was beginning to pay dividends.  However, our attention had been so riveted to this group that we failed to keep abreast of a new visitor to the bowl.  Having backed away from the scope to rest my eye, I caught movement on the far left rim of the bowl.  I quickly repositioned the tripod and focused on the source of that movement.  I could hardly believe my eyes!  Working his way down into the bowl was the ram of a lifetime, a truly spectacular male carrying heavy, full-curl horns with flared, unbroomed tips.  Chip quickly confirmed my excitement with such comments as "He's the one." and "You won't find a better ram in this whole range!"  Even at that distance he felt we were looking at a 40-inch curl or more, which I later learned are carried by only 12 of every 1,000 Dalls taken in Alaska in any given year!  The pressure was building!  Would he come in our direction and, if so, close enough for a good shot?  Our eyes were glued to his every step, and if wishing plays any part in such matters, then such a mental process was at work.  Slowly but steadily he fed his way closer.

My heart sank as our scanning revealed only distant cattle in the field.  We were positive the buck hadn't seen or scented us during our stalk, but the question remained: Where did he go?  The broad expanse of field was broken only by a narrow, brush-choked ravine, which snaked its way along the plot's right boundary for several hundred yards.  Neil and I had no sooner exchanged glances concerning the concealment potential of the ravine, when out he came!  The big bruiser had apparently headed straight for that spot to check one of his fresh scrapes.  The buck was loping on a right-to-left diagonal path away from us, and Neil's quick assessment of his trophy quality necessitated my making a quick decision and shot before he started putting serious distance between us.

There's something special about the first day of a hunt, when the feelings of excitement, anticipation, and confidence are at their optimum.  Thereafter, as each day passes without success, each or all suffer and decline to some degree.  Some hunters give up, at least mentally, and that's usually when "the hunted" widen their advantage and catch their human pursuers well below their maximum levels of alertness and concentration!  Quite often one's success or failure in taking a trophy big game animal depends on a five-second period of decision and action.  Those caught napping or flat-footed are the same ones you later hear relating their "coulda, shoulda, woulda" stories around the campfire.