Sliding a round into the chamber of the silver worn model 70 for the second moose hunt in as many months, just as the sun was breaking, I was feeling pretty confident.
 I knew the moose numbers had diminished from the haydays of this mountain,  aptly named Theodore Fricker Mountain, for a man who had witnessed it first hand. Not only witnessed it, but lived it. 
 The hump over the hill is not tricky or dangerous, but it’s long, steep and very demanding. As leg busting as it is, the rewards are worth it. The views are as breathtaking as is the leg testing hike. 
 Throw a moose into the remote, long packing that would be required if we were successful   was why we contacted Meat Cove Outfitters .
 My brother in law drew a much coveted moose tag for the highlands of Cape Breton in the non motorized zone. He graciously asked myself and another brother in law to be a part of his hunt. I was thrilled to get the chance. I’ve applied some 30 years without being selected.
  Hector, who owns Meat Cove Outfitters, told us to dismiss the old stories of seeing a dozen or more bulls a day to look over for just the right one. He said, be prepared to walk all day with few moose sightings. He did say however, with a commitment to hunting hard, and being prepared to stay for the entire week, we had a good shot at tagging out. 
 I appreciated the straight forward talk and we were willing to give 100%. Plus, we were staying in tents camps which were close to where we were going to hunt. We met the guides the first afternoon and got paired up. 
   






​The first 3 days of the hunt we covered countless kilometers. Actually they were counted. Two days were over 20 K while the middle one checked in around 11. We experienced snow rain and wind, with brief moments of clear skies. 
 My guide Sheldon ( I hunted with Hector one full day) was very fit and I had to dig deep to keep up. He kept offering to stop, but there was no way I was gonna quit on a once in a lifetime chance for this hunt. We circled giant barrens. Pushed thru brush laden with wet snow. The type of snow that just laughs at pricey gortex. 
 There were moments where I literally had to muster strength just to put one foot in front of the other. But we trudged on. The norm was to leave long before daylight and return long after the sun had set. I would eat, practically hug the woodstove for 30 minutes and crawl into my sleeping bag. Sleep came easy.
 For the fourth day, a plan was devised if I was up to it. And to steal a phrase from a well known series/movie , we were to “ boldly go where no man had gone before”. Almost literally. They had never explored the area we were about to hunt. They had hunted it from each end, but had never hunted the ground in the middle between the two access points. Our plan was to hunt straight through. With the short days, it was made clear to me, rests would be few and far between. In short, we needed to hustle along and hope to spot a moose. The plan's recipe was simply to cover as much ground as possible with the hopes of crossing trails with a moose. The key ingredient was determination. 
 I was impressed with the willingness of Sheldon to tackle this trek. I can say without hesitation Meat Cove Outfitters give 100%. All day. Every day. 
 On day 3 my brother in law saw a big bull but the shot opportunity never presented itself. It wasnt the range, the bull was close, but the only part of the bull in the clear was it’s wide pale white paddles. It fed away unharmed. 
 At age 60, I’ll take whatever fitness compliments I can get. Two I walked away with from this brutal hunt were :

1. “ You must be hurting, because I am” 
2. “You're a lot tougher than you look”

 There’s no doubt in my mind, covering those kinda distances while hunting rough terrain are or soon will be nothing more than great memories.  In fact, more than once, Sheldon said “are you sure you wanna keep going”?  
 My reply was always “ let’s go, one day soon I won’t be able to do this” . He later told me that he tested me on the first day. Mostly because I said I could go all day and anywhere he went I could go . He said I passed after the first 20 k day. 
 But I’ve digressed while patting my own back….
 Back to thumbing those 7mag bullets into the model 70 from the opening paragraph. We started cutting more and more fresh sign in the falling snow. Easily the most sign I had seen on the hunt. My hopes bagan to soar. 
 I knew when we hit unfamiliar territory as Sheldon stopped more often to check his GPS. I know we were really into legit wilderness when I noted he had not one but 2 GPS’s , in case one failed or became lost or broke. 
 After 4 hours of steady walking, other than to check where we were on the GPS, we were in what Hector and Sheldon referred to as “Pole Thickets”. These pole thickets were great for still hunting, especially with fresh snow. Visibility was 75 yards or more in many places we crept through. 
 We followed a couple fresh tracks but they meandered in a direction other than where we needed to head. And we didn’t have the luxury of following them for a couple hours. So we reluctantly let them be.
 Just before 11 am, Sheldon stopped to check our whereabouts on his GPS. As he was looking at the hand held unit, I glanced to my left and saw a huge cow staring at us from maybe 50 yards.  
 I assessed the shot situation before saying anything to Sheldon. I noted she was mostly facing us and there was signicent brush between us. I peeked through the scope and thought I had an opportunity, albeit not a perfect shot. 
 Although this transpired in seconds my thought process went something like this: You carry this magnum for a reason. You practiced with it at the range through the summer. It may take a second shot, but with the fresh snow, odds are very good you will recover the moose. 
 Right or wrong….I decided I would attempt it. I was nervous but felt pretty confident. I whispered to Sheldon that I saw a moose and was gonna shoot.
 The cross hairs bobbled on her big chest. I picked slightly to the right to hopefully break some shoulder bones as well do some major damage to the vital organs. 
 I touched off a round. She took off and I was unable to hit her again despite Sheldon saying “ shoot her again….shoot”
 The shot felt good I told Sheldon but the cow didn’t shudder or otherwise appear to have been hit. We waited a bit and went to where she had been standing. We found blood pretty quick. Not as much as I had hoped for but it was blood. We opted to wait a few minutes. I tried to eat a sandwich to kill some time but I wasn’t able to finish it. 
 After a bit and with hindsight , perhaps a bit too premature I took off on the blood. I hoped that it would get heavier, but it didn’t. Right about then I was butt kicking myself for taking that shot. But we had blood and plenty of daylight. Neither Sheldon or myself give up easily.
 We hadn’t gone very far when I saw movement up ahead. It was the cow getting up. She was up and moving by the time I shouldered the rifle. I found her in the scope and squeezed the trigger. This shot drove her sideways but she kept going. 
 After a short break, we picked up the trail again. This time the trail was heavier and I was sure we would find a dead moose at the end of it.  We were lucky to have the snow. It made tracking pretty easy. I felt she must have been hit fairly hard with the first shot as she had bedded so quick. Although there was not a ton of blood in the bed. 
 Rounding a spruce I saw her going again. I was dumbfounded. 
 This time, we decided to give her another hour or more before taking up the track again.
 Sheldon was checking his gps when I noticed an odd brown spot 30 yards in front of me. I took a small step to the left and the cow was bedded.  One shot to her neck ended it.  
After the normal congrats and pictures, Sheldon went back to his gps and said with a big grin“ Hector’s gonna kill us” .  It turns out we were just about in the worst spot we could have been. Quite literally , we were right in the middle from the access points from either end. 
 We had no cell coverage to let the others know we had used the tag. Luckily, the previous evening we said if we killed, we would fire a couple quick shots once we found the moose to let the others know to stop hunting. We were the only hunters on the mountain so it was a decent plan. 
 Although it was barely noon time, with a 4 hour hike back, there was no way we could get the  moose out this day. We completed the field dressing and then we rolled the cow under a nearby spruce tree and as an added protection we covered her completely with spruce boughs. As an added protection from birds and coyotes we rolled/pushed/pulled the paunch and entrails about 50 yards from her. 
 We shouldered our packs and beat it to a spot where we could get cell coverage to let the others know. That turned into about a 2 Kilometer forced march until we got a bar on the phone. But we did manage to get a text out. 
 Early the next morning we returned with packs and saws. Five able bodied guides ( plus me) made the loads manageable. It was still a grind tho. 
 I enjoy a hard hunt, but I will advise anyone drawing a zone 5 tag to try and get into some kind of physical shape. It will make your hunt more enjoyable and quite likely more successful. 
 I should add, earlier weeks or weeks in the rut will likely produce more moose sightings and a bit easier hunting. By the time our week rolled around they had already taken 12 bulls I think from the general area. 
 My 30 year itch to hunt the highlands had been scratched. 
​

 “ You won’t have any cell coverage up on Black Top but don’t let that stop you from doing  lots of long distance calling “   Terry Smith told me over the phone when I told him I had drawn a NB non-resident moose tag. 
  The anticipation was fever pitch . I’m over the moon with any chance to hunt moose, however this hunt was going to be epic for a few reasons. 
  Firstly, although as a non-resident I was compelled to use an outfitter and guide. Luckily for me, I am friends with both the outfitter and guide I would use. It’s a bit of a tangled web, but I work for the outfitter ( North Shore Guide Service) each spring at their black bear camp in New Brunswick. I have also hunted with the owners. More importantly we are friends. 
  Randal,who acts as the head guide at NSGS and myself became steadfast buds over the last 3 or 4 years while working together guiding bear hunters. Many a spring evening, while waiting for hunters who were on a bear stand, we would kick back on the side x side and talk hunting. We would discuss hunting out of Randal’s camp if I was ever lucky enough to draw a coveted moose  non -resident tag. Little did I know 2020 would provide that opportunity.
   I couldn’t believe  my good fortune albeit through unfortunate  circumstances. With travel restrictions due to Covid 19, many of New Brunswick’s non - resident moose tags were going unclaimed. As a result, there was a subsequent draw for those who had applied for the annual lottery but open only for those who resided within the Atlantic Bubble . 
  That dramatically cut down the odds, as it left only Nova Scotia, PEI, and Newfoundland. As a result,  my name was drawn in the second draw.  Hasty plans were put in place to have me in camp. Both Randal and Terry were committed with other hunters but felt certain Randal’s scouting had delivered more than enough places for me to hunt with good odds at a nice bull. 
  I drove up on Sunday previous to the opener which was on the coming Tuesday. We scouted, checked cams and kept our eye on the weather forecasts. Things were looking great on all accounts. Tuesday couldn’t come quick enough.
  As is sometimes the case, despite best laid plans, Tuesday,  despite a full day in the mountains I didn’t see a moose. I wasn’t disappointed as rubs and scrapes had appeared where there were none the day before.
  The other hunters in camp had all seen moose opening day. A couple nice bulls were even passed in the hopes a bigger one would come to the calls. 
  Gerald who was helping me get a feel for lay of the land, spotted a big one smashing trees as he was covering some new territory for us keeping an eye out for rutting activity.
  Wednesday broke grey, wet, and cold. That damp kind of cold that goes right through you and settles in your bones. After a short calling session where Gerald had seen the rutty bull the day before, I made my way to a popup blind we had set up a couple days earlier. 
 One reason was to get a bit of shelter from the weather, and the second reason was just 200 yards away from the blind, the trail cam showed an abundance of bull activity. I had a packed lunch and opted to settle in for the day. I was prepared to stay till dark, or I shot a bull. 
  Around about 1030 am ( just as some of the enthusiastic keen eyed optimism begins to wane) I hit the electronic call and let it run for about 15 minutes. On Randal’s and Terry’s advice I played it at a volume I would have thought was too loud. The cow calls echoed back to me and bounced off the mountains all around me.
 The call was just barely off and I heard the unmistakable snap of a horn hitting branches coming through the thick black timber. No sooner had I shifted ever so slightly to focus on the distants tell tale snaps when I heard the first deep grunt. Even from 200 yards there was no doubt what it was.
 Instead of coming up the cutover, it was coming up just inside the treeline. It was literally grunting with each step. Although out of sight, the bull was easy to track. A rough calculation of where I would first see it told me my slightly opened window would not offer a shot. Rather than risk messing with noisy velcro I just slipped out the back door of the popup.
 The  “urrhh-waa - urrhh-waa’s” drew near.  I kneeled and impatiently waited reminding myself to enjoy every second of this encounter. No matter how it would ultimately unfold. 

  Then I saw the bull. Sides heaving. Nostrils flaring. Intent of finding the cow he had heard minutes earlier. The grunts were now like a bass drum in my ears. The thumping in my chest and temples was all my own doing. 
 From the trail cam pics I knew there were at least two big bulls  frequenting this back corner of the very large cutover. I dearly wanted one of them. One glance at the bull and I knew it was one of the two, albeit the smaller of the two. 
 I’ve mostly bowhunted only for the last 25 or 30 years and many of those years with traditional archery gear.  Almost like a ton of bricks smacking me in the head, I realized I could kill that bull from 50 yards, I didn’t require him to come any closer.  I settled the crosshairs right between those 50 inch antlers and gave it some serious consideration. For whatever reason I elected not to pull. Likely because I’m not that good, but I've never been a headshot fan. 
 I dropped the crosshairs down to the center of that massive chest. If it’s not clear, the bull was straight on to me. Again. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze the trigger of the ol 7 mag.
 Seconds ticked by. I thought to myself, “that bull has no clue” he’s fooled hook line and sinker. Nevertheless , I held the scope on him, my thumb resting on the safety. If he turned to leave or appeared to get suspicious, I’d take the shot. 
 Perhaps 2 minutes ticked by. The ball was in the bull’s court. He made the next move and it was in my favor. He started walking out towards the cutover. 
 Slightly before the relative open of the cutover, he turned hard left and was walking towards me. Still grunting. Still unaware. 
 I had to let him almost walk by me from under 30 yards to get the broadside shot I wanted. As if he was following a TV hunting show script he was headed directly for an opening offering up a perfect shot. I simply followed him in the scope. 
  Some days are diamonds, to top it off, he stopped perfectly in the opening, still unaware.
 The safety flipped off  almost instinctively. My finger found the trigger and sent off one 162 grain air mail special. 
 The bull folded on the spot. I cranked another round into the chamber and covered him, but he was not getting back up. I waited 2 or 3 minutes and stood up slowly. 
 The view before me was as spectacular as I had hoped. A near 50 inch bull moose down for the count. There was no ground shrinkage on this fella. 
 Seconds later, I heard another unseen moose running away back into the safety of the timber...was it the bigger of the two bulls? 
 I unloaded the gun and let the moment sink in. 
 In this backcountry there’s no cell coverage so I would have to wait to share my good fortune with friends and family. 
 And you know what? I was just fine with that.
 The big bulls of Black Top Mountain didn’t disappoint. This was only my 5th moose, but by far the largest bodied I had ever taken. Maybe the biggest I’ve ever personally seen. For sure there’s bigger, I just haven’t seen them up close. 
 With luck, maybe I’ll get to hunt Black Top again someday. 
 

​

 Thirty years ago I arrowed my first black bear. I was 30 years old. Time flies they say when you are having fun. I couldn't agree more. 
  For some reason, these two dates jumped out at me today, out of the blue, just as I was contemplating getting out after some grouse for the afternoon. However, I find myself banging away at the keyboard.
 What has changed over those thirty years? More aptly ... What hasn't?
 The first bears we tagged  often drew an audience at my little camp from passerbys. The most common question was " Did you shoot that around here?"   When I replied yes , many long time local residents would say they had never seen one, or had only ever seen a couple. 
 Contrast wtih today in that same area, and it's almost hard to beleive.  I hardly know anyone who hasn't  spotted bears while just going about their daily routines. Multiple bear sightings are now the norm.
 The same could be said of bear hunters. Even 30 years ago, not many had an interest in bears. There was a common misconception of bear being a foul smelling, unfit to eat animal, hardly worthy of bonafide big game status. 
 Boy, has that ever changed!   I'd say at least 50% of the hunters I know  now hunt bear. I hardly know anyone who has tried  properly tended bear meat who didn't love it. The hunters I know who pursue them each fall cherish the meat as much as they do venison. 
 Another big change over over the last 3 decades is bait. What I once got more than I could use for free, it's common now to have to scrounge and chase down every possible lead to obtain a sufficient amount of bait to run a bait or two. Paying for it is now often the norm. Many who pay for it, consider themselves lucky to have a source, even if it includes parting with a few dollars. 
 I still contend that in NS black bears have not obtained legitimate big game status, such as deer or moose have. That discussion often leads to ruffled feathers  ( admittedly often mine). With age, sometimes comes a bit of wisdom, or maybe in my case, I've just learned to bite my tongue.  And, perhaps more impotantly,  to accept that my personal opinion does not make it correct. But given a platform ( not that it happens very often) or asked I'll give it. 
 I've never shot a bear with anything other than a bow. Many taken with a traditional bow. Some with wooden arrows. Other with aluminum or carbon shafts. Some with hand sharpened broadheads. Others with blistering sharp out of the package broadheads. Some in the morning hours, but the majority in the evening hours. 
 Looking back, some of the most lasting warm n fuzzy memories are simply of the folks who I shared bear hunt with.  Succesful and unsuccessful seasons. . Folks I sweated with, through the summer months lugging bait while swatting flies away !  Some of whom I shared a camp meal of bear with on a cold winter night while down at the camp hunting rabbits or just enjoying a January evening at the old camp.
 This years bruin was no exception. I shared the whole process from start to finish with a good bud. I enjoyed every second of the whole process. There's no doubt, it was memorable for a host of reasons, but perhaps the most lasting memory will be the drag out under the stars. Longest and toughest one I've been a part of. Nothing more bonding in my experience though, than a seriously back busting drag with folks who are working just as hard as myself to get my critter out to the truck. It's a favour I hope to be able to return. Such is bear hunting to me. 
  Bears have been a large part of my hunting life. Fingers crossed, maybe I'll have another 30 years of bear hunting friends, baiting, and adventures to write about in 2050. 
  

The day started like so many other fall mornings have over the past 16 or so years since moving into our house. 
 Sliding the scratched and slightly leaky canoe into the pond in the pre-light stillness. Reaching the end of the pond and dragging the canoe and gear up the steep hill into the big lake. 
  Somewhere near the head of the lake and owl hoots, as if on a timer, about every two minutes. Another is  heard replying nearer to me. 
  The only sound, other than the chatty owls is the dipping of the paddle into the calm water. It's a relaxing sound if ever there was one. 
  Dreading turning on the headlamp, I make a couple of missed location attempts at my trail leading to my stand. With daybreak less than 30 minutes away, I hit the light and discover I am only 15 yards off my trail, but was unable to see anything in the inky blackness.
  Settling into the stand as the ridge comes alive never disappoints. How many times I've witnessed it, I have no idea. All I know is it never grows routine. 
  It was largely a pretty uneventful  morning.
  Around 930 or so, despite the mild temperature, I was getting a bit of a chill as I had worked up a sweat on the trip in, and now the damp T-shirt felt as though it was just pulled out of a deep freeze.  
  I no sooner had the thought that I'd just sit till 10:30 or so, when I caught movment. Sure enough, it was the mature barren doe I knew was here. I had decided that she would fit the bill for my first tag a couple weeks ago, even before the season opened.  However, now that she was 14 yards away, I was unsure. For whatever reason, I'm hardwired to shoot bucks, even smaller ones. 
  With the shoot or not to shoot raging in my temples, when she turned broadside and looked the other way, I decided not to look a gift horse (deer) in the mouth. I drew my new bow back and settled the pin on her. 
  It seemed easy and steady compared to the recurve bows I have hunted with the last almost 20 years. I touched the trigger on the release.
  I saw the arrow strike, or rather I saw the fur part right where I was aiming, well perhaps a couple inches higher. The strike was quieter it seemed than those big heavy trad arrows. 
  For a brief second I thought maybe I was seeing things and missed by her reaction. She took 3 jumps and started blowing !   Two jumps one direction and the 3rd hard to her right, which put her 6 yards from the base of the tree I was perched in. 
  I started reaching for another arrow, but I could see a toonie sized hole right behind her shoulder. To be honest, I was unsure what to do. I feared the additional movement might start her, and although my eyes are not what they use to be....I could see the entry hole, and while I couldn't see the exit, blood was clearly seen dripping from her far side. I held tight.
   Seconds ticked by as if I had my hand on a hot stove element. Again, I thought about taking another shot. But I trusted my eyes.
  Then, and I add it only because it happened, she began to lick the entry hole. Not alarmed. Not in distress. This went on for a couple minutes. 
  Let's say 2 minutes  elapsed. I almost couldn't beleive what my eyes were telling my brain. Again, I reached for a new arrow but then I heard her cough. Breathing grew more labored ( mine too I suspect) . Her  legs grew unsteady ( mine too ).
  She mustered enough strength to take a final leap and crashed. 
  It messed with my head a bit. Twenty years ago, it may have bothered me less. I don't know. 
  Ive long said hunters hold more respect and understanding for life (and death) then do those who only buy meat from the super market and are long removed from the process of how meat gets in those neatly packed styrofoam  trays ( styrofoam  !!) packages. 
  I'm chalking it up to sharp broadheads and a quiet bow.  
  In the end, I'll own it and consider it a job well done. The lack of distress on her part is comforting. 
  

  Today I took my friend Todd for a walk in the woods.
  The worse kind of walk. A walk Ive had to take with too many of my friends. It's a walk unlike no other. I hope it's the last of it's kind, but I doubt it will be. I hope I'm wrong on that though.
  I awoke to the heartbreaking news that my good friend had passed away overnight. Living many thousands of miles away maybe is what made our hunting trips together so memorable. It was an undertaking to make it happen. But yet, he hunted bears here in NS, Canada and I chased elk in his beloved mountains of Colorado.
   The news came with the normal shock associated with such unexpected moments. It was compounded by the fact I am many thousands of miles away. At first I went for a long paddle and checked some trail cameras.  When that refused to quell my anxiety, I went and picked blackberries. Just to keep busy and be in the out of doors harvesting what nature so generously gives us.  You see, nature was our bond.  Nature's every aspect and the love of wild places and the animals that call such places home ran through our veins.
  I came home with a bucket of blackberries, but the normal sense of accomplishment was dull and never reached it's full potential. I sat on a stump for much longer than I planned. The cool autumn breeze was washing over me and it nullified the warming sun on my face. It was a handsome place to sit. The smells were there. The sights were there. All the sensations were in play. But they struggled to release any endorphins or whatever it is that makes a nature nut like me feel satisfied in such a pretty spot.
  I recalled how on other such solemn occaisions I took  freinds and family I had lost on a long walk in the woods. To burn off some pent up feelings but in a place of beauty. A place lost ones would have appreciated and enjoyed.  A place to unpack things. A place to square things up. A place to say farewell. A place to confront the new reality. Places I am more at home saying goodbye than the  more formal funerals that will happen.
  As I walked, I had one vivid memory. It was walking in the mountains bow in hand, while Todd walked me through some of his favorite elk spots. The trees were tall like cathedrals . In reality, such places are our churches. That's where I most feel spirtual.
  Today, I stopped on a hill I thought Todd would have liked. No, I know he would have liked. My thoughts were my goodbye words. I spoke as if he was beside me. Just like when we shared those stumps on previous hunts. No differant. In my mind and heart he was there right beside me. His big smile,huge laugh and boyish enthusiasm were never more alive.  
  I unpacked a lot on this particular sit. Too much or not enough I won't know until the coming weeks and months. More than me though , I hope his kids and grandkids, his true joys in life, find a way to survive and thrive despite this devistating event. That's what I really wish, that they have some version of a walk in the woods. Whatever that may be.
  I know this though, this exact location has been etched into my heart . I'll be able to find it even in the darkest hours. The worst storms. I know where it's at. No matter how many miles I may find myself from it during my travels... it will always be close. 
 It's the place I took my good friend Todd Ray for a walk in the woods and laid him to rest. 

Rest easy friend. 
 
  
​  
 
  

I did something last year I've never done before. I kept a diary each day on stand. It's interesting to look back on. And it's only been a few months. 
  From overnight stays accompanied by some close range coyote vocalizations. To critters walking by from feet away. Cold mornings drinking luke warm coffee. Having a heater but not lighting it for fear of noise or odor. 
  Those were the highlights. There were indeed some lows, but sitting by the window looking out at a snowstorm from the comfort of my living room, this particular addition to the growing collection of scattered thoughts found on this page, are all positive.
  Scrolling thru the unedited, hastily jotted down thoughts while on stand, one particular morning jumped out at me. I remember it well. 
  So close. So far. Excitement. Disappointment. Polar extremes, at least in relation to a hunter's time on stand. 
   I don't believe I've ever seen 4 bucks all exerting rutting behavior all at the same time while gripping a bow. 
   Ugh...I'm getting too long winded....to the point, here's the words I jotted down with cold fingers on my phone that morning. 
   
Nov 18, 930 am

Saw 4 bucks this morning. 3 good ones
I would have shot any of them tho if given the OP. The first one followed a couple does out . Not really chasing. Just following. Soon as the does stopped to feed...he bedded down
I think hes about wore out. I watched them for 30 minutes. The bedded buck seemed quite content just watching the does. Then I noticed a swollen necked buck approach the bedded one. He took a little run at him. It really wasn't a fight..but antlers collided once. The bedded buck ran off 70 yards. The bigger buck followed the feeding does. One doe slipped in and started feeding 17 yards from me . Joined by another a minute later. Off to my left I could see two more bucks. I looked back up the hill and could still see the first two. With glasses I could see 3 eight pointers and either a 4 or 6.
With 4 does and 4 bucks in front of me, i gripped the widow. I really felt like it was gonna come together. I felt that way for 45 minutes. The biggest buck wondered within 50 yards. Eventually one doe went into the woods. The biggest buck eventually followed her. The buck that had been bedded went in same trail. This left two bucks in front of me. They fed for 10 minutes . The bigger of the two walked off. The last buck hung around for 10 more minutes but he too followed the others.
It was then I let a big breath out and realized how tensed up i was.
I'm not sure what to do. Grunting had almost 0 effect. Are they purposely avoiding this blind? Have i over hunted it ? Or is it just good luck on their behalf? I may look for a spot to hang a stand on my way out.
Wow, steady buck action. Passed two more small bucks. With this much action its gotta happen soon...I think....I hope



 Well, hope and think doesn't get it done I'm sorry to say. I often think I should have been more aggressive and hung another stand or two ( I saw these bucks for about one week daily) . But I didn't. So that's kinda like the well known crying and spilled milk story.

  I've recovered from it now. I consider it a plus. My cam captured a bit of the action. While I don't need it to recall an awesome time in the blind...I find myself looking at the picture periodically. It does capture the bucks on cam. I thought for sure the closest buck would have taken an arrow that morning. 

  Next year it is ! 

There are many things that make up a great adventure. 
  Perhaps one of the biggest is the size of the buck, bull, or boar. There are however, many other aspects that add to the story and adventure. Yesterday was such a day.
  I’ve been having a better than normal year for spotting big shooter bucks. Just none were 20 yards or less. A couple were close...oh so close. 
  Arriving at my lot early yesterday afternoon I was dismayed to see the lower edge of my property which border a river was completely flooded out. Not a chance of hunting a single one of them.
  I had two choices. Go home or sit on the ground on one of the heavily used trails on the higher ground and hope for the best. After making the 45 minute drive, I was not interested in heading back home. Although I did consider it. The daytime high temp was around -6. The winds were simply howling. Big spruce were swaying like blades of grass. Add in the occasional snow squall and it was a full fledged blustery winter day more typical of January than the last day of November.
  With about 30 minutes of light left I first caught movement coming through the thick evergreens at about 40 yards.  It was a small buck with a bearing that would put him right in my lap. When he was pushing through some especially thick stuff, I got into a kneeling position. Bow arm out...fingers hooked on the black widow’s string. 
  The bucks kept coming directly at me. 30 yards, 20 yards, 10 yards !. After that I was measuring it in feet. I’ll have to go back and pace it off, but he came to somewhere between 10 and 20 feet. 
  We were almost nose to nose. The wind was in my favor. But at 10 feet, even a young immature buck sensed the kneeling blob just wasn’t quite right. He stared long and hard at me. But, while I can’t really explain it, he was still curious not completely alarmed.
  Before I gave myself an imaginary slap, I briefly thought about shooting him in the chest. The things that go through your mind. With the fresh snow, I knew with such a shot, blood might be minimal, but I could follow his tracks, and if fatal ...I'd find him. The key word was “if”. I quickly dismissed the idea. I held my ground. 
  The buck relaxed and turned hard to his right to head out into the field of standing wheat. He was broadside but brush covered his vitals. I watched his head for signs of what he was about to do. After a minute or so, he ducked his head down and I knew he was going to take a step. I had about a 2 foot opening where I could shoot.
  Luckily , he just took one step and stopped. Leaving his head behind cover but his vitals exposed. I pulled the limbs back to that beautiful S shape I love so much about recurves. My middle finger found the tooth I use as an anchor. I stared at a tuft of fur. 
  Almost unexpectedly, the arrow launched. I saw the tuft of fur part. I heard the thump. The buck ran out into the field. I watched him fall while on the run at 40 yards with hardly a kick.
  Once again, I became aware of the brutal wind and sub 0 temps. Although the buck was down, I instinctively followed his tracks and blood trail to him. 
  After a couple pictures, I went to my truck and retrieved the sled. Dragging would be easy with the sled and the fresh wind polished snow. I forgot about the biting wind though. It was especially bad out in the open field.
  Regardless, step by step I worked towards the truck. Being a small buck, the drag was one of the easier ones I've had recently. Make no mistake though, the fierce wind made up for the easy dragging. 
  Once back home, after he was cleaned and hanging, ready for the butcher’s cooler in the morning, I retreated into the house and it’s warmth in front of the fire.  
  By all accounts, it had been an adventure and a perfect day for a solo hunt from start to finish. Despite offers of help, for whatever reason, I enjoy doing such things alone. 
  Sitting here today, nice and warm by a raging fire, the  outside temps are still cold. I’m glad he’s in a cooler as he would be frozen hard by now. 
  I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday.  I hope I enjoy future hunts as much.

  

  

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Somewhere, there's a line when you go from client to friend. Somewhere, there's a line where you go from being guided to hunting together. 
 I have no idea where or when it happens. I only know it after the milestone has transpired. 
 Never however was it more evident than my last trip to Northeast Wilderness Outfitters a last week.. Pulling into the gravel driveway was almost like returning home when you've been away for a while. 
 It wasn't the firm handshake from Chip (owner) or the greetings from the long time guides who always gather to meet the incoming clients. It was more from walking into the kitchen and  seeing Chip's daughter and noticing how much she had grown in a year. It was more the stark realization that Woody wouldn't be there to chat with.  It was more the big hug from Chip's wife Maria and her inquiring about my wife and new grand daughter. It was my familiar seat at the family table and the easy conversations that ensued.
 However comfortable that dining room chair and enjoyable the catching up conversation was, our thoughts soon turned to turkey and turkey hunting. We headed out looking to roost some birds for tomorrow's opener.
 The hunters and guides all took off in separate directions looking for the ultimate, high odds, location to clobber a gobbler in the morning. It wasn't long before cell phones were pinging from all the sightings and plan making.
 We were heading to my favorite spot of all. It's a beautiful farm, with a pond, orchards, and, of course, lots of turkey. 
 From Chip's tireless scouting, we knew where the birds would roost, and more importantly, he knew where they would head and where they would likely be at any time of the day. 
 Sitting under the pines listening to the Maine woods come alive was reward enough for the 3am wake up. The weather was spectacular. Clear skies. Chilly but above freezing. Before long, the eastern horizon had a glowing streak of wildfire racing across it. I wanted to take a picture of it so bad it wasn't even funny. But I dared not. The previous evening, we saw two lone toms head for their roost about 75 yards behind where we were sitting. 
 As if on cue, the tree talk started about 30 minutes before light. Gobbles rang out from below and above us. A couple hens were softly yelping from their perches.  What really caught my ear's attention was the gobbles coming from behind us. I had my fingers crossed it was the two toms sporting those 8-9 inch beards from the scouting trip the evening before. 
 If there was somewhere else I would have rather been...it didn't readily come to mind. It was a production as only mother nature could script. I felt blessed to have a front row, center seat as it unfolded. I reminded myself to never, ever, take such moments for granted. 
 Chip was just a few yards behind me. He would call and I would shoot if it all came together. He returned those soft yelps perfectly. Not too much. Not too little. It's almost an art to work those birds with just the right finesse.  It's  a touch that only comes from years of calling to thousands of birds. 
 Legal shooting time came slowly. But it came. Slowly or not. The birds were still in the pines. 
 When Chip and I hunt together, it's usually radio silence. We don't talk or move. Uncharacteristically, Chip leaned towards me and whispered, " They're on the ground, be ready".
 I smiled and thought, I've been ready for an hour, but I appreciated the heads up. He offered it because he knew they flew down exactly where he had hoped. All we needed to do was pull them around the point of brush to where they would see our decoys. 
 The periodic calling was just right. Their excited gobble answers easily gave us their location and travel route. It was as if they read the script.
 They came around the heavy brush point, hit the field and marched double time down the tree line right to the decoys we had placed 12 yards in front of me. 
 Once they rounded that corner, I could see glimpses of the big birds through the  raspberry thorn thicket. I saw long beards. My heart began to thump. The shotgun was across my raised knees. They were literally gonna walk right into my line of fire. 
 The closer they came, combined with Chip's louder and more excited hen calling, the more they sounded off. Double and triple gobbles rang out across the picturesque farm. I wasn't about to, but I could have closed my eyes and followed their exact location by sound alone. When they were in range ( but still no good clear shot) Chip wisely backed off on the calling. 
 I let them come almost right to the decoys. I picked out the bigger of the two and placed the bead steady on his waddles. The ol' pump gun barked and the tom folded.  Swinging on the second bird, I couldn't see his beard. I didn't want a Jake ( or shoot an illegal bird that wasn't sporting a visible beard - which is the law in Maine) and despite having the impression they were both long beards when they were approaching, I just couldn't pull without that identification. 
 The second bird began walking away. Not fast. Just confused. Chip stopped him with an excited yelp. Bird number 2 turned sideways to look back at the receptive hen. In doing so, I saw that paintbrush hanging low. 
 First day or not, I jammed the pump like a jazz playing trombone player and drew a bead on him just above the waddles and broke the morning silence once again. 
 The tom collapsed in a heap.
 While the gun's loud report was still ringing in my ears, I was aware of Chip offering congrats, and seconds later I felt a sincere pat on my back. Chip called the time of death at 530am.  We looked at each other. We looked out in the green field at the two black lumps and took to laughing. 
 Giddy laughing, like two school yard kids. I glanced down across the little farm valley and noticed the sky was a perfect pinky red. I realized that the wind had picked up and I was shaking. Well, that's my story anyways. 
  We gathered the birds and took some photos. Before we left I just made a point to take this event all in one more time. I knew, no matter how hard we posed and placed the birds, the pictures would not capture the moment. There's not a camera out there that can capture the sounds, smells, and sights of such moments. 
 Sitting there, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Not since hunting with family had I seen anyone as happy for me to take an animal as Chip was. 
​ It was then I realized I was hunting with family.