I cut a mature buck track walking a scrape line opening weekend – a deer heavy enough that he left deep imprints in the soggy forest floor. He was headed uphill to bed, and because of the wet, windy weather, it was an easy track to follow. I had the breeze and the advantage of knowing where he was going. And yet, as is often the case with deer hunting, the deer’s senses were better than mine.
Suddenly he was there – an 8-point ghost, about 100 yards north of me; we saw each other at the same time. He bounced off, tail low, at which point I reached for my grunt call and blew aggressively. This was a what-do-I-have-to-loose strategy, a Hail Mary play designed to put competing thoughts in his mind. I contemplated my next move for about five minutes, when suddenly, directly behind me, a doe snorted in alarm.
I whirled to find the doe and a different buck not 30 feet away; they whirled and began a crashing descent through the forest. This dominant buck had come in to my grunt call; I’m not sure why the doe came too. I threw my gun up, found the buck in the scope, patterned a few hops, and then put a bullet through the chamber.
This was not a gimme shot, but at less than 100 feet, it wasn’t low-percentage either. I was holding high and forward on the deer’s body, and shooting through unobstructed open hardwoods. There was no reason for me to doubt my marksmanship. My gun was shooting 1-inch patterns. My hand was steady.
I waited a half-hour, then found a good blood trail immediately; less assuring was the fact that the buck, despite being wounded, wouldn’t leave the doe. I trailed him for several hours, the blood trail thinning, thinning, until it disappeared completely. An aggressive north wind didn’t help the bare-ground tracking. After casting around aimlessly for an hour or so, I spat bitterly into the blank forest floor and headed back to camp.
Hunting is sometimes referred to as a blood sport, a harsh phrase that outdoor writers like myself avoid at all costs. It’s our duty to express the soulfulness of the pursuit – the family bonds that are nourished, the connection to nature that it fosters, the fierce pride that comes from providing your own meat. But now I can report that when you give up on a wounded buck’s track, “blood sport” is the first phrase that pops into your mind.
When things go wrong, the naturalist in you plays the good cop. Nothing is wasted in nature, you tell yourself. There’s no difference to the deer between an errant bullet and a coyote flank wound and a bunch of mangled ribs from an automobile collision. Nature’s cruel. The deer will die, but in his wake, a carnivore will be nourished, the very forest floor will be more fertile for his expiration.
And yet the hunter in you snarls at this justification. “You goddamn idiot,” you mutter to yourself as you slink towards camp, your tongue heavy with that aluminum taste of guilt and shame.
Anyway, in researching matters afterwards, I came across a group called Deer Search Incorporated. This non-profit group, based in New York state, is made up of 150 volunteers who track wounded deer and bear with leashed tracking dogs. Their services are free, but they accept donations.
If you’re a New York hunter with a hunting story like mine, you might consider giving the group a call.