I know that bucks grunt because, a few Novembers ago, I heard one do it.
The sound was both peculiar and somehow unmistakable, residing somewhere in the aural matrix bounded by a Buddhist monk’s chant, a bullfrog, and a ram just arrived in a barnyard full of ewes. I was lying in wait beneath a canopy of thick, gnarly pines in the quiet provided by a cushion of their needles. Nearby was a game trail and a buck scrape, and I could watch both from my spot at the base of a bully pine.
When I heard the grunt, it took me a second or two to identify it, and then it seemed as if I’d been hearing it all my life. Soon, there came a slow, cautious parade of deer: one, two, three, four, all of them does, ghostly quiet in the soft needles. I waited and waited for he who had grunted, he who was courting these does, but he never showed his rack. Of course, I never knew what gave that buck the clue not to join this parade.
Knowing what a buck grunt sounds like, I’ve bought three different grunt tubes over the years, trying to replicate that sound. I’ve rented videos on deer calling, gone online to sample different calls, and practiced my grunting in the privacy of my own home. I tried fawn bleats and estrus bleats and grunts from young bucks and boss bucks. What I’d heard was a tending grunt, but I could never get my grunt tube to sound like it. To me, my tending grunt sounded more like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker. And despite the video showing endless instances of bucks responding to the faux grunt of a would-be rival, I always felt a little strange out there in the woods, trying to sound like a deer and doing it badly.
But given the situation I found myself in last season, I had no other option. I’d been driving home after chores on Saturday morning when a very large buck crossed the road from the swamp on my left into the woods on my right. I saw him enter the woods and then stop, looking back to see if anything was pursuing him. Eight points, big deer.
Home was less than a mile away, so I hustled home, changed into my hunting clothes, and grabbed my rifle and, yes, my grunt tube. I drove partway back and parked on the side of the road. Of course, I hadn’t a clue where the deer might have gone in the 20 minutes it took me to gear up, but my only hope was that he hadn’t gone far. I gave him some breathing room and climbed up the hill so I was well above where he’d entered the woods.
I hunted quietly and listened intently, hoping to hear him moving in territory that might be unfamiliar to him. But all along I knew I was going to have to try the grunt tube. There was an 8-point buck somewhere in these woods, but I didn’t have a clue where. It was possible that he was within hearing distance. So I gave him a toot.
“Happy New Year!” Again, I blew, “Happy New Year.” Twice I let loose with the grunt tube in the cadence I remembered. Thoroughly embarrassed but full of hope, I waited for the buck to come charging in just like in the videos. And I waited some more. And I waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I had parked myself behind a bank of juniper and could see downhill for 30 or 40 yards. But the view was narrower than I’d like, and I needed to get myself into a position for a wider view, so I tiptoed out of my hiding place.
That’s all it took. The big buck wheeled around, took one soft seesaw bound, and was gone. He’d been standing no more than 30 yards from me.
This deer weighed more than I did, it was escaping from grave danger, and it did so with such grace and with so little commotion that it’s no wonder I hadn’t heard him approach.
At that point, there was little more to do but flog myself over my performance. Not for my grunt – evidently, Happy New Year works just fine. My mistake was not believing in it. If you’re going to call, you’ve got to give it a chance. That buck – the biggest buck I’ve ever seen while holding a rifle in my hand – was coming to my call, but doing it so cautiously that I never heard a footfall. I know he’s even smarter now after spending time with me – I hope that the reverse might prove true.