Supernatural Deer

After seventeen seasons we have established a definite, disturbing pattern at the farm/camp. Following the science, it appears our deer may possess super powers. While, camp regular, Muddy, was able to score a nice buck on the opener but after the first few hours into the season then the deer seemed to have just lifted a hatch door up in the ground and crawled into another dimension. Having a doe tag and a bear tag, even he had a hard time spotting a critter after the opening morning.

We knew they were around but it became very apparent that the deer are smarter than us. Our buddy, Archie, spotted fresh buck poo in the back yard on the way to his stand every day. Yet he patiently and quietly sat out the days of the first week without incident.

Bucks at the farm must have radar that keeps us pegged from the moment we wake. This year I found a note by my spot and it read, “Bill, you really ought to cut back on your salt and gluten intake. Sincerely, your bucks.” I suspect that they don’t really care that much, they just want to keep harmless me there to keep them safe.

On the second Saturday I hunted elsewhere, choosing to still hunt most of the day during which time I got surrounded by bucks but none that I wanted to shoot. Refreshed and thinking that I’d figured hunting out, I went back to the farm on a snowy day. Spotting two bucks in the lower field while I was in the upper part of the property, three hundred and sixty-four yards away according to a sassy range finder that finds its way into my pouch, annually. Attempting

to get close to the deer and admittedly moving faster than I like to as it was the last, few minutes of shooting light; the bucks spotted me or saw my blip on their radar or, perhaps, silhouetted against the snow, and bolted. Like greyhounds they raced back to the swamp while I was still two hundred yards and three inches away! (Oh, the disappointment and disdain from my smart butt range finder).

I tried to skin the cat and hunt a different way. The bucks had been coming down into a spot at night so I decided they must stage in a thicket before dark. So, I waited, overwatching that thicket. The deer showed on time and safely in a completely different field.

The last two days I doubled down on effort. At five in the morning, I was on top of a mountain in a place the bucks come to and hunters hate to visit. The wind was perfect, my scent was taken care of, I was still and camouflaged so well that a coyote almost ran into my lap but still no deer. Later, I still hunted around the mountain and back to camp, where crossing a fresh trail began to track. The buck went right by one of the easier to access stands on the farm and made a rub while I was within one hundred yards of it. He heard me, sneaking along slowly, trying to move like a tree. Then he bolted, leaving the tell-tale, four hooves bunched together track as he ran away before I got close.

The last day of the season morning, sitting by the rubbed tree and hoping to ambush the buck on his routine proved fruitless. I knew there were deer around; I saw lots of sign, heard some scurrying but saw nothing. Going out midday, I had devised yet another plan. I still hunted around the woods having a feeling, again, that I was being watched all afternoon. The deer were still one step ahead of me...maybe two, or three. So, I left, then, snuck back and set up in a concealed area. It was the last hour of the last day of rifle season; three doe appeared and kept looking behind them into a thicket. In there, I could occasionally see the outline of a deer but could not put horns on it. With five minutes to go, it seemed like my master plan would fail but just then six more deer appeared in the open from the shadows of the tangles! Suddenly, appearing from the brush that I had been wandering through for days, nine deer appeared, among them, four bucks! One was a very nice eight point. Still not believing my luck that in the last minute of the season a good buck stepped out at a very easy distance and stood before me unaware and broadside. My story was going to have a happy ending. I settled the sights on his shoulder, squeezed the trigger and the buck ran off. After scouring the ground by light and the next morning, it became evident that the buck was gone. I had missed, not a happy ending. Upon checking my scope on Sunday, it was apparent it was not the gun’s or scope’s fault. I had just plain missed, somehow. I wish there was a moral to the story but there is not. I do, however, completely suspect that the deer that I hunt at the farm are, indeed, supernatural.

See you along the stream