Rifle season brings with it a special nostalgia and camaraderie that sets it apart from the more personal and intimate mood of archery season. Both seasons are highly enjoyable. What I enjoy most about rifle is the chase. Driving deer from thickets and attempting to push them past the rifle sites of the hunters in our party is thrilling.
Often times the deer play the smarter counterpart, meaning they get away much more often than we harvest them. But, when we somehow manage to do everything right and the deer cross us at just the right moment, and we make a good shot, well then, it's a golden moment.
One of these moments occurred on a fine December Saturday afternoon last season. My brother George and I were pushing a nearly impenetrable thicket in hopes of kicking out a whitetail in the direction of our posted hunters and suddenly everything fell into place.
It had been a bittersweet morning up though midday. Some ups and downs if you will. The morning started with Spencer harvesting a nice button buck from a stand I had actually set up the previous evening, so when his 8 a.m. text came asking what township we were currently in, it brought a smile to my face as I posted up a mile away in my own tree. One deer down for our party of six (Uncle Tom, Dad, Spencer, Charlie, George, and I).
The "downs" included two doe that slipped into a thicket not fifty yards from my Uncle Tom's spot. I could see Uncle Tom and I could see the deer clearly, but because of the micro terrain, he could not see them. Dad also had a moment with a fine 8 point buck in his scope, but the time was not meant to be and the shot missed cleanly as the deer bounded away unscathed.
Around midday we reconvened and strategized our afternoon hunt. It was then that my brother and I decided to drive a long, nasty thicket that always seems to hold deer. There is a nice wooded ridge above the thicket which allows a few good shooting lanes if anything should pop out. We first placed Charlie on a mound I like to call "milk crate hill". It's a rocky outcropping beneath a stand of oaks and there is an old, broken, red milk crate nearby worn down by nature and time. I often think that fifty years ago it provided a nice perch for a hunter. Charlie found a seat on a flat rock there and I told him to keep watch on the end point of the thicket where eventually a deer might run out of room and be forced to break into the edges about 60-70 yards in front of him. I was speaking hypothetically, but hope glimmered for some action.
Dad and Uncle Tom, we placed together about 100 yards away along the middle of the thicket more toward the mid-point of our drive. We gave them more or less the same instructions. Keep watch on the thicket below you, you might see some whitetails flashing through there, so be ready.
George and I hiked all the way back to the very beginning of the trails and worked together pushing, crawling, and ducking through the snags, deadfalls, and wicked thorns so characteristic of a deer hideout. We were about 20 yards apart. To my right was an open, grassy trail that I wished to keep the deer from crossing, for if they did, there would be no shot opportunity for our posted hunters. The deer would simply bound up the opposite ridge and be long gone.
About twenty minutes into our drive we were nearing the mid-point. We stopped for a moment to weave a bit closer as the cover began to get even heavier. I remember thinking that the position of the late day sun provided a nice spot for a deer to warm up in amongst the brambles. I took a single step toward my brother when suddenly a doe jumped up from a bed not ten feet away. She was in full sneak mode as she darted like an arrow straight away from us. I took a knee and kept saying, "Come on....Come on....Come on...." as I waited for the sweet sound of a rifle shot. We knew the deer would run straight past all three of our posters if she kept the current course. Just when I began to think it might become another crestfallen moment, a shot cracked, and I knew it had to be one of our guys. It was only one shot, but it was one of the best sounds you can possibly hear as a driver.
We threw down and started running out of the thicket hoping beyond hope, someone had scored. As we made our way up the ridge toward Dad and Uncle Tom, hope began to wane a bit. They saw no deer and they were busy downing some hot chocolate. But, they agreed the shot sounded close and they thought it was Charlie. God, did I hope it was true. I began trotting up the ridge along the trail toward the rocky outcropping where Charlie had set. But, as the clump of trees and rocks came into view, I did not see Charlie anywhere. George and I hurried along, and about 60 yards later we spotted him along the ridge with his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Oh no! I thought. Another hunter somewhere further down the ridge has taken the shot. But, then, my brother exclaimed, "There's the deer!" And, sure enough at the base of Charlie's silhouette, rested a nice, plump doe. Charlie's first whitetail. What followed was a blur of happy exclamations, back slapping, and broad smiles. A single success erased countless empty handed hunts. Joy pervaded. We knew we were living the highlight of the season in that moment.
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