Spot On Kettle

It begins with the riffles above the swimming hole. Across it one can see the flat rocks and muddy tracks of raccoons and other critters who pass along on their nighttime forays. Behind are the hemlocks keeping watch over the deep cut run and large standing stones that harbor the line dancers and quick strikers...the wonderful trout that populate a small stretch of this northern Pennsylvania stream better known as Kettle Creek. 

Below the swimming hole there always tends to be a large fallen tree washed up and stranded by the receding water after winter’s rush, a cover for the fish and marking a shift in the stream’s bed for anglers. The deep water above is best attacked from the shore, while the water behind the deadfall is flat and shallow, but looking carefully with shifting feet, you’ll find the stretch full of pockets and short runs invisible to quickly passing shore walkers. The far bank is draped in shadows from the overhanging evergreens that bow their limbs like Tantalus might in an attempt to sip from the cold mountain stream.

This is a magical place. Through the generosity of family, I’ve been able to experience it for more than a glimpse. I like to walk into it from the main road, each step in the grassy, gravely tract, brings me closer to the soft, pine needle bedded trails meandering along the water. I like to start casting at the swimming hole and work my way concurrent with the flow of the water. 

I’ve ambled down from my brother-in-law's camp high on the hill. I like to arrive in the waning light of evening. The show is almost always starting with risers and nippers all along the run. I like to cast caddis and take my chances with a feisty rainbow, brook, or brown that continue to strike over and over as I release them back into the stream, my face smiling and happy. I’ve fished until darkness completely envelopes me before returning to the camp and the fire with a full heart. 

When June begins the magic seems to increase ten-fold, as the green drakes drop in droves. If I had to pick a place to cast a line the first week of June every year, I’d choose this little stretch of water above all others in a heartbeat.  

  

I’ve shared my casts here with family and this is where the best secrets are revealed. To glance down stream and see my brother-in-law and niece standing side by side in the evening light, a forever framed picture in my mind’s eye. Seeing the rods bend and the silvery flash and splash of a hooked trout from a distance keeps me smiling. To watch my Uncle Jerry and his son-in-law Shane enchanted by the magic of this place brings a perpetual grin. “It’s like fishing in a snow globe,” Shane once remarked after experiencing the green drakes on a perfect June night. 

I turn from these visuals to feel the shoulders of young sons, who now stand before me in this sublime stretch of water. I place the fly rod in their hands and lightly grip the reel and set them casting elbow to wrist, setting the drake imitation on the water...and the magic continues as cast after cast brings the reward. We enjoy the moment of a captured char and release it back into the hidden pockets as the hemlocks watch us strain our eyes against the darkness for just one more cast...one more cast...one more cast... 

The boys enjoy the swimming hole after a day of fishing on Kettle Creek. 

Best Buck

Walking out of the local gameland fields on Saturday with two pheasants in my vest evoked a sense of deep satisfaction that is difficult to replicate, for it has been a fantastic November. Archery season ended a week prior, and I was still raising my fist and pumping it with enthusiasm. On the final Saturday of bow season, I had harvested the best buck of my life—a high racked eight-pointer on public land.

I would say this year was a culminating year. A gathering of knowledge and experience from past seasons. Mistakes I made in years prior were remembered and I was able to move forward into a realm of becoming a better archery hunter. In many ways the story of this year's buck, began last season.

It rained a lot last year. Nearly every Saturday of archery it precipitated. November 2018...it was one Friday evening after work that I rushed to one of my stands along a ridge top where I saw the best buck of the season. There was a yearling doe that always seemed to be milling around my stand. I often felt she was good cover for other deer. If she was comfortable, other deer were more likely to be at ease.

I remember watching this same doe feed along the ridge 50 yards away that day. Suddenly, she raised her head and skipped in one graceful, seemingly alarmed stride nearly 10 feet to the side of the trail. I thought something was coming along that might disrupt my own hunt, but then I heard the low grunt of a whitetail buck. I scrambled into position and knocked an arrow. Three doe made their way up the ridge and right behind them, nudging them all along, was a nice rack buck. He was king of the ridge no doubt. 

All four bedded down as the rain subsided and a low fog rolled through the understory.  Fat bombs of water splashed down from the tree tops. I hit the grunt tube a few times and waited. Like a monolith the buck rose and scanned the area seeking the source of a possible challenger. He began a deliberate walk toward my position, and it was a thrilling jolt of adrenaline. The monarch craftily made his way to me using all the cover I could not shoot through...until I had one clear lane. But, I couldn't get my pin on his vital areas. I remember hoping he would keep following a cliff edge around my tree, for he would emerge in a perfect opening, but he stopped to scent me and though he could not see me, he dropped over the cliff, and smartly came back up 60 yards away. There he simply stood and the cover of darkness enveloped him. I had to tip my hat to this buck, for he had beaten me at the game. I waited until pitch dark so as not to spook him and climbed down for the hike back to the trailhead.

I relived that hunt a thousand times. 

A year later a new opportunity would dawn.

It was the final Saturday of the 2019 archery season. Up until this point, I had only spotted a few legal bucks, a nice six on a frigid, blustery, snow-spitting afternoon and a bigger eight the final Friday evening of the season. Neither buck had moved closer than fifty yards as both were in pursuit of does and largely ignored the bleats and grunts I threw in their direction.

I still had a lot of hope. Seeing a good buck in the waning light on Friday was a positive. The big boys were moving and pushing and setting the stage for exciting shows in the woods.

I did not have to wait long for the entertainment to commence on Saturday morning. Shortly after sunrise a doe zipped across the hardwood as I watched from my stand set back against a tangle of woody browse and a marshy swale.  Seconds later a grunting, sleigh-headed buck charged behind in hot pursuit. Marveling at the size of the antlers, I watched him skitter to a walk. I could not see the doe in the cover, so I hit the bleat call to get his attention. His antlers were definitely visible and I knew he was definitely a big racked buck. To get this big on public land, I knew the buck was wise. He lifted his nose and scented the wind which prevailed from my direction. Despite the doe scent I had put down, I knew chances were he could also scent me. 

For the next hour and a half I observed the buck slowly pick his way through the brush. I thought for sure he would eventually lose interest in my intervals of bleats and grunts and make off in the direction of the doe. My heart pounded the entire time, and once I lost him for a few minutes and thought that he was gone, but I kept trying to think positive. I've seen the smart bucks circle in from behind and I knew that maybe he would do so. And, then, I got my biggest break of the morning. 

Roughly fifty yards to my right, a deer popped out on the trail that leads past my stand, and it was the same doe the buck had been chasing. I had no idea that she had been there all along, hence the buck stayed in the area. I quickly decided there would be no more enticing calls on my part. The doe was my ticket, and if I didn't spook her, he might follow her all the way.

I mostly remember the absolute intensity of the next twenty minutes as I watched the doe drift closer and closer to my position. The buck emerged on the same trail and kept an eye on the doe as he mimicked her feeding lane—laden with spicebush and hackberry. The moment of truth came when he stopped and silently stared at me from about 55 yards. The doe was at about 30 yards at this point. I remember holding stock still and closing my eyes a few times while hoping beyond hope that he would not snort and bust away. It felt like five minutes before I could breath again, and the buck dismissed me.  He continued to feed and once I thought he would use the screening shrubs and saplings to move away from a good shooting lane. But, the doe continued to put him at ease.

A sense of calm pervaded when the buck stepped back across the trail and stood broadside, slightly quartering away at 35 yards. All my cards were flipped and I was dealt an unobstructed shot. All that mattered was the shot and I focused entirely on it. I'll always remember the arc of the arrow as it plunged downward and struck home. The buck whirled, staggered, and fell. It was all over in ten seconds. I openly wept with happiness and immediately felt that a true monarch of the woods had fallen. He was a magnificent buck. A smart buck. And, it was an honor to take him. I know I will lose more times than win in matchups with bucks like him. Most times I'll be lucky to even see a big buck for they move like spirits...always wary and always wise. Yet, as I walked out of the forest on the final day of archery, I knew that I was carrying with me...the buck of a lifetime. 

Beagle Song

I often think about how I attempt to peel back the layers of sounds while archery hunting in the autumn forest. The leaves rustling in the breeze. The incessant chatter of gray squirrels. The skittering of chipmunks on the forest floor. The drop of acorns. But, one sound I want to hear again in autumn is my Daisy’s beagle song. This will be the first autumn afield where I will not hear it. And, I am heartbroken. After fifteen years of crossing hill and dale, forest and field, I will not have the honor of being in the company of my beloved hunting partner.

In her passing I could only thank her. Thank her for giving me all her heart in every hunt. For teaching me how to hunt pheasants and rabbits. For bringing me closer to my father and brother, who accompanied me on so many hunts. The friends and family that hunted with Daisy and I over the seasons always seemed to walk away with a smile and a harvest. More times than not, fellow hunters were left in awe of her ability. She was a scant 20 pounds, but it seemed like no gamebird could trick her. No rabbit outwit her. I learned her different barks and bays, and in time, I could tell by her songs exactly which quarry she was tracking. There were times when we hiked out with game pouches laden with pheasants, rabbits, turkey, and grouse. She hunted them all.

Daisy was a marker on my life. I was in my mid-twenties when she was a puppy, and now I am beyond 40 in her passing. In the early years, I recall the sheer joy of rushing home from school in October and November, so we could get in a few hours hunting before sunset. I felt like Billy Coleman from Where the Red Fern Grows...just me and my little dog, and all was right with the world.

I can still feel my heart hammering the first time I trained her on birds and watched her flush seven roosters. I knew I had not only a rabbit chaser, but also a bird hunter. In college I hunted the local game lands sans dog, and all I had to show for it were three pheasants in three years. The first season with Daisy she was but six months old, and we harvested 25 roosters and hens...and probably missed more than we should have. What ensued was more than a decade of everything I could have ever hoped for in a dog. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings immersed in the pursuit of game, roosters and rabbits hanging off the back porch seemingly every time. Crock pots simmering with fresh meals of barbeque or apple cinnamon wild game.

Her final hunt was on Christmas Eve this year past. She was feeling a bit better. With tears in my eyes I listened to her sing her song, while roosters lifted, wings beating, and fortunately, fell one for Christmas dinner. I knew it would be her last harvest, but she saved some time for the snows of late winter when we folded over into rabbit walkers with my sons, Kale and Quinn—who over the years loved to go out and watch Daisy find a late season hen or bunny.

In her passing I know I was lucky. Thank you girl! You picked me! Me! You taught me! You loved me! And, my heart is broken. But, forever will I be thankful to have been the hunter at the center of your heart…the center of your beautiful beagle song-a song you sung so many times for me. I miss you girl! I miss you. But, I know one day...I’ll hear your song again.

Ridge Runners

Fellowship. Family. Father and Son. In the Pennsylvania woods of late autumn, the days grow short, and the cold cracks into hills and streams. Here you’ll find hunters bonding over whitetail deer hunting. In the first week of December of 2018, my Uncle Tom made his annual trek to the rolling, forested landscape of central Pennsylvania for rifle season. This time, his son, my cousin Tommy, was able to participate in the pursuit of the most highly sought after big game animal on the planet.

For an entire week, they toiled in the predawn darkness and hunted until the twilight. Day in and day out they stalked without so much as a flash of a deer. I was able to join them in a washed out opener as we searched for whitetails in a pouring rain, trekking up and over ridges and down along creek bottoms with overflowing creeks and flooded out swamps. It wasn’t until the final day of the hunt on the doe opener, that an opportunity for a shot at success would present itself.

After an unproductive morning of stand hunting in state gamelands, we transitioned to the Stone Valley forest, a 7,000 acre public land swath of high ridges, wooded creek bottoms, and thick pine stands. We began by posting on the ridgetops high above Shaver’s Creek around midday.

For the first drive, we set up along the Mountain View trail which tops out around a thousand feet above the stream. Uncle Tom, Tommy, and Dad would watch the spine-like tops for deer crossing over from one side of the ridge to the other. Past experience showed that deer like stay high in order to see hunters pushing up toward them from below. Typically, they’ll lay with the wind at their backs, so they can scent danger from behind, while using their vision to watch the forested benches in front of them.

After everyone set up and began settling in along the south side of the ridge, Spencer and I began a plodding hike down the north side. The object was to try and push deer up and over to the south side where our posters waited. At the time, I had no idea that we were about to walk into a small herd of doe. Likely, they spotted us just as we began the drive, and after we had walked no more than a few hundred yards below them, they decided to make a break for it.

I remember hearing the shots...one….two….and then a short pause before a third. I knew almost immediately that the fired rounds had come from Uncle Tom and Tommy. Briefly, we pondered turning and going back, but after a few minutes of silence, we decided to continue on with the push. Working along the backside of the ridge and at this point nearly a thousand yards from where we started, I dropped way down the south side of the ridge to push the creek bottom. After roughly an hour or so, I struck directly back up the ridge to the posters.

When I first reached Uncle Tom, he was a bit forlorn about missing with a shot. “I was fiddling with the damn scope...you put those deer right in our lap Andy! Fifteen yards! All of them big, dark beauties...damn it!”

Tommy confirmed that five doe had come crashing over the ridge directly at them when we first started the drive. “The first shot I hit a tree...I saw the woods chips flying….I took a second shot just before they disappeared out of sight...but I don’t think I hit anything...I shouldn’t have even taken it,” he said.

I told them not to worry. It’s only the first drive of the day. We’d get more moving. I was sure of it. But, I know the disappointment of a missed shot well. It’s always best not to dwell on it, because the next opportunity often presents itself quickly.

As they gathered their gear, I struck out ahead and met up with Spencer, before following the path down to Dad. “Did you see those deer?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Which way did they go?” I asked.

“Well, they stopped up there on top and turned and ran back over the other side. But one of them rolled down the hill,” he said.

“Ok, how many did you….Wait! What?? One of them rolled down the hill?” I said.

“Yeah.” Dad said.

“Wait….did you see it ‘roll’...I mean how did it roll? A deer wouldn’t just roll down the damn hill like it tripped or something,” I said.

“I saw it roll, gray...white...gray...white...but then I lost it, I couldn’t find it in the scope.”

“OK,” I said, beginning to feel excitement rising quickly, “Point to where you last saw it!”

By, this point, Uncle Tom, Tommy, and Spencer had arrived.

“Guys,” I shouted. “You may have hit one of the those deer. Dad saw one roll down the mountain.”

Now everyone was moving quickly. I started toward the spot where Dad said the deer tumbled, and after no more than twenty paces, I saw it. A big, fat doe piled up at the bottom of a steep draw. I knew immediately that Tommy’s last shot was no miss at all. It was a hit! And, a good one. We soon discovered that the bullet passed clean through the deer’s heart before it came rolling down the ridge while the rest of the herd ran back over to the other side of the mountain.

There is no way to capture the pure joy of the moment when a life memory is being realized in real time. No way. All I know is that I was happy….immensely happy….positively happy. I knew how hard Uncle Tom and Tommy had hunted that week. I knew how wonderful it was for them to have that time together as father and son. I also knew that harvesting a deer was high on the list of objectives, and being able to check that box is everything a hunter could ever want in a hunt. There were a lot of smiles and back slaps...rounds and rounds of them. There was the excited talk of the shot, the rifle, and of course, a man’s first deer. I knew in that moment I would never forget how it felt to be part of it. To have a role to play. To see the success sought and won. To see a father and son bond high on a ridge top in the Pennsylvania wilderness on a cold December day.

Big Six

My first buck with a compound bow was a hunt as memorable as any I’ve the had in a lifetime afield. I had been eagerly anticipating an early November hunt as soon as the calendar flipped to the eleventh month...a magical time of year to be in the Pennsylvania woods chasing bucks.

On the morning of November 2nd, 2017, I was settled in a good stand site along an acorn laden ridge; I had good luck spotting deer in the spot through the first several weeks of archery season—especially in the mornings. A storm system had passed through the previous evening, leaving the forest floor saturated and silent.  An hour after sunrise, a crafty six point buck sneaked in behind me and offered no shot. Soon after another six point buck worked his way down the ridge toward me, and I foolishly rushed a shot in fear of losing another opportunity. The buck ambled off grazed but no worse for the wear. I would see one more buck, a nice 8-point out of range before concluding my morning hunt. I was not discouraged, but rather hopeful that more action would come my way before the day was through.

After lunch I switched to my favorite evening stand, a long walk from the trailhead in the state game lands near my home.  Hiking in, I met my father, George, and my Uncle Tom, who were concluding their first hunt of the day. They planned to grab some lunch and pick up my brother-in-law Danny, who was visiting from Paris, France, and who had jumped at the opportunity to spend some time hunting with us after practicing with my old crossbow.

Little did I realize how fortunate I would be to have family hunting with me on this particular day.

It was a lazy, comfortable November afternoon. The sun was warm on my back and the woods were quiet. But soon, the last hour, the magic hour would arrive.  The cooler air incited deer activity almost immediately. A small pod of does worked along the ridge to my right at 70 yards enjoying an evening meal.  I began to hear movement in the bedding area directly in front of my stand. A doe hopped out of the cover and behind her, a beautiful buck gave chase. I stood, heart hammering, watching classic rut activity. The doe worked her way toward me, feeding on acorns. I knew she was my ticket to the buck, so I concentrated on her position and movement in order to keep my cover. She seemed at ease and continued to feed, occasionally glancing back at the mature buck, who stood sentinel still at the edge of the thicket. My heart continued to hammer and my mind willed him to move into a shooting lane. For nearly ten minutes the buck stayed put, scenting the air and checking the surroundings. Finally...finally he moved toward the doe. Slowly he worked toward her and then with a quick burst he pushed into a decent shooting lane and I drew the bow and placed my 20-yard pin on his side as he quartered away.

Hindsight is 20-20. I probably had more time than I realized in the moment, but I was worried the buck was about to charge off in pursuit of the doe and I would lose a good chance at him. The buck paused and looked toward me and then away, and I let an arrow fly from my PSE 3G Stinger.

It was a hit. The buck wheezed, turned tail, and burst away through the hollow and into the heavy brush. My arrow had hit a bit farther back than I intended, and I could see the bright green and white fletching sticking out of him as he ran.

Initially, I was concerned that I had only struck muscle and the deer was lost. Light was fading fast, so after 15 minutes of anxious waiting, I climbed down and checked for blood. Almost immediately I picked up a decent blood trail and followed it into the bramble nearly 80 yards away.  I found my arrow, covered in bright red blood.  At this point, I had to switch on my headlamp to see in the gathering darkness.  Concern grew. I did not want to push this buck if it was still alive and lose it. So, I began to back off, and decided to hike out and check in with my family who were by now waiting and wondering what I was up to.

By the time I made it to the trailhead, everyone was there waiting and so was WCO Michael Ondik. Officer Ondik checked my license, checked out my arrow, and offered advice about how to proceed.  We were all thankful for his help and good nature in the matter. He did much to instill in me the confidence that the buck was indeed down and out.  At this point nearly two hours had passed since I arrowed the buck.  For the rest of my life, I will be thankful for two specific pieces of this particular hunt. First, I was glad I backed off. Successfully recovering the buck may have certainly depended on it. Second, the help of family is invaluable.  Having four sets of eyes to follow a blood trail in the night is exponentially better than being alone.

An hour later, our party of four arrived at the search site and took up the endeavor of finding the buck. Excitement pervaded, and with each new discovery of fresh blood my doubts dissipated.  Things looks good. But still no deer. Then, Uncle Tom picked up a penultimate clue and Danny found the final one, and there he was catching the rays of my headlamp, a beautiful mature six-point whitetail buck!

How shall I ever forget the joy of the moment? With shouts of joy we all embraced and a litany of thank yous I expressed to my family not only for helping but also for being there to enjoy the memory. Barred owls hooted in the dark night, and we cheered the good fortune a buck brings to the archer on a November evening deep in the Pennsylvania woods.

Rocky Mountain Rendezvous

Backpacking into Pebble Creek in the northeastern section of Yellowstone National Park kicked off our adventure in the Montana/Wyoming wilderness.  In its opening act we were greeted with a 1,400 elevation gain in the first two miles, but it was worth the effort, as the meadows that followed made us feel like we were in a movie set. An explosion of wildflowers greeted us for the next two miles. Bright red Indian Paintbrush, lavender lupine, and bright yellow sunflowers highlighted the show. Close to the early evening we were closing in on camp, and Joe and I spotted a hefty black bear in the distance as he powerfully clawed apart fallen trees likely for a supper of ants and grubs.

In the days that followed, we lived like mountain men, enjoying our own little slice of the backcountry which we seemed to have all to ourselves.  Our site overlooked meadows of willows that bordered meandering Pebble Creek. The flyfishing was fantastic. We fished downstream and upstream catching more cutthroat than one could imagine. Beautiful trout with crimson gill plates, sunset slashes, and golden bodies. Simply put, the fishing was the best I've ever experienced. For its size, Pebble Creek produced some unexpectedly large trout, each and every one feisty fighters ranging from 10-16 inches in size. Green hoppers, PMDs, and caddis were our flies of choice, and the uncomplicated nature of the fish made our options interchangeable.

One morning we trekked up nearby Bliss Pass and enjoyed the alpine views of the Absarokas and Beartooth mountain ranges. We had a snowball fight at 10,000 feet, checked out the whitebark pines the grizzlies would soon visit, and enjoyed a lunch of trail mix and jerky before scrambling back down to the creek for another afternoon of terrific fishing.

We encountered bear and moose. The first afternoon of fishing I had just released a foot long cutthroat and looked up to see a set of bear cubs on the far bank looking at me, one standing upright. There was no sow in sight, so I quickly unclipped the bearspray from its holster, my head on a swivel as I hiked back upstream to gather up the rest of the gang: Joe, Josh, and Shawn.  Both cubs treed, and soon, the mama sauntered along. She was quite amiable really, for she napped under the tree wholly aware of our presence. Giving her a wide berth we continued fishing, and later in the evening, she and her cubs showed up in our meadow. It was quite a show watching the cinnamon cubs wrestle while the jet black sow settled into their bedding site for the evening. 

The following evening we were visited by an immense cow moose and her calf. We were able to watch them devour willows from the comfort of our campsite for over two hours.

Each evening we gathered firewood from the downed wood of the forest and passed the time enjoying its warmth, pumping drinking water from the glacial cold creek, and creating meals from our freeze dried pouches and whatever else we packed. My personal favorite was Mountainhouse Chili-Mac with Fritos sprinkled atop.

The time passed all too quickly. We found ourselves hiking out and experiencing the only unpleasant weather of the entire trip.  We made it nearly five miles before ducking into pines to allow a rolling thunderstorm to pass.

In reflection, this was the best backpack I've ever experienced. Everything came together on this trip, especially the fishing. Yellowstone's backcountry holds many secrets and surprises, and  I was thankful to be a part of it if only for a few magical Rocky Mountain summer days.

The wildflowers of the upper Pebble Creek plateau

The view from camp

A feisty Pebble Creek cutthroat

The beautiful colors of the cutthroat trout

Sunset over the mountains

Bliss Pass overlook

Pollarine points out the Beartooth Plateau to Joe

A Golden Moment

The 2016 deer season was a wonderful learning experience from start to finish. From hours of archery practice with a compound bow as I made the switch from a crossbow to scouting and performing deer drives in December and January, I gained invaluable insight and information that I know will serve my hunting life well for the coming years. Perhaps the finest moment of last season was not scoring my first deer with a compound bow (although it ranks high on the list), but rather, helping a fellow hunter score his first whitetail.

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.