IN THE WEEDS

    Let me give you a little history regarding the farm I hunt. It's next to the late Ray Gilkey's place (the original Denniston homestead) and owned by my good friend GNJohn. Most people know it as the old Parker farm. The Parker family owned the Concord, the famous Borscht Belt hotel. John bought it at auction in 2000. Originally it was part of the Denniston family farm. The Irish Dennistons came over to the British colonies in 1729 on the George and Anne chartered by Charles Clinton, bound for Philadelphia. Charles Clinton was the father of General James Clinton (the Sullivan/Clinton Expedition) and NY Province Gov. and Thomas Jefferson VP, George Clinton. He was also the grandfather of NYS Gov. Dewitt Clinton who built the prison at Dannemora and the Erie Canal. Charles Clinton was married to Elizabeth Denniston.

From Wikipedia: According to his papers, he [Clinton] paid for ninety four of the passengers. The captain of the ship intentionally starved the passengers, possibly as a way to steal their belongings. Ninety-six of the passengers died, including Clinton's son and a daughter. In October 1729, they arrived at Cape Cod, and after paying a large ransom for their lives, the survivors were allowed to disembark.

In the spring of 1731, the group moved to Ulster County, New York (now Orange County), where they settled in an area called Little Britain about eight miles from the Hudson River and sixty miles north of New York City.

    Elizabeth Denniston was accompanied by her brother, whose wife died onboard. He remarried another passenger named Little. They had a bunch of kids in Little Britain. One of their grandchildren (William or George) moved to a beautiful piece of river bottom land along the Neversink River. Last night I saw the big buck within yards of the Denniston grave marker.

This morning 7:15 am:

    I was in the tree well before dawn and ready if the buck showed. The wind, out of the Southwest, was perfect if the buck cruised along the expected path he had taken before, coming from the Gilkey's. As I sat in the rain I heard the distinct cackle of a cock pheasant. Something had flushed him and he glided from left to right in front of me and disappeared in the chest high weeds. Within minutes he reappeared in the cut path, heading back where he had come from. I thought nostalgically of all those fall mornings of my youth hunting pheasants with my brother, father and our Irish Setter Duke. I watched as the cock disappeared behind some apple trees and popped out in a little clearing looking right at me at about 75 yards. He squawked again as if to be telling me something. My senses sharpened. Maybe something was spooking him. No sooner had the thought entered my head then I saw legs and the body of a deer. I couldn't see his head, but could tell it was a buck coming down the path along the fence line. As soon as he cleared those apple trees I had him broadside at 40 yards. I waited........ stay calm I told myself..........and waited.......

    Then, my heart sank as that deer winded me, turned and ran back along the fence. I never got a good look at him. Busted AGAIN!

    There's a term called Sympathetic Magic. It's when you try to lure an animal into the kill zone with a piece of it; like rattling in a buck with antlers or calling in a turkey with a call made from a wing bone. I can only assume that pheasant was employing Unsympathetic Magic to that man he saw sitting in the tree. He wasn't informing me of the buck, but cluing the buck in on the danger he faced if he continued on his chosen path towards the weeds. Maybe I should take the shotgun next time. If the legs of that deer that spun and vanished this morning belonged to "my" buck I've had him in front of me six times; and never had a shot. I don't think I've ever had so much frustrating fun in the woods. To be continued......