EVIDENCE

 

POST-SHOT FORENSICS

Hunting is not an art, nor a science. It's referred to as a "sport," but that doesn't do it justice either. It's not exactly sporting to kill (or wound) a non-threatening animal with a high-powered, scoped, rifle. Definitions aside, as a hunter the process is far from over with the trigger pull. 

The process I went through on Wed. had just begun, as the shot echoed down the mountain. As the buck bounded away, tail up, I thought I had missed. How? Then I found blood. Expecting to find a dead deer at any moment my spirits rose. Then the blood trail dried up and I found that little sliver of bone (see above). My first thought was I had shot low and hit the left front leg. But, the buck didn't stumble and the trail did not show obvious scuffing in the leaves. It wasn't until I conferred with Savage that I even considered I'd hit jawbone. There's quite a bit of real estate between the vitals and jaw. Again.....how? 

Thanksgiving morning I didn't hunt, but went back to the ridge at first light. Following Savage's advice - "He'll go to water." I started at the river and headed for a beaver pond straight down the ridge from where I had shot, looking for blood or a body. No luck. Then I criss-crossed the ridge in the opposite direction, heading straight up the mountain for the "crime scene." I had marked last blood. The leaves (and blood) now dry, I was able to pick up the trail again and immediately lost it once more. 

I scoured the woods until noon and then gave up, still not knowing exactly where I had hit the deer or where the bone came from. Thanksgiving was a chance to eat, get drunk, and try to forget the fact that I couldn't put a kill shot on a buck. I was torn up. If it was jaw, the deer will eventually starve. Leg would be better. The first deer I ever shot swam across Lake Otsego (twice) with a broken leg before I was able to kill him from a rowboat, in a snowstorm. True story. I hoped for the best.

Yesterday, I worked my way up the mountain again to hunt the same spot and hopefully lay eyes on the wounded six. I never got to my stand. From noon until 3pm I had deer in front of me. Setting up on the ground, I waited. Five does and a spike latter I caught movement of a deer coming towards me. It was a buck. It wasn't the six, but a smaller eight. I was a nervous wreck. The gun shook as I tried to settle myself. If I hadn't wounded the six I probably would've let this deer walk. But when it presented a quartering to, standing still shot, I settled the crosshairs on his shoulder and fired. He went down in a heap. I'm certain my "THANK YOUS!" could be heard across the county. I'm getting too old to be so selective in my racks. 

The drag down the mountain was assisted by Nickle. Good neighbors willing to help always make the hunt easier. The roller coaster of emotions continues. I'm on such a high today. But, I can't forget the wounded six. I want to do all I can to lay eyes on him again (as I hunt a doe) and assess the damage. This is part of the deal: look for buzzards or crows, just in case and try my damnedest not to screw up another shot..... given the opportunity. Wish me luck.  

NAME CHANGE

 

LOST, FOUND, LOST AGAIN

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's age. But I seem to lose a lot of stuff these days. And it's not like I just misplace shit. It's like it vanishes. Last year it was my favorite (bright blue) butcher knife. It was gone for weeks. Then miraculously it reappeared on the picnic table. The explanation was simple: I'd left it outside during a snowstorm. When the snow melted, there it was. Then there was the doe I shot just before that snow hit. I found blood, but for the life of me could not find the deer. Just by blind luck, after searching all morning and giving up, I stumbled across the doe almost buried in fresh snow. You get the picture.

More recently it was a half a pastrami sandwich whose absence I blamed on the strange girl in my driveway. Turned out it must have been a cold day when I ate half that sandwich. Weeks later it turned up in my winter coat pocket. The point of all this brings us to this past week, and more specifically today. After seeing plenty of deer opening day (but no shots) my stands have gone silent. I'm lucky to see Bambi far off in the field, prancing around without a care in the world. So, after some rain and snow last night I decided to switch it up. 

I went in the woods at 10 am determined to still hunt from the ground. The conditions were perfect. Feeling my oats, I headed straight up GNJohn's mountain.  I walked up on four does and could've shot any of them. But I'm still looking for a good buck, so no shots. After that good encounter I found a spot looking down the north ridge. It was then that I discovered a stand that I lost and hadn't been able to find for years. It was literally 20 yards from my perch. What luck! Because I didn't have my harness I stayed on the ground. I wasn't there more than 20 mins. when I spotted a buck moving about 70 yards below me to the right.  It was a nice six. Fuck brow tines. I was gonna shoot this deer.

I swung the gun to a small tree, clicked off the safety, settled the crosshairs behind the shoulder and fired. He ran - tail up - like I had missed. WTF? I went in search of blood and was elated when I found red spots on the leaves. The elation was short lived. After following a spotty blood trail for about 300 yards I found a small piece of splintered bone and the blood trail dried up. I'd shot the buck at 1:30 pm and spent the rest of the afternoon criss crossing the ridge until dark looking for blood or a body. Nothing.

This is the worst case scenario for a hunter, to wound and not be able to find a deer. The gun is on. I'm off. After conferring with Savage Lynch, we decided I most likely hit jaw bone (not leg). Somehow I had screwed the shot and hit the jaw while he was feeding. I'm sick with regret and loss of confidence. Savage said he'll go to water. Tomorrow I'll give it one more try to find him either in the swamp or river.  It's a long shot. No pun intended. Fuck me.       

SHULTZ

 Photo: Virginia Osterhout

OPERATION LOVE GOD 196 pages

 

WAR and DEER PORN

 As you can surmise from my silence, the action has been less than stellar in the woods. All reports from other hunters are the same. Nobody is seeing shit. 

So I spend my days on Al Jazeera watching the horror in Gaza, laying out more books (see image above for latest), and trying to recovery from the Vids. I've hunted a couple of mornings with no action. This morning I planned on going out, but when the alarm went off Cheeky stretched out his cute little paw and  hit the clock. So I slept in. Another source of entertainment is deer hunting videos on Youtube. This manic switching back and forth between war and deer porn, book lay out, along with chores (like doing the dishes) fills my day until it's time to get in the tree. I was painting, but it's too cold in the church, and my European collectors came and went with no transactional activity. I did get a half gallon of milk, some beef broth, and a big block of American cheese, when they cleaned out the Fridge. Instead of a market I have a "supermarket."

Along with the videos, Bird sent me a photo of a nice buck alongside the road (where Shultz's bar used to be) in Yankee Lake. I also offer said buck above. There's no much else to report. The war continues, as does the season. This should be peak of the rut. We should be seeing all kinds of activity. What's going on? I don't have a clue.     

MORGANE

 

GOT LEGS

That old fuck Bukowski used to brag about how pretty his legs were. Well, he may be a better writer than I, but he's got nothing on my legs. 

After waiting all morning for word from the garage, I finally called (for the 4th time) and got a thumbs up. I now needed a ride. Shewho was supposed to be in Rock Hill but her plans changed. It being election day she went to the dump, only to find it was closed (again). I called up a couple of friends and got voice mail. Were people avoiding me? Fed up with the world, I decided to burn off my anger with a 3 mile walk to the garage. Around old man Jaffe's farm I spied a chainsaw on the edge of the road. Before I could get to it a town worker pulled his truck over and grabbed it. I asked the guy for a lift. "Sorry." he said, "The last time I gave a guy a lift I almost got fired. Town of Fallsburg policy." Obviously there is no "good samaritan" clause in the town contract. Passing the roadside altar for the two kids killed by the judge, I was almost to Dollar General when a car pulled over and a friendly face popped out. I was Emma Voegelin. She drove me the last 100 yards to the garage.

My entire trek was at a brisk 3 mph pace. All that walking up and down Denniston Hill had gotten me in shape. I thanked the LGM for my legs. Of course, we need to keep things in perspective. Pissed off as I was, no bombs were falling on my head. I had a warm house to go home to. Cheeky was curled up asleep in the chair. I have food, water, ammunition and good healthcare.

I have to admit that my sanctimonious, insta-outrage posts seem to have little effect on the Middle East situation and so far I haven't seen a shooter buck. But, things are looking up. I got my truck back and I can drive to Woodridge to vote. This afternoon I have options where to hunt. The weather is mild, but the rut is on. Anything can happen. Years ago I shot my first bow buck on election day. I must say, my legs are as pretty now as they were back then. Take that Bukowski!      

HOLLIE WITCHEY NORBURY

 

THE PEDESTRIAN HUNTER

 My truck is still in the shop. Luckily I can walk to all of my stands. It's good exercise. But, when I can get a ride I take it. Freddy, and Guru Sauce gave me rides down the hill last week and the other night congregant and friend Dirt Diva gave me a random sunset lift up the hill. But the most interesting pick-up of all was this afternoon. An unknown white SUV pulled over and cranked down the window. "Need a lift?" the young Hassidic man asked. This was a first. "Absolutely." I said and loaded my crossbow, pack and stool into his car. We introduced ourselves. "Moishe" was friendly and talkative. He said he had once got his hunting license "online," but had never gone hunting. I alway try to be open to new hunters. Plenty of friends express interest in going hunting, but never take it any further. Even the supermodels quickly lost interest. Can't smoke. Can't talk. Don't see anything. What fun is that?

So as Moishe and I drove down to the bridge I told him that any time he wanted to learn the ropes I'd take him hunting. His face brightened. "Really?" he asked."Yup." I insisted. "I live next to the church. You just knock on my door between now and Jan, 1st and I'll take you in the woods?" "The Church of the Little Green Man?" he asked warily, just to make sure he had the right church. I nodded. We shook hands again as he dropped me off and wished each other well. In my 30 years in Sullivan County that was the best encounter I ever had with a member of the other tribe.

I hunted all afternoon from the ground, above the bridge, repeating the strategy that had produced a big buck a few years back. Last night I did the same and had a six pointer creep up behind me. He wasn't a shooter, but it was fun. Tonight I had a spike come in, but that was it; very little action. I plan on hunting the morning at Julie Picasso's. Who knows what will unfold before I even climb in the tree. I hope I can get my truck back tomorrow. Although, I may keep walking. I feel way more connected to the world with my feet on the ground.  

MUSTACHE MAN

 Photo: Marianna Rothen

MEMORY DOWN

Crazy girl in driveway recap: One last detail I forgot to mention. Earlier that day Guru Sauce (Jeremy) and I had lunch in Mountain Dale. I couldn't eat all of my pastrami sandwich, so I brought it home. I was looking forward to eating it as I walked up the hill. Then the psycho encounter unfolded, and I went directly to the fridge to get that pastrami in order to calm down. It wasn't there. At my age I can no longer trust my memory. I couldn't be certain that I put the aluminum foil wrapped sandwich in the fridge. So I emailed the guru to look in his car. He did. No pastrami. Did that girl go into my house, steal the sandwich, eat it and was giving thanks for the delicacy when I startled her?  Nothing would surprise me at this point.

The next day (Friday) I was walking towards the cemetery stand when a car pulled over. A guy rolled the window down and addressed me. "I just saw a monster buck chasing a doe across the river by the bridge." Now, one person's estimation of a "monster buck" can be very different from another's. The man, in rapid-fire delivery, informed me that he "hunted Yankee Lake." Then he pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of big ten pointer he shot last year. This guy was a serious deer hunter and probably a good judge of antlers. "Are you going down the hill?" I asked. "Sure." he said. "Jump in." My plans changed.

After getting a ride with my new friend Freddy, I set up in Julie Picasso's front field by Andrew Jackson's grave. The problem with hunting this property is people. GNJohn consistently needs to take a walk at 5:00 pm along the property line - prime time. It drives me crazy, but sometimes it can work in my favor. 5 minutes after he passed a buck popped out of the swamp. I didn't have my binocs, but at 200 yards I could see horns. It was a shooter. Then the buck stopped and turned, like he was going to come my way. Maybe a doe was in the field. To my dismay a car packed with loud art students, radio blaring, cut down through the fields towards the orchard. The buck spooked and disappeared back into the swamp. The afternoon hunt was a bust.

Yesterday I hunted a long afternoon above the bridge. I found good rubs and had a small spike stop in front of me, close enough for a shot. It was a gratifying encounter, just enough to get the blood pumping. This is the first deer I've had in the kill zone with the bow. Tonight I'm going back down the hill. The "monster" could be bedding on that ridge and going down into the fields at night to chase does. The rut is kicking in. It's time to get serious. Before I leave this afternoon I'm going to take a full inventory of my fridge and lock my door. Let's see what develops.           

KERN GIRL w/ GUN

 

Photo by Richard Kern

CAN I HELP YOU?

 Compound bow season ended today. What better time to restart the blog?

I won't bother you with the details of what's happened between the last blog posting and this. Let me start with yesterday. My friend Jeremy (from the last post) is visiting from Chamonix, France. He's one of my one (correction two) art collectors. The other being my little brother Ricky. Sorry Rick. So, as you can imagine it's fun to have the guy in town, hoping for a sale. In the meantime we get high, eat, hang out, and look at my paintings between 1:00 and 4:00 pm, when I get in the tree stand. Sometimes I hunt mornings, most times not. It's a good schedule. I haven't seen shit.

Yesterday the truck broke down. I dropped it off at the garage and got a lift home. I think it's the oil pressure sensor. Now I would have to walk to the stand. Last night I chose to walk down the hill and hunt above the Hasidics. I climbed out of the stand at 6:00 pm without ever seeing a deer. Now for the unpleasant walk home, UP the hill in the cold. As I crested the road by the school house I noticed headlights coming from my driveway. A car I didn't recognize had backed in. I thought it had to be Jeremy's loaner. But when I peered in the windshield a young woman in a grey hoodie, hands clasped in straight fingered (well manicured) prayer stared blankly back at me. "Hi." I said in a friendly tone, "Can I help you?" No response.

Then I went around to the driver's (fully tinted) side making the universal "rolling finger" sign for rolling down the window, and repeated myself, "Helloooo....are you OK?" I tapped on the black window. Nothing. Then, in quick succession I did a little hunched "WTF?" shoulder pantomime in the windshield and rapped louder on the side window. Only then did the window recede. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, ASSHOLE?" came the quite unexpected reply. I reacted per usual. "YOU ARE IN MY DRIVEWAY! I LIVE HERE........ BITCH!!!!" It was at that point she put the late model, white, two-door Elantra? with tinted side windows in gear and damn near ran over my foot. Then she stopped in the road and screamed "ASSHOLE!" one more time, before screeching down the hill.

The whole episode rattled me so much I had to lock the doors to the house, put all the lights on, and cook up my linguini with the 9mm. on the table. It would be just my luck, after pissing off the Hassidics in Mountain Dale with my titty sculptures, infuriating old man Zucker by mowing the shul's lawn, and driving the Italian neighbors to fence in my property. (Where did that fence go?)....I would be killed by a pretty, praying, psychopath, parked in my driveway. All I wanted was to help. Tomorrow crossbow opens.