Sunday, September 28, 2008

Where's Al Sharpton?


I nearly ran off the road when I saw this. Utterly shocking.

This is the name of a subdivision near where I hunt in Coweta County. If there are any African-Americans that live in this housing development, I personally want to shake their hands. It takes some mighty big cojones to live in a neighborhood named after the founder of the Ku Klux Klan.

Skunked


Obviously, being the obsessive hunter that I am, I'm passing on my wisdom of the outdoors to Ridge. Since he's only 16 months old, I'm starting with the basics-being able to properly identify animals that a hunter may encounter in the woods. He can accurately ID and pronounce the words buck and doe and being a true Bryson he overtly prefers the ones with the big racks to the slick-heads.
I've also taught him the word skunk, which is good because as any deer hunter will tell you, more times than not when hunting you get skunk-ed. Which is exactly what happened to yours truly yesterday in the deer woods.

I had high hopes of putting a hole through the side of Mr. 8 Pointer after our little run-in three days ago. But unfortunately he was a no show today. It was however a good day to be in the woods. I played hooky from work and headed down the the hunting land in the wee hours of the morning. At 5Am, coffee cup in hand, I was cruising south on I-85. I was shocked at the amount of traffic at such an early hour. Does Atlanta traffic ever stop! 45 Minutes later I was climbing into my stand a good hour before daylight. I couldn't have asked for better conditions-temperatures in the low 50's, low humidity, and no wind. The woods that morning were still and calm.

But unfortunately, the deer, unlike myself, decided to sleep in that morning and skip the hearty breakfast of shell corn and golden delicious I had laid out for them. It wasn't a total waste however. I did see a pretty red-tailed fox, which marked the second time I've seen him. I think he has a den in the base of an old tree on the creek bank.

Even though I wasn't able to introduce Mr. 8 pointer to my good acquaintance, Mr. Fred Bear it was a great day to sit in the woods. In my opinion, there is isn't anything finer thing in the world than to be in the woods before daybreak and experience the forest come alive with the day.

I felt blessed to just to be alive on God's Earth, to paraphrase Capt. Agustus McCrae.

Since I was spending the entire day in the deer woods. I came down from my sniper perch around 11 AM and drove into Newnan for lunch. I dined in Newnan's finest eating establishment, the Chick-Fil-A, and after my exequisite meal of chicken nuggets and waffle fries, I passed the time writing and reading the paper.

I returned to my stand around 3PM to see if the evening hunt brought any action.

Well, it did, but not much. Right around dark, a big doe and her two twins came into the bait pile to feed. I watched them for a good 45 minutes or so with was pretty exciting. It's always fun to watch deer, no matter how big they are. It gets my blood pumping. However, they did start to annoy me after it was getting dark, to dark to shoot, and it was obvious the big boy wasn't going to show, and they wouldn't leave. I always like to let deer leave on their own without me spooking them. Normally I wouldn't mind sitting a little longer but tonight was the season premiere of The Office, my favorite show and I really wanted to get home.

Finally, Ms. Slink and the twins ate their fill and crossed the creek and I was able to climb down and head for the house. Not sure when I'll be able to get back in the woods, but I'm hoping Mr. 8 Pointer is there when I do.

Game Day


Four days ago, I headed down to Sharpsburg to put out some corn and apples on the the property I'm hunting. After putting out my bait, I shimmed up a big hickory tree in my climber to see what I could see. I didn't really expect to see anything, since this was my first time checking things out on the property, plus it would take time for what deer, if any, on the property to find my newly created bait pile.

Around 5Pm, after battling a demon horde of mosquitos from the depths of hell, a good sized coyote came out of the river bed to my right and started making circles around my tree. He never knew I was there, and I came close to putting a broad head through his pump house, but after some thought I decided against it. The economy is in the toilet and arrows are expensive- I dern sure didn't want to waste one on some smelly coyote. After about an hour, he finally made his rounds and lopped off up the trail. After spreading his scent all over the place, I felt fairly confident I wasn't going to see any deer that evening.

Boy was I wrong, just before dark, a large doe came out of the river bed and began nibbling on sweet gum samplings just 20 yards from my stand. She caught me off guard, and I wasn't ready to shoot, and I couldn't move in fear she'd see me, so all I could do was sit there. Unfortunately, that's when the big boy decided to come out.

I heard the characteristic heavy footsteps that I've heard so many times in my hunting career coming from behind me. As the footsteps got closer a large dark shape came into my field of vision. It was nice buck, at least a 8 pointer. Not a huge rack, but definitely a shooter.

The thing was, I was still in a sitting position, due to the fact that both he and the doe would see any movement I made. So I just had the sit there anxiously biding my time, while this buck walked within 20 yards of me, stood broad-sided and proceeded to take a leak. I couldn't believe it.

Eventually he turned his back on me and I finally managed to stand and turn my body enough to fire a shot. But by now, the buck had walked a good 30 yards away from me and into the deep creek bed. He was well out of my range and there was no way to get off a shot.

I just had to stand there and watch him eat his fill of acorns until he eventually moseyed off up the opposite side of the creek .

But I can't complain- my first night in my new stand and I saw a good sized buck. It really got the adrenaline pumping and it was great way to cap off the weekend.

However, come first light tomorrow, I'm going to be back in my stand, ready to go. I'm laying out of work tomorrow and I'll be hunting from dawn til dusk. I haven't pressured the deer for the past three days, and I'm hoping by now they've discovered my bait pile.

So tomorrow, if Mr. 8 pointer comes in for a early breakfast, me and Fred Bear will be there to greet him.

Scouting


Well, at least I don't have Lyme Disease. I came down with a cold two days ago and I was convinced it was due to my latest scouting trip. Thankfully the Internet relieved my fears, since my symptoms don't match.

Last weekend, Dad, Joe, the oldest nephew aka Ben, and myself traveled into the wilds of Kentucky to do a little scouting and hang some stands before the start of bow season. Dad and I stayed at Joe's Friday night and awoke around 3AM (waaaaay too early) to start our 5 hour journey to camp. Unfortunately only 45 minutes into our drive, we ran into a snarled traffic jam just on the other side of Chattanooga. We sat parked on the interstate for over two hours until traffic started moving again. Ben and I napped in the back seat.

We finally reached camp around 10:30 or so and we quickly unloaded Dad's Ranger off the trailer and started scouting the property. We've leased close to 1000 acres so having the 4 wheel drive Ranger really came in handy. I absolutely love our hunting land. It's made up of vast sprawling pastures and hay fields that mingle with thick hardwood forests. Perfect whitetail habitat.

We spent a good part of the morning scouting the west side of the property. Around 2PM we went back to the dilapidated old farmhouse that serves as our hunting cabin and base camp, and ate a perfect deer woods lunch consisting of potted meat, sardines spread on saltine crackers, and Little Debbie's for desert. All washed down with a cold Dr. Pepper. Bon apetit!

We spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the rest of the land. It was perfect weather except for the stifling heat and the property's apparent tick infestation. I've never in my life seen anything like it. We were covered up in deer ticks. And the size of these things blew my mind. Some of them were the size of a pinhead. At one point, Dad had hundreds of them crawling up his pants. It looked like pictures I've seen of the annual red crab invasion of Christmas Island. Of course I was a little freaked by this, since deer ticks spread the dreaded Lyme Disease.

Late in the afternoon we headed over to a spot on the southern end of the property so I could hang a archery stand. We hung it near a spot where I killed a nice buck two years earlier, so I figured the spot was good luck. While we were busy with the stand Ben spent his time picking up turkey feathers and playing with turtles. I think at last count he had found seven turtles within a 50 yard radius. We decided to name the place Turtle Hill, but come bow season, I'm hoping to rename the place, Buck Hill, Gut Pile Ridge, or Ten Point Hollow. I'm setting high expectations.

Around 5Pm we finally loaded the Ranger back on to the trailer and the four of us hauled our sweat, tick and chigger covered bodies back into the truck and headed for a hotel to stay the night. We promised Ben a hotel with a pool and it took us over an hour to find one.

We checked in and the first thing we did was strip down to remove ticks. We pulled over 20 off Ben alone. Joe, Ben and myself, swam in the hotel pool in our underwear since we had neglected to pack any swimming trunks, but we didn't give a flip. (We're rednecks and proud of it!) We were covered in potentially disease infected parasites and we were convinced the high chlorine levels of the pool and hot tub would kill the little buggers.

That night we dined on fried grease and sweet tea at a local Choke-n-Puke and fell asleep watching USC trounce Ohio State. We were up 5 short hours later at 3 AM, (again waaaaay too early) and headed for home.

I can't wait to get back up there in month when the season opens. I just hope it comes an early frost and kills off the damn deer ticks.

Welcome to The Scrape Line


I had always been under the impression that a blog was essentially a glorified diary and from where I come from men do not keep diaries. I had always felt that diaries are strictly reserved to two types of people: Holister-wearing junior high school cheerleaders with crushes on varsity quarterbacks or for overweight British chicks named Bridget.

Diaries are definitely not for individuals like myself- red-blooded American males with an affinity for firearms, four-wheeled drives and Sam Elliot movies.

But this isn't a diary, it's a blog and this blog is essentially going to deal with the oldest sport known to man: Deer Hunting.

In my family and to most folks in the mountains where I'm from, there is no greater date in the calendar year that is met with more rabid anticipation and unbridled enthusiasm than that of the Opening Day of Deer Season.

We are fanatical hunters in every sense of the word. In this part of the country, to even label deer hunting a mere sport would toe the line of blasphemy and sacrilege in certain social circles. To us it is an absolute way of life. It’s what binds our family together. And for those brief three weeks each autumn, when the whitetails are in full rut, nothing comes before deer hunting.

What you are about to read is my humble attempt to capture and chronicle my hunting adventures. Some will be personal hunting stories while others may be simply inane ramblings from the a.d.d riddled mind of a hunting junkie. Sprinkled throughout will also be hunting yarns and tall tales that have been told so many times around countless campfires and supper tables, that I’m not entirely sure where fact stops and fiction begins. But I’ll do my best to keep to keep it honest to the best of my ability. However to quote a line from one of my favorite films, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE, “When the truth become legend, print the legend.”

Good advice.

Now before you get too far along reading this blog, I'd also like to explain a few things up front and apologize in advance to certain individuals. First off, I'm not a writer. Well, not a very good one anyway. I've never had any formal writing classes beyond my freshman year in college, in which I made a solid C. So to any literary elitists out there who only crack the spines of great literature, you might as well stop reading now. The following entries will be loaded with atrocious grammar, run-on and fragmented sentences, and miss-spellings galore. My wife even loves to remind me on a regular basis, that I barely have a grasp on the English Language as it is. Too many years spent in the grammar-deficient mountains of Western North Carolina I guess. I'm the sort of writer who makes Hemingway, Hawthorne, and Fitzgerald spin in their graves.

I would also like to issue a warning to any left-wing, liberal, animal rights activists out there who might perusing through this blog. You probably want to stop reading now in order to prevent yourself from gouging your eyes out with a blunt instrument or your head exploding in a fit of rage. The following stories and essays describe in detail the stalking, slaughter, mutilation and consumption of furry woodland creatures. I will not be held responsible for any bodily harm you may inflict upon yourself while reading this blog. I would recommend that if you are a left-wing, liberal, animal rights activist, that perhaps you should stop reading now, go to your nearest Blockbuster Video and rent Bambi (which is nothing but anti-hunting propaganda anyway), sing Cum Bi Ya and munch on some tofu. This blog is not for you.

In addition to left-wing, liberal, animal rights activists, the contents of this blog are also likely to offend the following, listed here in no particular order:

The family and friends of Coach Mike Krzyzewski, Duke University, The Humane Society, The French, Hippies, The Department of Fish and Game, Bobby Cox, Vegans, Afghanistan, The A.C.L.U, George Lucas, The Walt Disney Corporation, P.E.T.A, Nancy Pelosi

If you fall in to one of the above categories, again I suggest that you either stop reading immediately, or proceed with caution and a very thick skin.

And with that I leave you, Dear Readers, with the immortal words of Uncle Ted Nugent,"I don't hunt for sport, I don't hunt for recreation, I don't hunt for meat, I hunt to hunt."

Those are the words that I live by. Welcome to the Scrape Line.