July, 2005
A Waldo Mountain Deer Hunt
By Matt Curry
It was in the early 70’s, the latter end of deer season, one van and two pickup trucks winded their way along the bumpy mountain tote road. As the van came upon some deep frozen depressions the crunching of the inch and a half ice seemed twice as loud to the van driver. Thinking to himself that the noise would alert every deer within a mile of their approach to the hunting grounds. The hint of dawn’s first rays were just noticeable in the east over Mack Mt., the blackness of the night still encased the mountain side, hoping that this would put the deer at ease after a very noisy approach into their domain.
This was the wrap-up of a week that had been successful for five out of the eight deer hunters that were hunting out of the van driver’s house. Up to now the young man had put the hunters on all the good stations to insure their success in getting their deer. He now determined he would give his own luck a chance and he had a specific spot in mind.
As the other hunters went to their designated stands he walked back down to the tote road they had just driven in on, after a quarter mile he turned and commenced to climb the steep hillside of Waldo Mountain. There was a section of young beech whips that boarded a grove of large oaks spreading branches. By now the dawn was lighting up where one could see quite nicely, enough to take a shot if a deer should be seen. The beech whips were so thick that it wasn’t without effort to push and sidle through them, with in sight of the glade, the hunter paused as a he heard a deer approaching just below him. The out line of a deer could be seen making its way up the edge of the whips and the oak glade;, the problem was that the whips were so thick it almost be impossible to get a bullet through the thicket. The sun rays reflected a glint of yellow off the antlers as the buck got nearer,nearer; it was a nice, set thick beamed set of horns. The buck was a mere twenty yards away and didn’t have a notion that danger was just yards awayso close.
With not too much confidence the bark of the rifle echoed down the valley.
His antlered head came erect immediately. The buck still could not place where that blast had come from. Another bark of the rifle came and the buck stood stalk still.
The hunter knew that a third shot was useless and watched as the buck nonchalantly meandered out of sight behind a huge oak tree. Both bullets had shattered the beech whips and had stopped just before they did any damage to the buck. On examining where the buck stood it was learned that a huge scrape, one among many, was found all along the oak glade. This spot was being used by more than one trophy buck to try and entice the does that were living on the side of the mountain. A quick decision was made to come down off the mountain and leave this spot for the afternoon sit, besides it was time for the other hunters to be gathering back at the trucks. They had planned to hunt until mid-morning and then head back home. Most had a week of enjoyable deer hunting, now it was time to go back to their families and homes. After handshakes and goodbyes, the lone hunter watched as the trucks disappeared around the corner of the tote road. It had been a very enjoyable week of hunting with all the guys; but now all his concentration was in a deep inner excitement on all the deer signs that he had found on the side of the mountain that morning. He headed home for a couple hours, just enough time to enlist the aid of his two friends Steve Hanscom and Allen Lightner.
Just in case his plan didn’t work high on the mountain, Steve and Allen would be placed on stands that would be on escape routes off the mountain. The day turned out to be one of those sunny brisk fall days that make a body feel good just to be alive and kicking. Two o’clock found the hunter in a ground blind in the oak glade, just off the thicket of beech whips. This thicket consisted of about 60 acres,. tThe deer scrapes were huge and fresh, a sign that the bucks were visiting them regularly, for high up on the mountain there wasn’t too much that would bother them. The wind was in favor of the hunter, the tell tale was the silken thread that was tied on the end of the rifle, it was gently laid back in the direction of the hunter. Along about ten before four, a movement up the mountain 65 yards away was seen, right along the edge of the whips, only on this side of them. Even from that distance, the antlers could be seen, which made the thumping of the hunter’s heart pound on the inside of his ribs., gGlancing at the silk thread making sure that the wind was still in favor, the rifle was steadied off his knee to a spot only 35 yards to a small opening. If the buck kept on the line he was coming, it should put him right in line for a good killing shot. The buck came down with his nose close to the ground, agonizingly slow, never lifting it off more than a few inches. The pounding of the heart was now growing to a crescendo, almost to the point wondering whether the buck could hear it, yet the rifle was never held any steadier. Even with the sight of the large rack, it never wavered from its point of aim, directly at that small opening. The buck was now only five feet away, then three feet. Then as it came directly into the opening, it stopped and immediately threw its head high, looking straight ahead. It took one quick glance at the blind that concealed the hunter, then looked directly away.
The bead of the iron sight centered just behind the ear of the buck. The animal hit the ground before the echo of the rifle blast quieted down. The hunter didn’t move from his position in the ground blind, nor did he even bolt in another round in the rifle, for there not 35 yards from him lay a magnificent ten-point buck. He just looked at the animal with all the respect one could give. After five minutes he rose and went down to where the buck lay, again admiring this great ten-pointer, taking in how its coat shone in the sunlight, the white markings so perfect as only nature’s hand can make. The antlers were almost identical, five to a side. After taking all this in, an uncontrollable “YA HOO, YA HOO!” echoed down across the mountain, only to echo off the distant Mack Mt.
Steve and Allen upon hearing this commotion knew instantly that success had been attained by their hunting partner. They were awhile climbing up to where the buck lay.
One’s success is contagious and they became as excited as the shooter. The drage was fairly easy as the descent was a steep downhill one. This buck was never weighed, but it was as nice a buck as anyone would be proud to claim.
The meat would give many a good meal through the winter to the hunter’s family. Not all planned hunts for a buck are successful. When one does come together as planned it just gives a grand old feeling that cannot be described.
Matt Curry of Belfast, is an accompished outdoorsman and the Author of Adventures Afield. Call 207-338-3794 to order a copy of the book.
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