Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, December 30, 1993 TAG: 9312300054
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: B9 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE:
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
I figured the snow that came with darkness the evening before would give a muzzleloader hunter a distinct advantage by providing a soft, wispy blanket across the landscape.
The deer would show up well, and, if not that, there would be tracks to help unravel their intricate movements and to boost a hunter's confidence. Maybe I could try some of those north county techniques I'd read about in outdoors magazines under titles like "Backtrack Your Buck."
I stopped at a brushy little knoll where I'd seen deer take refuge several times earlier in the year. It would be a dandy spot for them to bed down in the snow, and I'd be able to get close, since there would be no leaves to crunch and no dry sticks to snap. Just a soft cushion of snow to mask my approach.
The first couple of steps I found the snow to be soft, all right, but beneath it was the sleet and ice that had formed before the snow. It was worse than dry leaves. My steps sounded like some giant methodically crunching party nuts.
There were no tracks, anyway, no signs of deer on the knoll, only some imprints left by a frisky rabbit. Most noticeable was the fact that the prickles on the burdock were encased in ice and for once they didn't hook onto my clothing.
I headed off the knoll, then followed a creek on its downstream course looking for a spot to cross. Since there was no boat available, this wouldn't be a row vs. wade decision.
When I started up a ridge on the other side, I located tracks, but they were hours old, snow-filled indentations that told me the deer had moved before dawn, then bedded down. But where?
I checked a pine thicket first and had to stoop low. The frozen needles held gobs of snow, a burden that drooped the limbs like weeping willows.
Each branch of the hawthorn trees was glazed in a caress of ice that creaked and tinkled like a crystal chandelier when you brushed it. There was beauty everywhere, and compassionless treachery. But no deer.
Every time I stopped, the setting was deathly silent, the only movement my hot breath that assured me I was alive and told me which way my scent was drifting.
The sky was battleship gray, and fine, granular flakes of snow fell irregularly from it, like salt coming out of a wet shaker.
Any venison taken today would be especially savory because it would be consumed with earned hunger.
I spotted what I took to be a buck coming up the ridge to my front left. It was heading toward an oak where I'd seen deer feeding on acorns earlier in the season. The target was within range of a modern rifle, but I'd have to be closer with my .50-caliber Hawkins. Each time the buck moved behind a tree, I'd take a step to close the gap.
Then a loud snort split the stillness. A white tail sprang erect, like a warning flag, highly visible even in the snow. I could see the arched, brown back of a leaping deer and hear its hard hooves crashing the ice.
The noise and movement came from a second deer that had been in front of the one I'd spotted. I'd failed to spot it as it watched me make my stalk.
After seeing enough of me, it warned its companion. Both deer bounded off the ridge, sending clumps of snow into the cold air.
I headed back the way I'd come, which was the only backtracking I'd do this day.
by CNB