This is the silly season for deer. Bucks are smitten by any doe within calling distance — the rut, it’s called.
They are tenacious and will follow a doe to the ends of the earth, totally without regard for danger, which is why the numbers of car-deer accidents spike this time of year.
Bowhunters perched in trees, like ungainly birds, notably have the advantage with their season coming during the rut.
This year gun hunters, who traipse afield with high-powered rifles capable of downing a deer at 300 paces, will have benefit of the rut. Usually they get in on the tail end, but with their 12-day season determined by Thanksgiving (the first Wednesday after the holiday) gun-toting nimrods will find deer more active, and accessible.
I’ve hunted deer for nigh on 45 years. The first two or three with bow and arrow. Then, wisely on my part, I decided sitting in a grounded blind was safer than climbing a tree, and that a rifle gave me much more reach.
Over the years I’ve taken my share of bucks. The meat never goes to waste, but I have to come clean: I do stalk, such as it is, only bucks with large and attractive racks, several of which are displayed in my garage.
I haven’t taken a deer for several years. I’ve had opportunities, but I’ve found reasons to keep my 300 mag in its sheath — the buck is too far away, it’s too late in the day, and, most importantly, who could I talk into helping me load the rascal.
Some years ago son Bob built a small cabin on his farm south of Humboldt. Electricity is attached, which gives advantage to an elderly hunter. Wife Beverly occasionally goes along to give counsel, and having power at hand means heat and coffee. A couple of spartan recliners are comfortable and we often read, which means a particularly intriguing passage may permit a worthy buck to pass by unseen.
We also notice coyotes, quail in more recent years with the birds’ revival and once in a very great while a bobcat sneaking along looking for a meal.
I mentioned to Beverly a while back I planned to try harder this year to put venison in the freezer.
Not a thrilling revelation, but she knows that when push comes to shove, I probably will find an excuse, however lame, to leave my rifle leaning against the side of the cabin — or miss out during a snooze on an Indian summer afternoon.
