New snow on the ground was providing critical information and detail about what was moving where, and when, but the more-or-less haphazard foraging tracks had been replaced with straight shot runways. Despite thoughtful consideration, study, observation and tracking to get me down to a 45 minute window, it still proved not enough and exact movements of the herd alluded me.

As the final weekend unfolded I was convinced that hunting pressures from below my ridge, wind patterns, and a brother-in-law who’d taken a shot with his muzzleloader on the far side of the range had greatly rearranged the patterns I needed to get within 30-40 yards. Sunday afternoon as I stood at the wall of windows of the home I watched new snow begin to fall and spoke a silent message to the herd that we’d resume in October, and for now I wished them the best against the toils of winter, coyotes and men with no heart. I turned to Brenda and let her know I was home for good and invited the kids to help me pack away the gear while I removed the broadheads from my arrows – A bittersweet activity.

I tried hard that evening not to think about it anymore. I told myself I could begin scouting in a few weeks, but for now I needed to recharge and focus on the Holidays. I decided I would go snowboarding Monday morning to help. Life was finding a new balance with a new winter season and the next morning I returned from the mountain with renewed enthusiasm for the other sport I love. A settled 4-6 inches from the snow I’d watched out the window the night before proved to be quite a treat.

As I unloaded the truck in preparation to head into town and a desk, I visited with a neighbor enjoying a late start as well. And then I saw it … a decomposing jack-o-lantern on my stone wall was knocked to the ground. I chose to investigate. As I neared, I saw them.

A set of tracks.

And another.

Now three.

And this one could have been a fourth, and looked big, looked late to the party compared to the other 3 sets … a tell tale signs of a buck.

Regardless of exactly how many there were, and who was what sex, the trails indicated they did not pass through. Rather, that night the deer came into my yard and rifled through Brenda’s garden as they searched under the apple tree, chewed away at the rotting pumpkins and otherwise stomped around enough to make it look as if they’d gathered for a winter ball. Like they knew it was over, and a celebration was to be had.

Laughing with my neighbor we marveled at what appears to be the herd’s understanding that the jig is up. And I felt honored that they chose The Shire’s porch to celebrate.

For several months I hunted them with everything I had. I left the home at 4 a.m. I stood silent in the woods until it was dark. I mentally battled mild hypothermia. I took hours to move silently across stands of trees into position. I studied wind patterns and set out into the forest accordingly. I practiced. I shot arrows from all angles. I shot arrows amidst mowing the lawn to simulate elevated heart rate and fatigue. I dialed in a rifle kill shot from 100 yards. I read almost everything I could to understand their behavior in the time that I had. And I got close a few times, and even released a drawn arrow once.

So in a unique sort of way, I felt honored they’d chosen my yard to feast. Was it taunting? You could see it that way. But me? I see it as a tip of the horns, so-to-speak. A subtle message that they know who I am and know I am now an element of their habitat that they cannot ignore.

And in the end, that’s why I started this. I look forward to seeing them again. I look forward to the hunt, and the kill, but in the meantime I have accomplished exactly what I really wanted – I became part of the wilderness cycle around me.

And the deer themselves told me.

One morning in particular, I’d headed out along the trail in an effort to circle around and catch the deer as they headed to their bedding area. Their evening movements were now really late (presumably) and I was shifting to morning hunts. As I moved up trail I found some tracks. I took note and moved on. Their location and direction were of interest, but armed with a bow in the dark, I’m not stalking a damn thing. Plus the single track was unfamiliar. I was looking for the threesome and it was no time to alter the course. I continued on and took a position high on the ridge.

More than an hour later, the rising sun was having little affect on my rapidly chilling core. Quiet woods only invigorate my curiosity and thoughts quickly returned to those tracks. I moved toward them for some investigation. I was fascinated to see that the tracks had come to a dead stop, moved to a flank and then doubled back and headed directly into the thick pine zone. They were from that morning and based on their pattern it looked like the deer stopped dead when it heard or smelled me coming, moved to observe or satisfy curiosity, and then moved safely away.

Outstanding.

I continued into the heart of my hunting zone with an intent to learn more than find. And I learned.

I opted to follow a set of tracks of what appeared to be 2-4 deer … More likely 3. The 3 does I’ve been seeing all fall.
Their trail was a straight shot. Not a lot of hunting for food with this morning line. Very little acorn scrapes and very little wandering. These girls were moving with a purpose. As I was looping back near my home I came to my original trail (picture that I walked a ridge south in the morning, dropped east down a slope , headed back north and then northwest to my original route) and made clear note that these tracks were not there when I first entered.

So they followed me in.

This was perfect. Their route of travel is an area I have become very familiar with. The prevailing winds normally do not work in my favor, but when they move in this direction they do … Which might contribute to their haste through the area at dawn.

I was giddy. I can make a position in about 45 minutes without much noise or physically working myself into a stink and they’d shown me they weren’t worried about crossing my trail. So there it was. Take the longway around before the sun rises and steady your aim.

Passed on the next morning to keep them honest, and set the alarm to leave the house at 4:30 am the following. The schedule was kept.

Right off the bat as I entered the woods and connected to the trail I saw a big track. Either the loner doe my neighbors and I have been seeing (a big girl) or a buck. Not a concern. Not what I was tracking. So I moved on.

Farther up the trail I came across a few more tracks … A bit out of sync from what I was expecting, and early, but movements were more jagged. Still no scrapes on the ground. Something seemed out of sorts and then I saw why. Paw prints. Multiple paw prints. Coming in from a different angle, but following. One of the prints was big. Big as my own dog … German Shepherd size. I hear the coyotes at night, but this was my first confirmed track. Some scat and bedding areas have been suspected, but now we had something real.

And it wasn’t dog. The added snow was wet and heavy. Movements weren’t just clear, but could practically be time-stamped in 15-minute intervals. These were all fresh. It was enough to take pause. With a headlamp barely illuminating the area around me, no firearm I could legally carry, and a bow strapped to my back, I took an account and opted to cut down the ridge earlier than planned and avoid the tracks heading down trail.

I moved on.

And then I came across them again.

Again.

And again. The hunt was on, and it wasn’t just me.

Soon I found myself crouched. My bow now in hand and an arrow slid through the basket … Not that it would do me a bit of good. The sun was over an hour from giving me anything in regard to light, and one arrow against a pack of coyotes would do little. On most occasions you can count on coyotes to avoid you. However, these were on a hunt, and I was standing in the midst of it. For the first time in years, I found myself afraid of the dark. I sat still and tried to listen. Nothing. Nothing ever makes a sound out there when you need it to.

I kept my light on although I wondered if it was giving me a disadvantage. I was nervous if I looked too far into the dark woods I would find eyes staring back at me. It should also be noted I’d recently learned the coyotes in our Vermont woods are sometimes called coywolves. Apparently as settlers eliminated wolves from the Northern seat of New England, coyotes from the great lakes region moved in and bred with wolves … Giving us a coyote different than the prankster-like critter found in Navajo folklore. Fear had a good grip and humility seeped over to respect. On this morning, I was no longer welcomed into the woods.

It was not long before I doubled back on my own trail and I was back at home. Pride took a hit, but once again I found myself in awe of the land.

And for the record, I don’t care what the law says, you can bet next bow season, I’ll have a sidearm.