Nova Scotia Hunting Forum banner
201 - 220 of 262 Posts
Discussion starter · #202 ·
posted this on another site - figured Id share it here....


Hemlock Gift
The headlamp amplified the crazy shadows of branches, being tossed in strong winds. Occasional sputters of cold November rain, directed to my face, by those strong winds, quickened my pace down the deserted muddy road.
At the base of the tree, the sounds of creaking branches, intensifying rain and thoughts of swinging around on that cold piece of metal, 15 feet up, convinced me that this morning would be great for stillhunting.

A couple hours after daybreak, while skirting a grove of majestic hemlock, the grey matter identified a sound as a deer grunt. I stood motionless for several minutes listening intently - ticking, clacking branches mixed with the sound of steady rain and gusty winds, filled the ear canals. Then, amongst all that background audio, the brain, once again, indicated a deer grunt.
I slowly entered the dripping, grove of hemlock and thought I saw a flicker of white. Slower progress through and around a couple of fresh blowdowns showed only a squirrel foraging in the small needled branches of the fallen trees. Water, from the saturated orange toque, found a path down my neck as I scanned the dark, wet forest.

After about ten minutes of keeping those fresh blowdowns company I decided to back out and circle to the East – the wind was simply swirling too much to continue up the hill. I’m sure I heard more grunting while poking along the edge of those swaying hemlocks – yet, my eyes refused to identify the source of that guttural sound.

I was starting to shiver regularly, so figured it was time to do some brisk walking in an attempt to warm up. Left the area and headed back the way I came.
A single set of large, splayed hoof tracks were imprinted firmly in my boot tracks, on the road, heading back towards the vehicle. The long striding tracks stayed course, in the middle of that muddy road, for a hundred yards, or so, then veered off abruptly onto a well used game trail.
A half hour down that trail showed a fresh rub on a small spruce, fresh droppings and occasional tracks. However, the focus was fading - my hands were almost numb inside my soaked, fleece gloves. Reluctantly, I turned towards the parked vehicle and called it a day.

Next morning, at full light, I was back at the hemlock grove where my mind believed I heard all the grunting sounds. The weather was very different - a crisp, bright and still morning. Tiny ice crystals accented the hemlock branchlets. The fallen maple and birch leaves, were partly frozen, making each boot step crunch. Slow was the word I kept repeating in my head.

A distinctive twig snap, to the right, followed by a grunt increased the heart rate.
Waited a few minutes and gave one blat on the grunt call. That blat was answered immediately by another distinctive twig snap within the shadowy hemlocks.
A few minutes later, another grunt just about lifted me out of my boots, it was so close. A buck appeared, 20 yards ahead, walking with unheard footfalls away from me.
It left the hemlock sanctuary and walked purposefully into the dull crimson maple whips – its’ majestic, antler adorned head held high, antler beams sweeping up, towards the treetops.

The shot resulted in a tail up leap, deeper into the leafless whips and out of sight. Silence.
I waited, grunted one more time on the call and continued waiting - fighting hard against the adrenalin rush and staying as still as possible.
One careful step after careful step - being as silent as possible, I made my way through the whips.
Fifty paces further, when my paper thin patience was about to dissolve, a splash of pure white, could be seen, through the brush ahead.

He was a beautiful buck - long legs, heavy neck and chest, a small puncture wound in a lower hind leg with antlers that really did sweep upwards.

Gary Marlborough

never used to take many pics until I started carrying a phone. This one of the 2 pics from this hunt, lol - youngest son helped get this one out of the woods.

Smile Trophy hunting Plant Hunting Deer hunting
 
Great story Gary thanks for sharing. Nothing like the thrill of still hunting success!
 
Discussion starter · #204 ·
thought I already posted this one but couldnt find it - so, here it is....

Nick

Nick was the first dog that I could officially call my own – a Heinz 57 mutt that resembled a miniature lab, if you looked at him the right way. In all actuality, he proved himself to be no one’s dog – he was way too strong willed with a large streak of independence which meant he had no intentions to be owned by anybody. I was in my late teens and knew next to nothing about training a dog. The both of us struggled through some rough obedience training and less than a year later we went on our first hunt.

He was a bit of a blockhead however had a great nose and would work on a scent til he figured it out plus was superb at retrieving. We picked up a few partridge and woodcock, in our first few outings and I soon was addicted to enjoying the dog work. He loved hunting birds and we were quickly having success with waterfowl and pheasant, as well.

Before the end of that first season, it was pretty apparent that NIck had a never ending desire to try and run down anything he flushed – this led to some trying times as he would chase anything, we flushed, until he figured it was time to return to me, the vehicle or home.

He also became quite efficient at catching and killing house cats – he would “fetch” them, to me, if we were out in the woods and if he escaped from his pen, at home (which he did quite often), he would sometimes return with his prize and lay it on our doorstep. The neighbourhood cat population dropped a little, in the few short years I had him, much to my mother’s horror.

How he escaped from his pen, so often, was a mystery until Dad caught him in the act one evening. It was incredible how he could literally climb a chain link fence – his paws were just the right size to fit in the diamond shaped mesh to scale the 6 foot enclosure. A slanting top rail was installed to stop the escapes.

The pic is Nick retrieving a duck on the Cole Harbour train trestle (way before the area was designated a walking trail). As he was retrieving this bird, a couple guys came down the tracks, one with a large movie camera over his shoulder. It was the guy that put on the Maine hunt/fish outdoor TV show (think it was called Woods/Waters) and his cameraman.

They were in Nova Scotia filming, for their show and were looking for a place to do some waterfowling. They wouldn’t listen to me about further down the trestle being a better spot for the evening flight of Black ducks and Whistlers.

They were real keen, though, for me to stick around for their hunt – I figured it was because I had the retriever. After showing them how to fill in their blind with eelgrass, I headed off to my spot - being too shy to hunt with them. I didn’t hear any shots, from their direction that evening. Plus, did not see any episodes, about Nova Scotia waterfowling, on the TV, so figured they didn’t do that well.

Had some real memorable experiences with that dog, some of them included;
  • Two of us had 5 pheasants and a grouse in about an hour, one morning, without firing a shot – all wing broke birds from other hunters, I guess, as they were still very much alive, just couldn’t fly – we were kind of freaking out because 3 of the pheasants were hens (the regulations did not allow the taking of hens).
  • Watching him retrieve geese was interesting. He would always work any birds that were still alive so he could grab them by the neck - think he got bit once or twice and came up with that trick. The hunts with him were a real learning experience for me and extremely enjoyable.
  • We got caught by surprise, one day by the Fundy tidal bore (I never learned my lesson this time, had to do it two more times with a different dog before I finally smartened up). The ducks were flying like crazy in front of the bore and I crippled one (in hindsight, I should never have shot) – Nick fought that bore like an otter, thought I lost him but that blockhead would not give up. He retrieved the duck but it was well up the channel from where he started.
Another experience that remains in the memory bank - me and a buddy were returning from a successful Annapolis Valley pheasant and duck hunt and we were starved – we saw a sign, outside a community hall, advertising a ham and baked bean dinner. They were just closing up but took pity on two starving young men – in no time we had ladies buzzing around putting together a couple small plates of cold, baked beans and brown bread crusts. We were very appreciative – beggars cant be choosers.

We ate quickly and were thanking the ladies for their generosity when we told one of them about our hunting dog in the truck – more buzzing around and we were presented with a large package wrapped in tin foil. Goodies for the dog, they said. We went outside and let Nick out of the truck, opened the package – holy .... must’ve been 5 lbs of steaming, honey smoked ham, a half loaf of warm home made bread, a couple hot biscuits complete with melted butter and a container of ham drippings – pretty sure Nick was smiling when he gave us that warning growl to keep our distance.

Gary Marlborough

Organism Working animal Carnivore Fawn Adaptation
 
Wow, that is a beautiful buck. I am glad you went home and came back the next morning as I was getting very chilly just reading your excellent account of the hunt.
 
Discussion starter · #211 ·
The King’s Stag

Even in the weak flashlight beam, I could see blood dripping off the bottom of Dad’s jacket – dripping off the jacket’s hem and adding dark, crimson spots to his boot tread marks in the snow. His steps were surprisingly spry and youthful like, considering the load he carried across his shoulders – a small whitetail buck.

I had gotten off work early and called Dad – “how ‘bout a quick deer hunt before it gets dark?” I knew he wouldn’t say no, but asked anyway.

A half hour later, we left his house, walked down the road, over the timber bridge and onto a woods road. Veered off that road and entered the forest. The freshly fallen snow quieted our footsteps as we traversed the edge of the steep ridge, overlooking the fast flowing little river.

With the sounds of rattling beech leaves and racing water of the rapids, as a backdrop, we made a brief plan for the evening and parted ways.
I vividly recall the dusting of new snowflakes on his shoulders and hat as he meandered off towards the top of the ridge, with borrowed rifle at the ready.

Mom and Dad immigrated from England about a year before I was born. There was no hunting, for common folk, in the home country where they grew up - the Crown owned the rights to all wildlife. Hunting was completely foreign to him.

He really enjoyed the outdoors, though, and had a large appreciation for the places and spaces his new homeland offered.

A floating fishing knife and a silver pocket knife were the only weapons Dad was interested in owning – guess his and Mom’s wartime experiences had something to do with that decision.
Yet, as I grew up and became more and more immersed in the taking of wildlife, he whole heartedly supported my passion. Dad would purchase hunting licenses, in order to be with me during my younger years. Those were the only times he hunted – never went on his own or with others.

My foot snapped a brittle branch while stalking through a tangle of small evergreens, close to the lake. Immediately, there was a thump da thump sound of running deer hooves. A small buck leaped across the shaded forest opening, tail held high.

Ten paces to the left, another small buck hesitated, a moment too long, to check out the strange, snow dusted, two legged creature. He didn’t understand the significance of the moment – he should have hit the flight button, like his brother.

His antlers were short, slightly curved spikes. Each spike tip was branched with a tiny fork and each curved spike had two small points protruding, just below the tiny forks. Fading light and forgetting to bring the flashlight, meant quick knife work was required to field dress him. The piece of nylon pull rope was also forgotten, in the haste of the afternoon. Oh well, up on the shoulders he goes.

The orange glow, of Dad’s cigarette, was like a tiny beacon in that dusky clump of cankered beech tree trunks.
“Well, well, isn’t that something. You did great” – the orange glow bobbed as he spoke. I slid the buck onto the ground and Dad knelt beside him, quietly admiring our prize, with his flashlight. That red and grey piece of plastic seemed to always operate on low battery, lol.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing the feeble light towards the ground behind him. Two sets of fresh deer tracks were imprinted on top of our earlier boot prints. “Looks like you got one of them”, he said, smiling – a smile that stayed etched on his face, the rest of the evening.

“Help me get it up on my shoulders and you take the light.” I almost said No, but knew I couldn’t make it all the way back to his house carrying the deer myself.

It seemed mere minutes and we were back on the road - probably something to do with Dad’s high energy level. Walking side by side, down that road, back to the house, I told the story of the hunt.
Dad responded with – “the King’s stag, we took the Kings stag tonight”, he chuckled and repeated the words a few more times.

Mom told me later, that after I left, Dad called his brothers, in England, to tell the yarn. Apparently, the words – we took the King’s stag were repeated several times during the laughter filled conversation.

At the time, I was like that young buck – didn’t understand the significance of the moment. Years later, I put the pieces together and realized that evening was indeed, very significant to Dad – I’m extremely grateful to have shared that hunt with him. Hope it never leaves the memory bank.

Gary Marlborough

PS – alas, no pics from that hunt. We didn't take many pics back then. Have this one of him at the bridge.


Sky Plant Tree Smile Standing
 
More excellent accounts of a young mans journey thru a special life. Well done "Marlborough Man" !!
 
Discussion starter · #217 ·
Double Take

The grunt tube blat was answered almost immediately. A short grunt, then twig snaps and footsteps progressed steadily towards the little brush blind, where I was hiding. Peering through the screen of spruce branches, a beamed buck paused 30 paces out and looked back and forth – his head swivelling on swollen neck muscles. A few steps further and I tightened the trigger until the muzzle blast shattered the silence, of the forest.

It was an enchanting hunt location – a bright green carpet of moss, covering most of the ground, throughout a mostly mature red spruce forest. The view and the peacefulness, of the place, was enough reason to justify a return.

I slung a stand, on one of these large trees, right where the spruce transitioned to a small opening, scattered with red maple and fir saplings.

On three different sits, the deer had skirted the clearing – drifting in and out and between the tree trunks and refusing to offer a clear shot.

Sneaking in, during a windy, rainy day, I put together a small pile of brush and broken branches further down the hill – a blind just large enough to sit in and hopefully, not appear out of the ordinary, to the passing deer.

The muzzle blast not only broke the silence, it resulted in two or three giant, white flag waving leaps.
Heart pounding, I leaned back against the uprooted poplar, that was my backrest. The Tom Petty song, comes to mind – waiting’s the hardest part – it was tough to sit and wait.
As the defined edges of branches were becoming less detailed, in the encroaching darkness, footfalls could be heard coming from the moss covered forest floor to the right - the same direction the buck I fired at, came from.
The steps had a steady, rhythmic sound - once again I peered through the screen of spruce branches, once again a beamed buck paused 30 paces out and looked back and forth.

It then turned and walked directly toward my little hideaway. It stopped, 8 paces out – it seemed his eyes were boring into mine. The gun was already on the support branch, cheek on the stock, both eyes open, fingers curled around the grip. Could I really feel the stock’s checkering through the ragg wool glove?
Brain signals were arcing and sparking to and from the memory bank - Same body size? Same antlers? Same deer?
He stood stone still - nostrils working, eyes staring, close enough to hear him sniffing.
My eyes kept returning to the straight up spike, poking up out of the right antler's base – it did not trigger a memory signal. That spike remained a question that could not be answered.

He turned and unhurriedly walked into the darkening forest - a moving shadow amongst the stationary shadows.

I had to move - way too much adrenalin rushing like rapids through the blood stream.

Put on the headlamp, strapped on the fanny pack and headed over to the spot where the last flag waving leap occurred.

Scanning the ground, discovered a few scattered clumps of moss and leaves, a few paces away another clump, then nothing. I hung the extra light above the last disturbed clump of moss and proceeded on hands and knees.
It took several minutes of handsing and kneesing to eventually untangle the trail. I found him, half hidden under a blowdown – lifeless body stretched out on the moss and leaf litter.

Pretty sure my real long, double sigh of relief, could be heard from some distance.


Trophy hunting Hunting Deer hunting Deer Hat



A couple deer seasons later, my oldest son, Darren, shot this buck in the same general area - makes me wonder?



Head Elk Deer Wood Barren ground Caribou
 
Morning coffee story. Thanks. How long until deer season......lol. >Pete
 
Great read. Sounds like a very special spot. Your patience and intuition paid off, resulting in an excellent trophy.

Gary, your earlier recount of the “King’s Stag” inspired my writing of “Just My Perspective” I find it interesting how family and related outdoor adventures have a special place in so many peoples lives.
 
201 - 220 of 262 Posts
Top