Better Luck Next Time
Denny Murawska
Closing day of deer hunting season
Just as the opening day of any season brings with it a certain tingling of anticipation, closing day brings with it its own bittersweet emotions. A few years back, I experienced a pretty typical season. You would think it would be so much easier to bag a buck with a gun as opposed to archery gear, yet my luck seems to favor the bow and arrow. After tagging deer in both Illinois and Wisconsin, gun season promised to be icing on the cake.
On day one I spotted three does high-tailing it across some corn stubble, well out of shotgun range. My partner, Mike, saw nothing that day but was comfortably sticking it out in his camouflage “hooch” as he called it, nestled in an area simply known as “the swamp.” From this vantage point, he had an excellent view of the entire front and side of the woodlot we frequented. Nothing could enter or leave without being detected.
The next morning I heard a single shot and surmised Mike had taken his deer. I saw nothing and as the wind picked up, 8 o’clock seemed like a prudent time to head home. As I emerged from the woods, I saw Mike walking the cornfield in search of something. He felt he had made a good shot on a deer and was looking for any sign of blood. I asked him where he had seen the deer re-enter the woods, and within minutes, we found his buck. It was a unicorn! The diminutive rack had formed only on one side. Nevertheless, Mike seemed pleased. Later in the day, a snow squall moved in to shut things down for a while.
After taking a second buck, my partner folded up his blind and called it quits. On the remaining few days I got out, I sat in that same spot. I saw nothing. After another snowfall, I scouted for fresh tracks. The side of the woodlot that was so hot during archery season was now devoid of sign. I did find a few that had passed right under my stand, but they were small and not entirely fresh. After rifle season came to an end, it was time to break out my muzzleloader. I would have the woods all to myself.
Coyote and fox tracks crisscrossed the fields. As best I could make out, only three or four deer remained in the woodlot. The few times I was able to get out were eerily quiet. Finally, I decided to take off work on the last day of the season. I always enjoy driving through Walworth early in the morning. It is a very typical Wisconsin small town. Even at the crack of dawn there is usually someone in the Laundromat. Christmas lights festoon Main Street, and I pass only a few cars on my way to the hunt.
Stillness hangs over the farm as I pull into the cornfield, with snow crackling like cereal under my tires. I am alone, and in the darkness, fumble to ready the muzzleloader. Back to the swamp! Each step makes so much noise, and I know it is useless trying to approach my usual stand. I hunker down behind some brush, watching the edge of the woodlot. Nothing stirs. Only the chattering of a few nuthatches and a drumming woodpecker punctuate the silence.
After only an hour of uncomfortable kneeling behind the brush pile, it is time to loosen up some stiff knees. I enter the woods, realizing each step crackles with noise from which even the most naïve fawn would flee in terror. As I circle the woods, I pass my forlorn stand. Nearby is the same large rub that has sat unused for weeks. I contemplate a return in the evening and head back toward the car. Across the ragged stubble of cornfield I watch as the sun turns the edge of the woods golden. The wind has picked up and temperatures are dropping. There is that last look and a smile. No, I will not be back until next season.
At home the blaze orange outerwear is shed in a pile. Lead bullets, primers, and a fanny pack full of stuff are stowed away in a drawer reserved for such items. Tomorrow I will visit the car wash and suck out the remains of burrs, brambles, and clods of mud from that special place I hunt. My vehicle will now look more presentable, albeit less colorful. The shockingly bright vests, camo face masks, smashed hats and other gear gave that car some character these last months. Like seeds of next year’s wildflowers, they rest and wait for the leaves to turn their brightest best again, next year.