Hunting Blacktail Deer – The Quest for Spork
Aug 17th, 2009 | By Hank Shaw | Category: Hunting & Fishing Stories | Comments | 35 Comments |
The morning broke clear and chilly, and the fog lay thick in the Coastal Range valleys near King City. Phillip and I stood high above the fog on a hilltop, searching for deer.
Phillip, who has been hunting deer for more than three decades, spotted them first: three does, munching sagebrush on a steep hillside. But then they’re all steep hillsides at the Native Hunt ranch. We watched the does closely, hoping their boyfriends would be near.
Deer hunting touches something visceral within all of us, whether we realize it or not. Reactions range from “you shot Bambi’s mom!” to that special shine in a fellow buck hunter’s eyes you see when we share stories. Few folks are undecided about killing deer.
Perhaps that’s because every culture has hunted deer at some point, and in fact many anthropologists believe that hunting deer has played a role in making us human — that our urge to track down, kill and eat deer (in all their forms) has stoked our technological and mental development; coming up with an easier and better way to get your venison has been our quest since before we were even fully human.
We long since outstripped Deer’s ability to outwit us. If we wanted, we could bait and kill more deer than we could eat, using booby traps, hidden cameras, machine guns, piles of bait, etc, etc. Modern hunters restrain themselves (to various extents) with the weapons they use (thus the resurgence of bow hunting) or the methods they choose.
Phillip and I live in California, where the blacktail deer reigns and where spot-and-stalk hunting is the rule. No tree stands in the Coastal Range, no scent attractants, grunt calls, antler rattling or even camouflage: Wear a tan shirt or jacket and some sturdy jeans or Carhartts and you’re fine. But you must have a good pair of boots, a better set of binoculars, a rifle that will shoot a long ways, and the stamina to climb mountains.
THE SULTAN
Soon enough, the does’ boyfriends did show up. Or rather boyfriend. The buck was obviously the sultan of this particular harem. He was grayer than the young does and the yearling buck who was tagging along with them. Bigger, too, about 130-140 pounds. Coastal Range blacktails do not get terribly large; I’ve shot mule deer does heavier than that in Montana.
Nor do Coastal Range blacktails grow gigantic antlers. This one was only a two-by-three, meaning he has a fork on one side, and three points on the other. Not a shooter if you were some big-time TV hunter, but a decent young buck for this part of the world.
Maybe too good. Michael Riddle, who owns Native Hunt, allowed me on the ranch to hunt blacktail deer in return for me catering a big dove shoot on Labor Day; it’ll be Dovapalooza, Round II. But I couldn’t shoot just any deer. It seems the previous owner of the ranch had shot too many deer on it, leaving a motley assortment of bucks in charge of the place. One was a gigantic forked horn I had originally been charged with assassinating, but that got changed at the last minute. Phillip and I were looking for a decent buck, but one that would probably not become grand enough for a high-dollar hunt down the road.
Phillip kept glassing the Sultan. “I can shoot him now, if you want,” I said. I had the buck steady in my crosshairs at a little more than 250 yards. All he was doing was grazing. Broadside shot. “I don’t know,” Phillip said. “He’s branching,” meaning the buck was developing that classic set of antlers most hunters desire.
So we let him go and went looking for one of the Motley Crew. But none of its members showed themselves, and we drove back toward the ranch house — only to see the Sultan and his harem not 40 yards above us on the hillside, still grazing. There is so little hunting pressure for blacktails on this ranch they didn’t care about the vehicle. This was an all-time gimme shot. Phillip hesitated. This was just too good… But we held off. It was the first morning, and we really wanted to find an older, weirder buck to cull.
THE LEGEND OF SPORK
It was at lunch when Sam the Guide told us about this crazy old deer in the front of the property that had a gnarly spike on one side of his head, and a fork on the other. A genetic oddity, as this was apparently a mature, dominant buck in the area. Phillip named him Spork, as in spoon-and-fork. Immediately we knew we had to kill Spork. Big deer, weird antlers, hard to find; Sam had not seen the deer since it was in velvet this past Spring.
That evening we went up Bulldozer Canyon, where Spork had last been seen. It is a classic Coastal Range canyon, steep and slippery. Everything here was once the bottom of the ocean, and the white talc-like limestone is loaded with fossilized seashells. But its weak rock that disintegrates into a slippery gravel that is extraordinarily difficult to climb on.
But climb we did, all the way to the top of the ridge into the pines. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer as we trudged up, reminding me that I am not the in kind of shape I used to be. We picked along the ridge looking for a good spot to sit down and wait, a place where we could see the whole canyon and yet not be seen. We found a perfect spot in between an old oak and a pine tree.
When we settled down, we immediately saw the signs all around us: This was Spork’s lair.
Deer scat was everywhere, including this pile, which was still black and shiny. Cold and hard, though, which was good — it meant Spork had left probably in the morning. (Yes, we routinely pick up deer shit. And no, we don’t taste it.) How did we know it was not a doe hangout? Nearly every tree in the vicinity had been rubbed with his antlers; a sign of territoriality.
So we sat and waited. A herd of wild pigs wandered through, making lots of noise. Pigs are not deer. They’re closer to people, in that they march through the wilds as if they own the place. Marching pigs sound very different from the soft touch of a deer walking, which sounds like falling leaves if you are not listening very carefully.
Waiting there, the world closed in around us. The ripples we made walking into the place receded, and we began to absorb it all. My eyes are only so-so, but my hearing is better than most. Phillip is an expert spotter of game. In this state we hoped we would not be fooled by any movement. The sun began to fall behind the opposite ridge. “Won’t be long now,” Phillip said.
SPORK SHOWS HIMSELF
He was right. Out stepped a nice blacktail doe. She began eating leaves off a bush, as calm as can be. Then Spork appeared. Phillip stared at the buck through his binoculars. “That’s him! That’s Spork!” I got ready to shoot, my heart fluttering again. I immediately realized that the syndrome known as Buck Fever is real: I’ve shot many does before, but I had only shot one other buck — and that was an antelope. I had never shot a buck deer before, and had to will myself to not look at the antlers.
I got my .270 ready, looked through the crosshairs, and saw him… sitting down, with his ass facing us, at absolutely the worst angle possible. As if he knew, the bastard. The only remotely achievable shot would be to his neck, but I’ve shot deer in the neck before and if can be iffy.
“Relax, he’ll get up and follow his lady friend soon enough,” Phillip said. So we waited. And waited. And waited. The doe got more than 100 yards away from Spork, but he still just sat there. Light was fast fading. He was not going to stand up before shooting light ended. Shit.
“OK, ready now,” Phillip said. I readied. He called out his best impression of a bleating doe. “Beeap!” Spork looked at us, but did not move. Phillip did it again. This time Spork did not even bother looking in our direction. Light was almost gone. Phillip stood up. Spork look, but stayed in his semi-recumbent position.
Finally, Phillip started waving his arms around and twirling his hat in the air. At last Spork took an interest. But in a bad way. I had him in my crosshairs at one instant, but in another he had lept up the hillside and trotted away. No shot. At the same moment I was thinking if Spork were a mule deer he’d stop and look back at us, he did. Broadside.
Time slowed. In less than a second, I got Spork back in my crosshairs, put them on his heart, felt my own heart pound, pulled the trigger — and realized I could see brush between Spork and my scope. CRACK! It was done, a slug of copper was in the air and I knew before it hit him that I had done Spork a grave injustice.
He jumped and dashed over the edge of the ridge and into a thicket of pin oaks, juniper and thornbushes.
“I don’t feel good about that shot,” I said.
We rushed over to where I thought I hit Spork, looking for blood. What color it was would help us figure out exactly where I’d hit him. Lurid red blood is a heart shot. That same color with little flecks of foam is a lung shot. Liver blood is darker, as is muscle blood. I looked around the zone while Phillip followed Spork’s tracks.
No blood. Not a drop. Anywhere. We could not hear Spork in the brush. Light was fading. “Go down that hillside and see if you see him laid up under a bush or something. And keep your rifle ready in case he pops out in front of you. I’ll swing around and meet you at the bottom of the ridge,” Phillip said.
Down I went. Fell is more like it. The hillside was so steep it was all I could do not to fall ass-over-tea kettle because of the slippery gravel. I tried as best I could to stay semi-quiet, but I definitely made a racket. About 20 yards down my stomach began churning: This was very thick brush, it’s dark. We are not going to find this deer. Oh my God.
I passed a spot that it looked like Spork had run into, and crept into the bush. I squatted, stock still, and listened. Nothing. I remembered that spot and continued down the hill, hoping to see Phillip at the bottom.
LOST
What I saw was a fence. I was in a corner of a fence, with nothing but more rocky gravel in front of me for a quarter mile. Now it was truly dark. I shouldered my rifle and realized I needed to get out of here before I got lost. But after another heart-hammering climb up the gravel I realized: I am lost. Phillip was nowhere. There was no way I was going back up that Hill of Death, but I figured I could find the road and walk back from there.
The trail turned, and I found myself in a place I did not recognize. The stars were the only light. It was at that moment it struck me that I could be spending the night here. Wandering around in the pitch dark is a terrible idea, especially in a place you can turn your ankle easily. I did have my day pack with me, which had water and several of the Greek fig cakes I bring with me on trips like this. But no flashlight. Stupid.
After a few minutes, however, the panic response ended and I realized that I knew where I could find the road, even if I needed to bushwhack my way to it. So I turned around and eventually found my way back. I can honestly say I was scared, for at least a little while. But as Phillip said later, every true deer hunter has gotten lost, if only for a short time like I’d done. It’s a rite of passage.
That night we replayed the shot over and over, and the total lack of blood made us wonder if I’d even hit Spork at all. Phillip said he’d looked hit, but he’d never seen a hit deer not drop any blood. Was it the copper ammo? Was it the brush I’d hit, which deflected the bullet? Either way, we needed to go back to that spot and search in the morning.
WHERE WAS SPORK?
When he reached the ridge in the morning, it was again, no blood. We began to think we’d see Spork looking at us on the ridge. For two hours, we blanketed that area, looking for sign. As the sun began to warm, we finally headed up the Hill of Death. This hill is so steep and so slippery, we had to grab onto the fence with one hand — avoiding the strands of barbed wire — hauling ourselves upward.
At last we came to the spot I’d thought Spork had gone down. Phillip picked up his tracks and crept into the bush. For 20 minutes he followed sign, moving slowly, looking for blood. “I think Spork is off running around somewhere,” Phillip said. “Meet me at the top of the hill.”
I had not gone 10 steps when he called out, “Wait! I found him.”
Spork was dead. And my first reaction had been right. I shot him in the gut, and he had bled to death internally overnight. It would have been a grim death, and I began to feel nauseous again about how it all had happened. But competing with that emotion was the elation that we had indeed found him. Bad shot or no, we had closure. We had done our job and had not just left him in the bush and gone off and shot another deer, perhaps the Sultan.
Now we had to haul Spork, which Phillip estimated at 4 years old and about 140 pounds, up the Hill of Death. It almost killed me, but I suppose I deserve even harsher penance for doing Spork the injustice of a slow death.
When we cut him open, much of the meat was tainted. My heart sank even lower. Spork had lain on his left side when he died, so all that meat was ruined. Writing this now it sounds more tragic than I felt at the time. At that moment I was still just happy we’d found him — and been able to save half the meat. I am still confronted by such a mix of emotions about this hunt that they’ve all crashed into themselves, leaving a dull uncertainty.
What I will do with the meat remains to be seen. Spork was an old, sagebrush-eating blacktail buck getting ready to rut. He would have been strong-tasting even if I had not gut-shot him. I will figure it out once I break down the legs tonight. I’m thinking sausage. With sage.
BECOMING A BUCK HUNTER
I am no longer a virgin buck hunter. Thanks to Phillip, I learned so much on this hunt, and finally understand why buck hunters feel such a strong urge to head into the woods every year. Bucks are far harder to kill than does, and to hunt a particular buck is even tougher still. There is definitely an element of a duel that develops, and it is not just a testosterone-soaked, manly-man thing: On my way home, I stopped at a convenience store for some water. I moved Spork’s head (I intend to save the skull) from the bed of my pickup to the backseat, not wanted to force everyone who passes by to see a dead deer.
A young woman of about 20 saw me do it: “Hey, is that a deer head?”
Oh no. “Uh, yeah. It is.”
“Can I see it?”
Huh? “You bet. It’s a weird deer. Old, with only a fork and a spike on it.”
She admired it. “That buck’s got a lot of character. I’ve been chasing a four-by-four on our property for five years. He always slips me. But I’m hoping to get him this year.”
I smiled. She smiled. I said, “Go get him! And good luck to you.”
“Thanks! Can’t wait to get out there this weekend!”
As I drove off, I understood.
UPDATE: Phillip, who runs the Hog Blog, wrote his own story about the hunt, complete with video…
It’s tough, knowing that he suffered at the end, instead of a clean kill, but I applaud the fact that you cared enough to go to such lengths to find him. Too many hunters would have just gone on to find another deer, and just forget about him.
Does hunting blacktail differ significantly from hunting whitetail here in the east? Here in PA, deer don’t come into season until late fall, when they’re in rut. I realize that it’s much easier to hunt buck then,since they’re rather preoccupied (horny men get that way, you know) but wouldn’t that affect the taste of the meat? I’ve never been a big fan of venison, and I suspect that it’s because I’ve always had meat from bucks.
Nicely done, Hank! As a southerner, I have a strong appreciation for the well-told tale, and you did it well!
As far as the hunt, it was a pleasure I hope to repeat in the near future… albeit with less dragging and more bragging next time, if you please. Let’s kill the next one quickly, and next to a road. OK?
Seriously, what happened to you will happen to every hunter… if it hasn’t already. We all make the marginal shot, and it’s how we deal with it that makes the big difference. You stuck it out, and we recovered your deer. Yeah, you only get to eat part of him, but the local pigs, magpies, and ravens will appreciate the feast we left for them. It’s sort of like catering a party, only you have to leave before the guests show up.
Seriously, it’s tough when you know you “could have done better” and you kept on grinding anyway. A lot of guys would have called it on Saturday night and killed another deer without compunction. It was a pleasure and an honor to hunt with someone who feels as strongly as you do, and I’d hunt with you again in a heartbeat.
Oh, and a partial reply to Tina…
In CA, a big difference is simply in the deer population. We don’t have that many huntable blacktails, so the seasons are generally set so that we are NOT hunting in the rut… specifically for the reasons you mention. We can’t sustain the increased harvest. Sometimes you get an exceptional year when the rut begins early, and that appears to be what we’ve got this year.
As far as the taste of a “rutted up” buck? I’ve eaten some seriously “distracted” bucks, and I haven’t really experienced the taste difference a lot of folks claim. Now Hank’s got a level or 10 on me when it comes to cooking and meat handling, so maybe he’s got some insight I don’t, but in my personal experience, it’s got a lot more to do with taking care of the meat as quickly as possible after the kill than with the, err.. excitement level of the deer.
Thanks for the information, Phillip. I’ve just assumed that the testosterone level during the rut changed the taste of the meat. I’ve also read that if the adrenaline level of the deer is very high (ie the deer was not killed immediately and ran a significant distance), that will affect the quality of the meat. Of course, it’s also possible that I’m just not a venison fan.
Great story Hank. As a deer hunter, having experienced so much of the same I felt like I was there. It’s been 12 years since I last hunted deer and I’m looking to get back out at some point.
Well-told, Hank! I’m looking forward to seeing (tasting) how you honor Spork. I know it’ll be amazing.
Hank, you’ve done an amazing job with this story. It would be so easy to leave out the bad shot and all of the sadness. Heck, it would have been easy to leave out the part where you were ‘scared.’
A great story, if sad.
Now, a question: Did you keep the skin? Because I’d tan it for you if you did. Summer skin is good for tanned buckskin, winter’s is good for fur-on.
I’m on the trail of a 4-point on a friend’s property. I missed seeing the bucks last Saturday, probably due to the mountain lion the owner says his daughter saw, “right where you’re standing.” My luck. I did eat a load of blackberries, though.
Tina: Yes, adrenaline will affect meat quality, and yes, Spork’s adrenaline was rushing, I am sorry to say. He will not be as clean-tasting as a well-killed deer might be, but I can and will adjust….
Phillip: Likewise, it was an honor spending the weekend in the mountains with you. We justy had to find out about Spork Sunday, know what had really happened to him, otherwise I would never have forgiven myself. Of course, I would have lved to have seen him flip us the bird and run off — then we could have killed the Sultan!
J.R.: It was a tough hunt, and it is part of this endeavor. I am glad to hear you still feel the urge to chase deer…
Josh: No, I did not keep the skin, and it is funny you mentioned that. I was telling Phillip I would LOVE to wear a buckskin shirt from a deer I’d killed. He was, sadly, too beat up. Go get that 4-point, and we’ll trade venison recipes!
Hank,
Well written, you certainly captured the experience. But never, never, hunt in the afternoon without a flashlight, extra batteries, and matches in your daypack.
Very nice, Hank! Now let’s go get another one, but this time in the high Sierra from a tree stand.
It’ll be much less gruelling.
Thank you for giving it to us straight. In the six years I’ve been deer hunting, I’ve shot 13 times, killed 10, missed 2 and hit one that I did not recover – that was last fall. After it happened, I put up my deer rifle for the rest of the season – I just didn’t have the heart for it. I’m glad to say that eight months later, the passion is back and I can’t wait to go deer hunting. I also know that because of the lost doe last fall, I’ll be a better, more deliberate hunter. I’m glad you found your buck.
There is not enough room in this comment box to describe the number of times a perfect example of Murphy’s Law as developed during one of my hunting trips b/c of ‘buck fever’, inexperience, a stupid moment, or just plan old bad luck.
Kindered Spirit can attest to that….
Thanks for your candid story Hank.
Sounds like a little bit of Spork is a good candidate for being corned. I just put tegether a batch using a roast from one of last years doe’s. Fingers are crossed.
I just want to say that I have never been deer hunting, came accross this artical and could not stop reading it. I really think I would enjoy a good deer hunt. Thank you for writing this.
Phillip, thanks for explaining the rut… I was at least curious (we’ll say, ‘skeptical’) that those bucks were getting up to follow does so early, but your further explanation makes perfect sense. We’ve had such strange weather this year, most of the buckeye where I hunted still has leaves, and almost all the poison oak, unfortunately. I put in for an either-sex tag for Monterey County this year but didn’t get it, dang it… Well, maybe the bucks’ll get randy early in the Sierra, too; I am hunting blacktails there, too.
Hank, too bad about the hide…
This is a fascinating read. I’m sorry to hear about the shot, though I expect those sausages will turn out well all the same.
I would like to go hunting someday. I need to find some hunters in the Massachusetts area.
Great story, Hank. Congratulations on your first blacktail — and even better that you found Spork the next day. I’m sure you will more than honor that deer in the kitchen. I’ve only had the opportunity to hunt blacktail deer once — and this story makes me want to go again. Thanks for sharing.
Hank, I’m hopeful to get back out there next year. I’m still trying to decipher the CA Deer Regs. Premium, restricted, unrestricted I need a decoder ring! In WA were I grew up it was either Western WA or Eastern WA. I’ll be back next year, just need to find a good area to hunt and go for it.
Hank,
Good on you for going back the next day. You owe it to the animal. My father instilled this in me and I can honestly say it is one thaing that many hunters don’t follow through with enough. Last year I went with my father on a squirrel hunt and we combed the woods for the better part of an hour looking for a stinking tree rat!
I have had the misfortune of hitting a deer with a bow and not ever recovering it despite what looked like a solid hit. It made me sick to my stomach.
A couple of things suprised me…
No flashlight? Seriously?
Don’t ever be ashamed or afraid to let the public see your harvest. Your actions either showed you were sympathetic (they won the PC battle in this case) or you were not entirely comfortable with your actions. You certianly don’t need to flaunt it, but I wouldn’t hide who you are. You have done nothing wrong and don’t need to be an apologist.
Just my $0.02.
Brady
David: Yeah, I know, I know. Flashlight, matches, etc. Got lucky this time.
Matt: You got a spot with deer? I’ll take you up on it, although I am not a huge fan of tree stands.
Kindred: Yeah, still not happy with myself about that shot, but actually finding the deer — and saving about 25-30 pounds of meat — makes things a little better.
Carolina Rig: Funny you should say that. I was looking at a nice roast I cut from Spork’s hind leg I thought would do well as corned venison…
Adele: Massachusetts hunters are all prolly inland, like around the Berkshires. Look there…
J.R.: Scouting is HUGE. Makes the difference between having a legit chance at a deer or none at all.
Brady: Did you ever find Mr. Bushytail? And yeah, I know about the flashlight already! Getting one this week…
As for the rest, I am not ashamed at all, otherwise I would not post the story in such a public place. I just don’t like the typical picture of “hunter with dead deer.” Doesn’t do anything for me, although I did include the picture of Spork on the ground.
And I wasn’t entirely comfortable with my actions — I took a bad shot, and Spork paid for it, as did I by losing half the meat. Could I have held off that shot? Honestly I don’t know; it all happened so fast. I am glad we found the deer, though, and I am equally glad I did not kill the Sultan thinking I’d missed Spork…
Thanks for the refreshingly honest, just the way it was story of your deer hunt, and congratulations on your hard work that paid off!… also really enjoyed your beautiful pictures… it looks like some awesome country!
Well written, and glad you ‘expose’ the fact that shooting animals isn’t exactly always the clean kill that one anticipates. I too get the predictable positive emotions buzzing me out, tempered by a bit of gut twisting. Even when it goes ideally to plan.
Tip on the flashlight: Either a Mini Mag Lite because they are bulletproof and easy to hold in your mouth, or a good LED headlamp, so you can appropriately fling yourself through the woods with both hands free when the panic grips you…
Really, I’ve got both, because one is good for walking, and the other just has better light when you are sitting.
Hank, how do you practice your rifle skills. A shot of 250 yards is a serious accomplishment and, as I understand it, requires a well-tuned rifle and marksman. What’s your routine?
Tom: I practice at 100 yards at the local range. I shot Spork at about 185 yards, which is not that big a deal. I’ve made shots at up to 325 yards, but only with a rock-solid rest and plenty of time to shoot.
I would argue that 250 yards is not anything special, but I do practice a fair bit. Real serious marksmen can make shots beyond 400 yards, which is getting out there…
I have never hunted intentionally but have killed and eaten a fair share of varmints and fresh-hit roadkill.
I agree, a great story. But I hate to see all the talk about “doing the right thing” and agonizing about an imperfect shot. Animals die every day so we can eat, and even if youre a vegan their little worlds were plowed up and poisoned so you could have your soybeans and corn. Cool that you went back and saved some meat. Would have been equally fine if you used the time to kill another one. There is no special morality in the first option, especially in parts of the country that are overrun with prey animals because we eliminated the top predators. I do believe it’s immoral to pretend we don’t depend on killing animals for food – so the more people are reminded what hunting is, the better.
Jon W: To me, it would not have been “equally fine” to just shoot another deer. Blacktail are not whitetail. We are not overrun by them the way you are in whitetail country — not by a hundred-mile long shot. Shootable blacktail bucks are rare here.
And believe me, I don’t pretend that we don’t depend on killing animals for food. I use the same “plow” argument when vegetarians give me a hard time for hunting.
But “what hunting is,” at least for me, is ideally a shot that kills the animal fast, not slow. If the tables were turned I’d rather go quick than be gut shot. Wouldn’t you?
Great story, Hank. I’m going whitetail hunting for the first time this fall. My father, who’s been hunting for most of his life, has promised to teach me the ropes. I’m both excited and nervous, but I know I’ll have a great time. And with any luck, I’ll get a deer!
Nightswimmer: Good luck with that – and have a great time! Just get out and practice your shooting as much as you can beforehand so you feel as confident as possible (well, as confident as anyone can feel the first time out).
Whether you get nothing, shoot and lose an animal or make a perfect shot, it will be an amazing experience you’ll never forget.
Off topic a bit, but I just noticed your tweet about leeks. Do you grow them from seed, or from sets, like onions? Also, how long do they take to mature? I don’t know anyone here in PA that grows them, and I’ve never seen them in our local farmer’s markets.
Adele, there are plenty of hunters in MA, I hunt my familys land in Attleboro. The DCR runs a BOW program for women for deer, turkey & fishing that has a seminar & then a hunt during the season. Also there’s a lottery draw for the Quabbin Resevoir.
http://tinyurl.com/mmwdo2
Hank, for the past couple of years, the most deer are taken in Eastern MA. In the 2008 season, my zone harvested 2,000 more deer than the most Western zones (2,215 vs 248). Turkey harvests are exactly opposite. Martha’s Vineyard island is/was overrun by deer for many years. I love hunting with friends up in the Adirondack mountains, but I love my 200# live weight bucks here at home even more.
Thanks for a great post. My dad is going dove hunting down in Arizona over Labor Day; he and his buddies would love to have a caterer. He only brings back 2 limits every year, so my mom makes just one recipe, but it’s a yummy ragout with red wine. I’ll ask for a copy of it.
Nightswimmer: Congrats! I hope you get one, and if you have any questions about what to do with it, just ask.
Tina: I grow leeks from seeds in very early spring. They need almost a full year in the ground, and can overwinter even in Pennsylvania — if you cover them with straw.
Marlana: Would have never guessed that there’d be more deer in Eastern Mass! More forage, fewer hunters I bet…
Diana: I’d love to see that recipe!
Hank,
There’s less forage, more hunters… but the huntable land is much smaller, chunks here and there around urban areas that are sprawling. So with the sprawl, the deer are supposedly easier to find. I find them all the time, except during hunting season when they go into the swamps. The ‘Deer Density Goal’ for my zone (SE MA not counting the Cape) is 6-8 /sq mile. I have at least 2 doe herds of 8 within 1 sq mile… which explains why they demolish my concord grapes and peaches in the fall before the season opens.
Living in the Deep South, game hunters are always within throwing distance. For me, the idea of hunting always brings conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I understand the need to keep the deer population under control (not to mention the hypocrisy I would feel whenever I dive into a juicy steak), but on the other hand, it does pain me to think of these animals suffering.
And suffer they do… especially when green or uncaring hunters go off searching for their manhoods within the depths of a forest. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard people brag about shooting a deer but then admit that it was a bad shot and the deer “got away.” None bothered tracking the animal down, and most couldn’t even hit the broad side of a barn or care…any shot will do.
Reading your account, I felt bad for Spork, but I also felt that you had tried your hardest to get a clean kill and that the manner of his death meant something to you. That sort of appreciation goes a long way. We are the top of the food chain, but the fact is that we’re so elevated that we forget what a wonder it is for wildlife to flourish. Every living creature, except man, has obstacles and dangers at every turn and every stage in life. And while we reap the benefits of their demise, so few actually appreciate the sacrifice and (cheesy as it may sound) the nobility of the lives that end up on our dinner plates.
Nice to see there are still hunters out there that still know the true meaning of sportsmanship.
Sandy: Thanks for that note. I know exactly what you mean…