December is a bleak and lonely time for deer hunters in Arkansas, but it is also a time of opportunity.
Modern gun season is finished everywhere except in deer management zones 9, 12, 13, 16, 16A and 17. Elsewhere, only bowhunters understand the sights, sounds and smells of the woods as the year wheezes to its grave.
For most hunters, the season ended after the second weekend of the modern gun segment. Those who took vacation for "modern gun" filled their freezers, deposited their racks at the taxidermist, and returned to work, to church and to sports.
Over the years, I have rued all the unproductive time I spent hunting late in the season when deer are scarce. This year, I bagged four deer in five days during the first week of modern gun season. I got two with muzzleloaders.
I have continued hunting with a crossbow, but I have to pick my days. One of my archery spots is only in play with a northeast wind. The other is in play with a south or southwest wind.
The northeast wind sent me into the woods Tuesday, when humidity was high and the temperature plummeted.
The first thing I noticed is how open the woods are in December. In early to mid-November, there is still a lot of foliage on the trees and bushes. The cover is close and tight, and a deer must be close for you to see unless it enters or crosses an opening or firebreak.
Now, you can see forever through the monochrome winterscape.
Occasionally a cardinal sings, and for that moment I swear it feels like March. That lasts until the next gust drags its nails across your cheeks. The gusts tore at my clothes but were unable to pierce multiple layers topped by an impregnable Browning Parka that I've had for nearly two decades.
Covering my legs is a Cabelas thermal under layer topped with bluejeans. Wader socks rise almost to my hips, and Mucks Arctic Ranger boots rise to my knees. The socks and boots look good on paper, but they can't block and tackle. The cold swaddles my feet. Within 90 minutes, I am uncomfortable. Foot warmers would have helped, but I didn't believe it was cold enough to warrant them. I was mistaken.
My pop-up blind is in a small tangle of brush and briar about 20 yards from a crossing. It has been there for five years, covered annually with fresh dressings of limbs and leaves.
I have hunted in it no more than five or six times and only shot from it once, and that was three years ago. Deer are not conditioned to perceive it as a threat, but yet they eye it scrupulously whenever they approach it.
All of the windows are zipped shut except for the door, which is damaged and hangs ajar. I am essentially blacked out.
Because the blind is so close to the crossing, I do not use my Little Buddy heater. Though quiet to human ears, it does make a distinctive hissing noise, and it pops like radio static if air moves across the element. It also emits an odor that I don't believe would be tolerated.
A logging crew works in the distance, creating a familiar din that does not disturb wildlife in this environment. Several crows overhead complain about something. They relocate to the direction of my southwest wind stand and raise a ruckus. They are probably fussing at deer, which makes me alert.
Crows are my allies, spies that provide intel on game that I can't see. In this way, crows have often contributed to the demise of whitetails, and especially wild turkeys.
I was relaxed and distracted when I shifted to the side to peek out the corner of the window. Only the doe's head and upper neck were visible as she crept into the crossing. She saw movement as I eased back into the shadow and reached for my crossbow.
The doe didn't blow or run. She looked at the blind, looked over her back and back at the blind. Then she slowly backed into the thicket. I remained for 90 more minutes, but the blood moment had passed.
Archery hunting is a game of feet. Five more steps, and I would have collected my first Triple Trophy Award.
Instead, I await the next fair wind.
Sports on 12/12/2019