It’s tough enough to bag a deer when you’re awake. It’s harder when you’re asleep.
We know that for a fact after a scene unfolded many moons ago during a float trip on the Buffalo National River. It was comedy from a canoe seat.
We were into our second day of a three-day float on the downstream end of the Buffalo. The 23-mile trip from the ghost town of Rush to the Buffalo’s confluence with the White River is a beautiful, remote adventure.
This section flows through the Lower Buffalo Wilderness, with no access along the way. The scenery is spectacular mile after mile. Our trip was in October that year. The trees were on fire with color. Muzzle-loader deer season was in full swing.
The river was low, so my buddy and I paddled in separate boats for less dragging in the skinny water. We also held true to our motto: Love many. Trust a few. Always paddle your own canoe.
My pal was behind me, fishing for smallmouth bass. Drifting slowly I passed two mules tethered to a tree by the water. From the miles we’d already seen, it looked like riding a mule was the best way into this rugged territory.
I dipped a paddle and moved through a long pool, wondering about those mules. Farther downstream at the next shoal, I spied a deer standing in the middle of the river, taking a solitary, cool drink.
I figured the doe could sip for days without seeing a human, so it wasn’t this deer’s day when it looked up to see my drifting canoe. The doe bolted and vanished into the shoreline forest.
At the end of the pool, the current picked up at the shoal where the deer once stood. On shore, a splash of orange caught my eye. This was no autumn maple, but a deer hunter sporting a blaze orange vest and cap.
There he sat in a folding chair, sound asleep. That doe had been mere yards away from the snoozing hunter who snored away with his chin on his chest and a black-powder rifle in his lap.
Just to be sure the hunter was catching 40 winks, I gave a hearty wave. No response. The bill of his orange cap stayed pointed toward the ground. His chest rose and fell in rhythm.
When my pal’s aluminum canoe scraped the shoal’s gravel bottom, the racket never woke the sleeping deer hunter.
Typical hunter’s luck. The scene played out like a Saturday morning cartoon.
No wonder he’d picked this riverside spot. A game trail led from the woods to the river not far from the hunter’s chair. The Buffalo was a flowing lullaby spilling over the gravel shoal. A great spot for hunting or a nap.
That hunter may have brought home the bacon that day. I’ll wager he came up empty on venison. At least he was well rested.
Flip Putthoff can be reached at [email protected] or on Twitter @NWAFlip.
