We are all guilty of watching the
hunting shows on tv for big whitetail bucks. Guys go out, sit in their tree stands, and watch 8,10,even 12 point bucks walk right by in search of a true monster. I don't know about everyone else, but my father and I watch those shows and yell at the tv. In New England, seeing any type of antler, mind you even a spike, is an exciting hunt. Actually, let's be honest, even seeing a deer is an exciting hunt. Last December (December 2011) seemed like the year for us to get our big buck. Our trail cam was going off every night getting great pictures of big bucks, old bucks, button bucks, and a bunch of does and their skippers (by the way, we are too lazy to set the date and time on our cameras, so all the pictures say 2005). We decided to put in some solid time scouting before the season started. We hunt in the Middlefield State Forest in Massachusetts, which conveniently is connected to my parent's property on all edges. We have a few trails through the woods to make game dragging easier (most of us hike up a few miles to get to our spots, so trails are very convenient). My dad and I went out about 15 days to find the best spots for his opening day, mine following his by five days since my school semester was still in full swing. There were quite a few areas where the deer had been feeding, and they were littered with fresh tracks, and some rubs and scrapes. My dad had a decent first week: the deer were moving, and his friend Ronnie (in the picture) shot a nice four pointer behind the house. Other than that, a few other people in the area had shot bucks, but our trail cameras were still producing great shots of bucks after we thought all of the local bucks had been shot. We were pretty hopeful that one of us, maybe me, would score one of the nice bucks. My first day out was December 3rd. It was a very mild December day, and there were a bunch of us in the woods, so the deer had to be moving. The crew had been seeing deer all week, but on that day, not one of us saw or heard any deer. Since Mass doesn't allow hunting on Sunday's, I headed back to Rhode Island slightly discouraged, but I figured I'd get my buck the week after. I headed home Thursday the 8th to get out early Friday morning.
My dad had been seeing some sign in Richmond, MA, so we figured we'd give Richmond a try since we all had doe permits there. We parked along the train tracks at 6AM just as the sun was coming up. There was a fresh layer of snow on the ground, making it easy to track deer. Almost immediately, I found fresh tracks. "If it's brown, it's down" was floating through my head as a hiked up the hill a ways off the tracks. I saw a raccoon, some birds, and some fresh coyote and deer tracks as I continued walking. After a few hours, I had found a perfect spot. There was a pile of rocks on top of a ridge overlooking a stream and some flat ground. There was a fresh scrape right below me and fresh tracks through the area. I couldn't help but think "this is it. Today is the day". I sat for an hour enjoying the silent beauty of the woods. The sun was coming up, and the snow on top of the trees started to melt. At first, it was nice, but then it got annoying. So much snow was melting and falling through the trees that I started swinging my head around like an owl, thinking deer were everywhere. Then I decided I wouldn't look when the snow dropped because it was just snow- but what if it was a deer?
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I got pretty frustrated, so I radioed my boyfriend (Ryan) to see what he was doing. He had experienced the same thing as me- snow falling down the back of his neck and slippery walking conditions. We decided we'd head back to the truck, get some lunch, then head back out for the afternoon. As I got off my rock pile, I noticed 3 shotgun shells. As I kept walking, I noticed a fresh gut pile. Apparently, that deer that had been scraping the area that I saw had already been found. Damn. I kept walking down the hill to meet up with Ryan. The ground had gotten really slippery. Since there was only an inch of snow, all the wet leaves and sticks underneath it were making walking extra slick. After a half hour of walking, I finally met up with Ryan. We were about 3/4 miles from the truck. As we were walking down the hill, I hit a slippery patch of leaves. As I fell to my right, I heard "crack, pop, pop, pop, pop". It wasn't a stick, it was my ankle. I fell hard on my gun and instantly clutched my ankle. It felt like it was no longer attached to my leg. I was in a full out panic. Ryan ran up to me as I rolled on the ground. The situation felt like it took hours, but we were only there for a few minutes. Ryan finally convinced me that everything was fine. I probably just sprained my ankle and tore a few ligaments-no big deal. I was starting to feel better about it. "Alright," I thought," it actually doesn't hurt that bad". We tied my boots up very tight for the walk back to the truck. As I stood up, my ankle felt weird, but not all that bad. We headed down the hill. I was still hunting- if I had seen a deer, I would have shot it, no doubt. When we finally got to the truck, my ankle was throbbing. We finally pulled my boot off to take a look at it- it was already bruised and the size of a tennis ball. We agreed that I should probably to go the hospital. After 2 hours in the hospital, I was diagnosed with a broken fibula. My hunting season was over. I picked up my crutches and adopted them into my lifestyle for the entire month of December and the beginning of January.
On December 26th, I had finally convinced my parents to let me out hunting for muzzleloader season. I crutched down to my garage when I mounted onto my dad's 4-wheeler. We attached my crutches and gun to the sides of the quad with bungee cords. I couldn't make it too far into the woods, but maybe I could get lucky. I situated myself in a blue chair bordering a field where the deer commonly travel through to get to different food sources. I could hear some moving below me. Not close enough to see, but I knew something was there. Over the radio, I heard my dad's friend Stan say he had just seen the big 6 pointer close to me, but couldn't get a shot. Maybe it was him. Maybe some higher power felt bad for me because I was so pathetic. I waited, and waited, and waited. Night fell before I ever caught a glimpse of what it was. I crutched my way back to the quad and headed home. Now the hunt was over. I had to just call it a season. I guess the deer made it this year. All the pictures of the bucks I have on this blog were taken the day before the season ended- they better watch their backs next year, because they won't get away so lucky.
We are all guilty of watching the hunting shows on tv for big whitetail bucks. Guys go out, sit in their tree stands, and watch 8,10,even 12 point bucks walk right by in search of a true monster. I don't know about everyone else, but my father and I watch those shows and yell at the tv. In New England, seeing any type of antler, mind you even a spike, is an exciting hunt. Actually, let's be honest, even seeing a deer is an exciting hunt. Last December (December 2011) seemed like the year for us to get our big buck. Our trail cam was going off every night getting great pictures of big bucks, old bucks, button bucks, and a bunch of does and their skippers (by the way, we are too lazy to set the date and time on our cameras, so all the pictures say 2005). We decided to put in some solid time scouting before the season started. We hunt in the Middlefield State Forest in Massachusetts, which conveniently is connected to my parent's property on all edges. We have a few trails through the woods to make game dragging easier (most of us hike up a few miles to get to our spots, so trails are very convenient). My dad and I went out about 15 days to find the best spots for his opening day, mine following his by five days since my school semester was still in full swing. There were quite a few areas where the deer had been feeding, and they were littered with fresh tracks, and some rubs and scrapes. My dad had a decent first week: the deer were moving, and his friend Ronnie (in the picture) shot a nice four pointer behind the house. Other than that, a few other people in the area had shot bucks, but our trail cameras were still producing great shots of bucks after we thought all of the local bucks had been shot. We were pretty hopeful that one of us, maybe me, would score one of the nice bucks. My first day out was December 3rd. It was a very mild December day, and there were a bunch of us in the woods, so the deer had to be moving. The crew had been seeing deer all week, but on that day, not one of us saw or heard any deer. Since Mass doesn't allow hunting on Sunday's, I headed back to Rhode Island slightly discouraged, but I figured I'd get my buck the week after. I headed home Thursday the 8th to get out early Friday morning. 
My dad had been seeing some sign in Richmond, MA, so we figured we'd give Richmond a try since we all had doe permits there. We parked along the train tracks at 6AM just as the sun was coming up. There was a fresh layer of snow on the ground, making it easy to track deer. Almost immediately, I found fresh tracks. "If it's brown, it's down" was floating through my head as a hiked up the hill a ways off the tracks. I saw a raccoon, some birds, and some fresh coyote and deer tracks as I continued walking. After a few hours, I had found a perfect spot. There was a pile of rocks on top of a ridge overlooking a stream and some flat ground. There was a fresh scrape right below me and fresh tracks through the area. I couldn't help but think "this is it. Today is the day". I sat for an hour enjoying the silent beauty of the woods. The sun was coming up, and the snow on top of the trees started to melt. At first, it was nice, but then it got annoying. So much snow was melting and falling through the trees that I started swinging my head around like an owl, thinking deer were everywhere. Then I decided I wouldn't look when the snow dropped because it was just snow- but what if it was a deer?.JPG)
I got pretty frustrated, so I radioed my boyfriend (Ryan) to see what he was doing. He had experienced the same thing as me- snow falling down the back of his neck and slippery walking conditions. We decided we'd head back to the truck, get some lunch, then head back out for the afternoon. As I got off my rock pile, I noticed 3 shotgun shells. As I kept walking, I noticed a fresh gut pile. Apparently, that deer that had been scraping the area that I saw had already been found. Damn. I kept walking down the hill to meet up with Ryan. The ground had gotten really slippery. Since there was only an inch of snow, all the wet leaves and sticks underneath it were making walking extra slick. After a half hour of walking, I finally met up with Ryan. We were about 3/4 miles from the truck. As we were walking down the hill, I hit a slippery patch of leaves. As I fell to my right, I heard "crack, pop, pop, pop, pop". It wasn't a stick, it was my ankle. I fell hard on my gun and instantly clutched my ankle. It felt like it was no longer attached to my leg. I was in a full out panic. Ryan ran up to me as I rolled on the ground. The situation felt like it took hours, but we were only there for a few minutes. Ryan finally convinced me that everything was fine. I probably just sprained my ankle and tore a few ligaments-no big deal. I was starting to feel better about it. "Alright," I thought," it actually doesn't hurt that bad". We tied my boots up very tight for the walk back to the truck. As I stood up, my ankle felt weird, but not all that bad. We headed down the hill. I was still hunting- if I had seen a deer, I would have shot it, no doubt. When we finally got to the truck, my ankle was throbbing. We finally pulled my boot off to take a look at it- it was already bruised and the size of a tennis ball. We agreed that I should probably to go the hospital. After 2 hours in the hospital, I was diagnosed with a broken fibula. My hunting season was over. I picked up my crutches and adopted them into my lifestyle for the entire month of December and the beginning of January. 
On December 26th, I had finally convinced my parents to let me out hunting for muzzleloader season. I crutched down to my garage when I mounted onto my dad's 4-wheeler. We attached my crutches and gun to the sides of the quad with bungee cords. I couldn't make it too far into the woods, but maybe I could get lucky. I situated myself in a blue chair bordering a field where the deer commonly travel through to get to different food sources. I could hear some moving below me. Not close enough to see, but I knew something was there. Over the radio, I heard my dad's friend Stan say he had just seen the big 6 pointer close to me, but couldn't get a shot. Maybe it was him. Maybe some higher power felt bad for me because I was so pathetic. I waited, and waited, and waited. Night fell before I ever caught a glimpse of what it was. I crutched my way back to the quad and headed home. Now the hunt was over. I had to just call it a season. I guess the deer made it this year. All the pictures of the bucks I have on this blog were taken the day before the season ended- they better watch their backs next year, because they won't get away so lucky.
