I wrote another story for Maryland Bowhunters Society's
newsletter, Rubs & Scrapes. If you bowhunt in Maryland, you
should really consider signing up. http://www.marylandbowhunterssociety.org/JoinTheMBS.html
They are Maryland's Bowhunter's Voice.
Anyways, here is my story.
The Story:
My Place
February
3, 1996
Walking the trail to my tree on that
October day, as the sun found its way through the leaves above, with my climber
weighted on my back I saw a 6-point drinking from a puddle ahead. As I took a knee to lower my outline it was
too late. With a few leaps it was gone
from my view. I continued on and broke
off the trail and made my way to the creek where I followed it upstream to one
of my trees. Climbing up I noticed how
the leaves were beginning to change, and what a view I was climbing up to. Sitting 25' above with bow in hand looking
upstream I sat and thought. You do a lot
of that while hunting. You think of your
problems. You think about work, or what
you have to have accomplished, or maybe you even think about where the deer
are. But mostly if you are like me, you just think about where you are at that
moment. There is unbelievable beauty all
around us,that most people never see. I
see that beauty everywhere I go. Just
turn your head, and there it is.
As the sun was sinking down through the
trees, I noticed a few jittery does coming down a trail on the other side of
the creek to get a drink. The mother was
on watch while the two fawns goofed around.
There was no shot to take so I just watched as they went back up to a
thicket above. Later a 4-point came down
the same trail, and crossed toward me, and stopped 5 feet off my tree. It was a yearling, and I was looking for
something bigger that day, so my patience helped me hold off, and watch as it
winded me, and took two jumps across the creek, and went back up the hill. At days end, I climbed down the tree, and
made my way through the darkening woods back to my truck. I thought back of some earlier days squirrel
hunting with my dad in the Pennsylvania woods when I was a kid. He passed away in ‘93. I don’t think I’ve ever made a trip into the
woods without thinking about him. I’ve
been able to keep a vision of him in my mind of one particular grouse
hunt. I remember looking over at him as
he moved through the trees. He made his
way so smooth, the way wind blows around a branch. Maybe that day has stayed so clear to me
because I shot my first grouse with him that day. Or maybe God was just giving me a gift that I
would need later in life. I
miss him bad.
My first days in the hunting woods came
when I was about 8 years old or so, walking behind my dad. I didn’t understand too much about hunting
then, except that this is where dad went when he left the house to go hunting. I learned early on that you “had to stop
walking so loud” as he put it. “
You’re gonna scare everything off within earshot ”. It took me a while, but I walk pretty quietly
now.
I walk pretty quietly to my place. It’s sometimes hard to find. But usually not. It’s a place way off the beaten path. Walk up that drainage, pass through some dark
pines. “There’s the tree where that 8
point busted me that year. That was a
good year. Get up on top, and walk the
edge of that thicket. Walk down through
another drainage, and there’s a lone oak tree.
After you’ve climbed up and gotten situated, you hear the creek running
down below.
The
place is Colorado now, in the Rocky Mountains.
I’ve been west before, but this trip will be different. Our tent is situated in the bottom of a
canyon along side a drainage called Beaver Creek. The landscape is too much for me to get
over. I can’t stop looking around with
the amazement that I am actually here again.
It is just too beautiful to believe.
Golden brown slopes edged with dark green timber and quakey
patches. Its day 3 now, and my partner
and I have spent the day packing out his Bull Elk. By 2:00 I finally make my way to the water
hole for the evening hunt. The sun is
blasting me in the face as I wait. I’m
startled by a small heard of elk cows that sneak up behind me. They get with-in 50 yards, when a young Bull
busts me, and with a warning they all bolt like a locomotive. A young mule deer later comes out from my
right and puts his head down in the hole to drink. If I shoot him, I may blow the real
opportunity, so I pass and watch him disappear back into the timber. The sun is almost down to the tree line when
it “starts”. A herd of cows and 2 young
bulls make their way to the water hole.
My heart is starting to beat faster now.
Then I hear it. A mature bull
screams. Can’t see him yet, but the hair
on the back of my neck just stood up.
Then suddenly I see him, the sun beam lights up his horns as he slips
out of the darkness in front of me as if to say, “Look at me all big and
bad”. My heart is pounding like a jack
hammer. Can’t stop shaking. Get a grip, breath, you have to calm down. I take the shot, and it makes the trip. The bull runs about 75 yards and drops. The dust is flying. I sit there for a few minutes, and it hits
me. I just shot my 1st Rocky
Mountain Bull. Walking over to it with
each step, the intensity builds. This is
unreal. It can’t be true. I stand over it looking. Getting very weak in the knees I bend down to
hold the rack. I’ve never felt this much
emotion in my life. My eyes are full of
puddles that run down my cheek. I say
the prayer, “Dear God forgive me for killing this creature of yours, and thank
you for the opportunity, and skill to do so., Amen”. I wish I could tell my dad about it, but I
know he was watching.
Sometimes
you need waders to get to my place. The
walk may be flat but it’s no easy task.
The first half mile is on a tram road.
Turn left at the trail for 75 yards, and then cross the knee high black
ditch into the frag. The musty smell of that black water is unforgettable. With a gear-loaded treestand on my back, a
loaded hip-pack, a bow in one hand, and a flashlight in the other I push
through the 8' tall frag and new growth pines stopping a lot to check my
compos. It’s a sweaty hot walk that
cannot be done easily but this day’s hunt will be one of my top hunts. A small mystical creature roams these woods,
the Maryland Sika Deer. I have not yet
harvested one yet but that doesn’t deter me.
Mid afternoon I stood at attention watching a group of them slowly
coming my way. I am standing holding my
bow ready to draw. Closer they get. Heart rate increasing all the while. The shot was high, and I realized I was out
of breath and my knees could barley hold me up so I sit down and gaze up at the passing clouds through the pine
needles. What a rush. That was my 2nd
miss. At the end of this day I missed 3
different stags. On the long walk out in
darkness I was not mad, or upset for missing but thankful for the day’s events
and still high on the adrenaline rush. The following year I do get my first,
and a few more in the years to follow.
In
all the years that have passed since I typed the first words in this story in
1996 my weapon of choice has been a compound bow. 3 Different ones to be exact. I have recently started hunting with more
traditional equipment, a long bow and have found success. Which is where this chapter in my life and
this story ends. But the ghosts and
memories of hunts passed will always be with me as I walk into “My Place”.
Eric Bonner 2012
Authors
Note: This writing has been an ongoing project since 1996 when I was 30 and
added to here and there.
