Saga of The White Patch Deer

 The past dozen years or so, I have not deer hunted or pretty much done any kind of hunting as far as that goes. No single reason for the lapse, just, well, sometimes you just slide into a rut where other interests or other obligations take priority over those kinds of things. In general, I've have held a powerful interest in the hunting sports and it has always been a strong pastime for me whether it be for deer, or quail, or dove, or ducks, or geese, squirrels and rabbits. Even as a young boy I ventured myself into believing I was a real hunter as I walked around with my Red Ryder BB gun plinking at just about anything and everything. I never did really shoot a live animal or anything, just pretended and daydreamed like most young boys growing up in Southeastern Oklahoma did back then. Those were the formative years where my attitude about such things was first constructed and then strengthened. Moments like the times as I waited for a haircut at the barber shop. During the lull, I would thumb through the stack of outdoor magazines the barber had placed on a table. Rarely would I read anything, I just looked at the pictures, but those images became ingrained into my mindset. And, many times I would ride my bike to the local library where we lived and sift through the stacks of Boys Life (Boy Scouts) magazines. 

Often I would actually read some of the articles as they were written for young boys such as myself, but, mostly I just thumbed through them stopping when I ran across an ad for Daisy or Crossman BB Guns. Those artistically created advertisements and story ads did more to peak my interest and develop my mindset about hunting and shooting than anything else. 

In more recent times, I have begun to remember some of those early days hunting and fishing. Just the other day I pulled out one of my 'braggin books', photo album stuffed with hunting and fishing memories from years past. As I thumbed through the pictures, each one rekindled the sights and sounds and adventures that became part of the lore of those days. For the next few weeks, about once a week as part of this blog site, I plan on posting a series of articles looking back and maybe looking forward as well, to those days I spent afield pursuing wild game.

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Deer hunting came somewhat late for me mainly because I did not own a real deer rifle until I was older. However, I did own a muzzleloader. It was a kit, 50 caliber Hawken style rifle, I purchased for around $89.00 back then and assembled it before I started shooting when I lived in Arkansas. Surprisingly, that simple firearm shot lights out and was very accurate out to about 75 yards even using simple dovetail open sights. I used it several times competing at the Arkansas Muzzleloading Invitational or the Arkansas State Championship Muzzleloading competitions...actually won a couple of medals along the way.

Eventually, I moved my family back to Oklahoma and that is when my hunting adventures truly began to take off. Fast forward a few years and I found myself exploring and hunting in the Honobia Creek WMA the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife leased or had an agreement with Weyerhaeuser, the timber and wood producer, to allow hunting in the area. That area is huge encompassing somewhere around 80,000 to over 90,000 acres located in the extreme Southeastern part of the state which is characterised by steep mountainous terrain covered with a mix of pine and hardwood forests. Big deer are common down there, but their overall numbers are not overwhelming and the hunting can be very tough. 

The saga of the White Patch Deer actually extends across two seasons and begins in the Fall of 1998. That first year I was able to setup a deer camp tucked way back off a cow-track road deep within the WMA. A perfect place within walking distance of some prime looking deer habitat. I had scouted an area that dropped as a series of stair-step slopes that lead into a deep draw where three converging draws met with multiple ridges sloping away and up on both sides. Plenty of deer sign in there; lots of rubs and a few scrapes and well as heavily used trails. It was muzzleloader season and my anticipation for the hunt was about as high as it could have been. On opening morning, I decided to set up about half way down the first series of stair-steps where a tree had fallen and provided a rather nice and comfortable place to sit and lean against.  As I was situated on a slope, my position placed me somewhat higher than most of the deer sign I had found.

That opening day started as all opening days do filled with anticipation, but I saw nothing of consequence. Just a couple of does. That evening I saw nothing. Second day, much the same. I was thinking about giving up on this location but decided to try it one more day. The morning of that third day I saw nothing except a couple of squirrels. I went out again late that afternoon for one more try and as the day began to search for sundown I noticed some movement and noise to my left. My eyes locked onto a sapling that was shaking way more than what the light wind might have induced. Within a few seconds I saw him, the buck I was to eventually call the White Patch Deer. He sported a long and tall rack of at least ten points. His neck and shoulders were thick and most importantly, he was moving across and below where I was located, about forty yards away. He worked his way along a tree line, but the broken cover and his steady movement prevented me from taking a shot. He continued to move until he arrived almost directly in front of me but slightly to my left, and still about forty yards away below me.

The art of remaining still while on a deer stand takes a lot of practise to perfect. My skill level at doing so fell rather low. even so, I barely breathed and only used my eyes to follow his movements. Any movement on my part and he would have bolted.

He finally stopped, sniffed the air, put his head down, then turned and started walking up the slope toward me. I still had no shot, but the cover provided me with an opportunity to ready my rifle without alerting him to my presence.

I slowly raised it anchoring it across my bent knees with my hand placed on top of my knees and under the rifle. I leveled the sight to where I thought he would emerge from behind a line of trees. On he came and as he drew within about twenty yards, virtually point blank range, I pulled back on the hammer to cock the action. 'Click'. That subtle click stopped him in his tracks. Deer hear all kinds of sound in their natural environment and become accustomed to their meaning. But, any sound that falls outside of what they normally hear triggers an alert reaction.

Upon the click, he froze, and stood angled behind a tree. All I could see was his snout and one leg. I waited, barely breathing. He put his head down then raised it high sniffing the air trying to determine the source of the click. Luckily, the breeze was traveling up the slope into my face. He instinctively knew something was not right. I whispered to myself, "Just one more step...come on just one more step." 

After what seemed like half the morning, he raised his head and began to move forward again. As he step out from behind that tree I noticed a distinctive white patch of hair that dotted his mid-chest area below the normal white area just under the chin. But, I didn't dwell on it. my focus was on the sight picture. As he moved out from behind the tree, I thought to myself, "You're mine..." I leveled the sights on the kill zone and he made a slight turn to his left exposing the perfect opportunity. I squeezed the trigger. To my shock, my gun misfired. I heard two things; the pop of the percussion cap but no boom, and the thudding hooves of my deer running for his life through the woods.

Could not believe it. He was right there a real trophy just for the taking and my rifle misfired. It had never misfired before. He was long gone and not likely to return that day. I was dejected for the rest of that evening and as I packed up my gear the next morning to pull out and head home, my thoughts were already planning a return trip the next season and just maybe...just maybe, if this guys survives until then, I might have another chance at him.

Fast forward almost exactly one year. Same draw, just deeper inside of it. A couple of days had already come and gone with only a few does making an appearance. Where I hunted was near my previous location, just moved further down into the draw, near the bottom where I setup much the same way as I had before. My friend Rocky was to meet me later that morning, so I kept my eye on the time knowing I would have to pull out around 10am. The morning started off chilly with a slight breeze angling its way up the slope directly into my face. The fall season was in full swing and it felt proper and pleasant. My setup was situated well up that slope, probably thirty maybe thirty-five yards or more from the bottom where I had a commanding view of the entire draw bottom area and to either side and partially up the opposite slope. To my left, the three draws converged forming a kind of V near their confluence. Near the bottom of that V, the slope tapered off forming a wide, rather flat area that stretched its shoulders toward where a clear-cut area opened up. 

Eventually, the sky above the ridge blushed with the first sign of morning's light and the woods came alive with activity. Squirrels romped around, birds sang their song, and the tops of the trees danced in the gentle breeze.  About five or six does meandered out of the dim light of the draw crossing that open area before angling up the slope to my left. They stopped about twenty-five maybe thirty yards away and began to munch on acorns that were scattered across the ground. To my right I kept hearing some noise and the does kept looking in that direction, their gaze crossing directly in front of me. Many times when they do that, it indicates they have detected another deer, possibly a buck. Unfortunately, they were so close I was afraid to move, even shifting my head, fearing I would spook them and probably ruin any chance of seeing my White Patch Deer buck or any buck as far as that went. It seemed as though a very long time elapsed, too long in fact to sit perfectly still. My sitting still skill level had not improved and my back and rump were beginning to cramp. My rifle stretched across my slightly bent legs with my right hand holding it in place along the drop comb. I glanced down to check the percussion cap and yes, it was still there. I had dry fired off a couple earlier that morning to dry out the chamber before loading it.  If somehow I managed a shot, I did not want a repeat of last season.

All at once, the does collectively raised their heads and cast their sight downward toward the flatter area below me to my left. Their stare and bodies were locked in place. I could see nothing nor hear anything. The does took a step forward and turned their bodies to face down the slope toward what had caught their attention. That was good. Their attention was not focused in my direction. A few seconds later, I heard him, then a few seconds more, I saw him. At first glance I saw only those massive  antlers as this huge buck hurriedly worked his way across that open area. He was focused straight ahead, not toward the does. I heard some noise to my right again, but could see nothing in that direction. I cautiously raised my rifle resting it across my knees settling the butt into the bend of my right shoulder. My eye settled on the rear sight to align it with the front sight, but kept my visual focus down range. Slowly, cautiously, I pulled back the hammer. 'Click.' It is amazing how loud something like that can be when echoed within the stillness of a morning woodland.

My heart stopped, but the does remained focused on him. I had no shot at that moment as the buck was moving steady, weaving in and out and around the scattering of pine trees that broke up the open area. Then he just stopped and stood behind a large tree about sixty yards away from me. I silently chuckled, "What's with these deer hiding behind trees." But, with him momentarily frozen behind the tree, that allowed me time to resettle the sights level where his shoulder would be. I knew my rifle fired flat out to seventy-five yards so all I had to do was to align the sights on the kill zone and pull the trigger when an opening appeared.

He hesitated. All I could see of him was his head and his rump. All his vital areas were protected by the tree. He sniffed the air keeping his eyes locked forward to where that other sound was coming. (I never did discover what that other sound was. I'm guessing another buck was in the area). Not sure if I even breathed during that time, but held those sights locked-on steady. He lowered his head. I took a breath and let out about half of it, then held on. He stepped forward. One step. Two steps. I squeezed the trigger.

When a muzzleloader fires in the quiet of a morning woods, everything about the process becomes magnified. First the hammer snaps down striking the percussion cap. The cap pops creating a spark that enters the chamber. The black powder ignites and with a loud boom, the projectile, in this case a 50 caliber patched round ball, is sent flying through the barrel. The ball bites into the rifling generating a stabilizing spin. Then the projectile and a ton of smoke exits the heavy barrel obscuring everything behind a sulphur induced cloud. That is the first series of actions when a muzzleloader fires. The second action is the expected, opposite reaction soundly felt in the shoulder as a solid thump.

The young does exploded in panic. My buck jumped then turned to get away. I could barely see through all the smoke. When it dissipated, there were no deer to be seen. Not my buck. Not the does. Nothing. Yet I was certain I held a good sight picture when I fired and felt like I made a solid hit.

As is protocol, I gave him a few minutes thinking my buck may be down but not expired yet. After what seemed like long enough, I stood and stretched stiff muscles, reloaded my rifle and gathered my gear and made my way down the slope to where my buck had been standing only moments before. When I arrived at the tree I looked around for a blood trail and found nothing. I crisscrossed the area looking for any sign that I had actually hit my buck, but could find absolutely nothing. I made my way over to the edge of the woods where that clearcut area opened up. A lot of wooded debris and clutter lined the edge and I stepped up on a large chunk to gain a higher advantage point. Still no sign of my buck. I saw no indication he was even still in the same county. 

I could not believe it. I thought somehow, I must have missed the shot. I simply could not believe it. There was no way I could have missed that shot. As I stood there dejected, I dropped my head in disgust. When I did, my sight fell across a tangle of debris in front of me. Jammed deep inside that tangle, wedged in a hole betrayed by his grayish buff hide, lay my buck, and he was magnificent, and there it was, that distinctive white patch low across his chest. He was the same deer I had met the year before, only now he had grown even larger. He now supported a twelve point set of antlers that spread tall and wide.

It took a while to wrestle him out of that hole and field dress him, I wasn't very good at it. I discovered just how steep that slope was as I started to drag him out. Oh my goodness, it was steep and he was heavy. There was no way I was going to drag him out of there by myself, so I propped him open so he'd cool down and hiked out empty handed hoping to employ my friend to help me get him out of there.

About an hour and a half or so later, the both of us were back inside that draw staring at my buck for several long minutes before together we dragged him up to the top and then on to our campsite. The saga of the White Patch Deer came to a close that morning. A deer hunting saga I'll never forget and have never duplicated since then. 

Young buck photographed behind where I live

 Photographing the deer herd that frequents the fields   and woods behind where I live here in Kentucky has   helped to fill the gap of that dozen or so year hunting   void, but not replace it. I am grateful to the   landowner who  allows me to do so and I respect his   desire to limit  that access to simple photo hikes.   Photographing  deer  in the wild requires the same   outdoor skills one  would employ as a hunter and   certainly enjoys its  own measure of reward. As   much as I have enjoyed  observing and   photographing deer, deep inside my heart lies   a dormant longing to get out again with  my rifle and experience the pursuit and thrill of the chase. Doing so raises the bar to another level where respect for wildlife and nature combines with a sense of accomplishment. I've never been one to condone those canned hunts where you pay a large fee to have someone take you to a prepared stand so you can shoot a deer. That's not hunting, nor in my opinion is it ethical. Free chase where you match wits against the seasoned abilities of a wise old buck requires a greater measure of skill, time, understanding of your prey, and respect for nature. I've missed doing those things. Maybe it's time to do so again.

Early Wild and Free Days Afield - Remembering Times Past Hunting for Quail

 Walking down, inside the draw, bordered on opposite sides by plowed fields that stretched to the edge of Oklahoma's Verdigris River. I kept my eye on and kept pace with my old hunting and fishing partner Ralph as he walked the upper edge and more difficult path of the draw to my right. A typical chilly day it was but all the walking kept us warm. His dog Dooley, a liver and white Brittany Spaniel, worked the cover in front of my path angling ever-so-often toward Ralph only to circle around again toward the middle. By this time we had already jumped one good covey of quail which had spread out across the draw. As we walked on, Dooley would lock onto point where we would flush a single here, then a double there. As we moved toward the far end of the draw, Dooley once again got real birdy and spun to his right and lunged into a clump of cover. A single bird rose almost straight up, then arched through the alders. I swung my Stevens 16 gauge double barrel shotgun leading the missile of a bird as it raced away. I fired and the bird crumpled. As I sauntered over to where the bird had fallen, Dooley met me there. He lifted the bird in his mouth then dropped it where I knelt low to retrieve it. Oddly enough, the bird was a Woodcock, a somewhat rare game bird to be found that far west, but more common in that part of Oklahoma. It was my first and possibly most enjoyable time I ever shot one of those birds.

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That must have been somewhere around 1978 or so, and I was just starting to learn how to quail hunt. Ralph, always the patient outdoorsman, spent many a day allowing me to tag along with him and Dooley as they visited and revisited his favorite old quail hunting locations. Those days, as it turned out, became some of the best wild and free days afield I ever experienced. He and I managed to spend a great number of days afield either hunting or fishing and each one contributed their own memorable rewards to the legacy of those days. Quail hunting contributed as much if not more to that legacy.

Ralph locked onto me and my good friend Rocky, and my brother Ken back then and seemingly enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed his. Those quail hunts often turned into epic adventures. Like the time we drove the hour and half from Tulsa, picking up Rocky and my brother and his dog, a beautiful English Setter named Lady, along the way, to a public hunting area on Eufaula Lake, a place called Hichita. If I recall correctly it was either New Years Day or maybe the day after and brother was it ever cold. A mighty winter cold front had crashed into the state bringing with it some snow, strong winds, sub-zero temperatures, and the potential for a wonderful day afield. It was perhaps the single coldest day I ever hunted. Wind chills were well below zero.

There were several draws that dissected the fields with crop stubble still standing in them and we would spread out on either side of a draw and work our way down allowing the dogs to do their thing. Before long they were getting into birds and in spite of the cold, the shooting became hot and fast. We ended up walking across on the frozen fields wanting to connect up with another draw. The wind was blowing so hard, the falling snow flew sideways and its bitter bite cut through us like needles. Even so, toward the end of the hike across the field, the dogs once again got into the birds. Man-o-man was it ever fun. I'll never forget that day and oddly enough, wish I could do it all over again.

Hitchita became a fertile quail hunting area for us and on one such hunt later that season, we jumped one of the largest covey's I've ever seen. I swear, and I am not exaggerating, there might have been upward to 75 or maybe more birds in that rise. They looked like a cloud of smoke when they got up. It happened so suddenly none of us even got a shot off. We were so stunned by the numbers, we simply could not react fast enough.

Another similar covey rise happened out at the Okmulgee WMA not too far from Hitchita and not too long after.. Rocky and I were stomping around in there, he just on the inside of the treeline, with me walking just outside of it. We had no dogs on this outing, just us trying to walk up something. Within a few dozen yards, he stepped into another one of those huge covey rises, one very similar to the previously described rise. Neither one of us shot a single bird out of that rise, they just disappeared into the cover.

Most of the time, our covey rises were more typical with 8 or 10 birds getting up, sometimes even fewer. One time I took my brothers dog Lady over to an area we simply called 'Out at Morris'.  It was a place that covered maybe 40 acres or so with a couple of ponds where we did a lot of dove hunting and we often jumped several covey's of quail in there. Lady and I were working along a fence row where the cover was a little heavier. Out away from the fence row, the cover remained somewhat sparse with not much depth or thickness to it. After a while, Lady spun around and locked up on point. Problem was, she was pointing at an area where I swear the cover could not have been more than and inch or two high and it was pretty open as well. I looked at where she was pointing and could see nothing and I got kind of irritated with her and urged her quit to false pointing and to get going again. She would not budge. So to prove to her there were no birds in there, I sauntered over kicking at the dirt as I grumbled to myself and low and behold, a covey of about 8 birds got up, one of them hitting my leg as it made its get away. I never even got off a shot. Lady on the other hand, sauntered over wagging her tail obviously irritated with me for not believing her.

The quail hunting in Oklahoma from what I understand has taken a bit of a downturn over the years. It is still one of the best places to do such things, but land use practices, habitat loss, and other factors have caused the quail populations to fall somewhat. The odd thing is, a lot of folks want to blame the hunter for the decline. Truth is, if not for hunters, there might not be any quail at all for it is their purchase of firearms, licenses, and ammunition that provides the vast majority of funds necessary to the restoration of habitat. Most people do not realize that 80% of the quail population will die off each year regardless if they are hunted or not. What hunters harvest is simply that which will be lost anyway. Hunters as a rule are some of the best conservationist you can find and wildlife in general has benefited a great deal as a result.

About 22 years ago, I up and moved my family to Kentucky. Now Kentucky offers a great deal of outdoor opportunity, but it's Kentucky and quail hunting over here is simply not the same. Oh, there are quail here to be sure, but they are isolated and spotty and unless you have access to the areas where there are birds, the odds of ever having any kind of hot and heavy quail hunting action run rather slim. I haven't been quail hunting in 22 years as a result...and I sure do miss it.

The wild and free days afield of Oklahoma quail hunting are long ago behind me, but the memories of those days are as fresh and vivid as the days in which they lived. Remembering times past hunting for quail, well, sometimes it makes me feel a bit melancholy, but I am grateful for having had the opportunity to live out those days so long a go now.    

The Fascinating Art Form Called Black and White

 Some years ago I discovered the black and white world of Ansel Adams and I have been fascinated by black and white photography ever since. He defined what a black and white photograph should be and refined his technique to such a degree, his iconic images still stand the test of time even today. A good many modern photographers mimic his style, myself included, simply because his images defined the genres. The nature and flavor of a well-made black and white image stands apart from all other forms of photographic art. I love black and white and will often go out of my way to shoot for black and white.

Ansel once said, 'You do not take a photograph. You make a photograph.' Those words are so true especially when it comes to black and white. I have several photographer friends who are excellent photographers but they tend to shy away from creating black and white images. They have their reasons for doing so and I certainly respect their ideas and their work. 

Black and white to me though is the ultimate when it comes to creative photography. It must stand on its own merits where color will often bolster or support a creative color image, black and white must prove itself through the use of composition, story, contrast, shape, form, and impact. 

Although my photography background began in black and white, I rarely shoot in-camera black and white anymore. Instead I will capture a color image that I intend to convert to black and white.

 Capturing an image that is suitable for that kind of conversion takes an ability to see beyond our visual range. We see the world in color and knowing what actually works as a black and white image based on the color image becomes the challenge for not all images translate well into black and white. I look for certain elements. Things like dark blue sky with lots of texture created by clouds, or soft and subtle light produced by fog or mist. Snow scenes work well in black and white. Even portraits can obtain a powerful impact when turned into a black and white. 

Ansel Adams spent countless hours refining his darkroom technique doing mechanically in the darkroom what we can do digitally on our computers. Even so, I approach the conversion process almost the same for each image varying only in degree and placement of technique. Once I convert the image, I'll look more closely and study what is there, then begin to refine the image by selectively adding a bit of brightness or contrast to a specific area. The idea is to create an illusion of depth by enhancing key elements that need a little more attention drawn to it. 

Ansel Adams did this mostly by dodging and burning allowing more light to burn in a spot or restricting the exposure in another. He took meticulous notes on how he created each image and stored those processing notes with the negatives. I mostly just wing it until I get the results I want.

 Sometimes I simply sit back and say, "Wow!" when I compare the final B&W image with the original color one. I know I have completed the black and white conversion process when the image perfectly illustrates the powerful emotion the moment of light triggered when I made the shot.

Shooting for black and white is a fascinating art form, one where the photographer artist shares more about what he felt than what he saw. Black and white brings out a different kind and different level of emotion than a color image. It is more provocative and impactful simply because it uses the blacks and it uses the whites in ways our eyes cannot see until the image itself is created.