Coming Soon! A Collection of my Favorite BTC Stories - A Personal Outdoor Adventure Journey

 Beyond the Campfire takes the reader away from the confines of the campfire and moves them toward a deeper understanding of what being an outdoorsman should represent. Within these stories resides not just memories, but the lasting effects of living a life filled with outdoor adventures. It represents a personal journey not just for the author, but also for the reader as the author shares not just his thoughts, but the emotional impact of spending time afield. With good friends or by simply spending time afield, Keith shares through his stories and insights how facing often difficult situations, a life spent chasing the wind whether in a canoe, backpacking, hunting or fishing, can have a lasting positive effect on life.

The Hushed Quiet of a Fishing Morning on Old Beggs Lake

 March 15, 1979

Rare it was for me to have a day off with nothing else to do back then. The previous winter had been long and hard and cold with lots of snow and ice. March fell upon the landscape like a welcomed reprieve in spite of it being the longest of months not always knowing what it wanted to become. Some of the winter chill lingered yet in spite of that, enough warm days infiltrated the landscape to tease one into believing spring was not far off. On this day I decided to haul my old venerable Coleman canoe the 35 miles or so south of Tulsa to do some fishing on Oklahoma's Old Beggs Lake. That decision proved to be a good one.

Wind in Oklahoma is pretty much constant year round with March being one of the windiest months. On this morning, near calm winds proved itself an exception. I crawled out of bed early a good hour and a half before sunrise and headed down the highway; not much traffic heading south that time of day. Before long the Beggs exit was upon me and I turned off the mostly slumbering highway and drove the couple of miles to the Beggs Lake turnoff. By the time I rolled to a stop, the morning sky was beginning to awaken from the deepness of its sleep and the still brownish tall grasses lining the lake were now somewhat visible in the dim light. 

I slid off the canoe. Shoved it to the water's edge and loaded my fishing gear. No wind yet stirred the surface of the lake and the air was cool and dry. Slowly I moved over next to a patch of lily pads just across this narrow arm of the lake and tossed a black and yellow spinnerbait along the edge. 

One of the finest sounds for a fisherman is the whirl of fishing line rolling off a spinning reel followed by the soft splash of the lure in the hushed quiet of a fishing morning. Another couple of seconds there is a clink as the bail closes and the line begins the lure retrieve. It's the most anticipated time of the morning, that first cast. One that clings onto the highest of expectations. It is a time that transcends the time between making a living and retaining connections to family. It is your time.

With each cast the morning grew brighter with a slight breeze beginning its travels in and around the terrain surrounding the lake. Beggs lake is small, maybe 20 acres I'd guess. Really not much more than a large pond, but it was, back then, filled with a good number of bass along with other bait fish like bluegill and even a few crappie. It also possessed a reputation of producing some good sized bass. They were what brought me here that morning. Being such a small lake, it warmed more quickly than the larger lakes and the spring spawn would start earlier as a result.

I moved on around the bend throwing my spinnerbait toward likely looking structure. Except for a single small buck bass, the fishing was slow up to this point and the morning grew in brightness. Along the north bank, a small tree had fallen into the water and extended out a good ten or twelve feet from shore. A quick flip the rod and the black and yellow spinnerbait softly dropped just inside the outer edge of the downed tree. A couple of turns on the handle and I felt a heaviness grab the line. My first thought was that I had hung up on a submerged branch, but then what had grabbed my lure started pulling back and the rod tip bent sharply toward the water. The drag on the reel whined as I pulled up on the rod and began to fight the great fish on the other end. Within a few seconds it came to the surface and I got my first glimpse of my catch; a very large bass full of eggs. 

I fought this great fish to a standstill but eventually coaxed it next to my canoe; reached down and grabbed her lower jaw and lifted. I guessed she went somewhere around five pounds and I was absolutely out of my mind with the catch. Normally, I catch and release, but this one I kept.

During all the previous commotion my canoe had drifted around past the other side of the downed tree. Still excited from the previous catch, I tossed that same spinnerbait back toward the submerged tree branches. Within two or three cranks, the line again grew heavy and I jerked the rod high. At once it bent double and the fight was on. This one played out much the same as the first one, but I finally pulled it alongside the canoe and grabbed hold lifting her out of the water. Another good bass, this one only slightly smaller, maybe 4 to 4 1/2 pounds. Two big bass from the same structure on back to back casts in the middle of March. I finished the morning out with a couple of smaller bass and called it a day when the wind began to pick up. I stopped over at Ralphs house on the way back and showed him the catch. That very next weekend, we were down there again getting after it.

Not often have I managed to pull off a stunt like that morning. A few weeks later my brother Ken and I were there and fishing was slow. I smarted off saying "You gotta call your shot...See that old deadhead up against the bank. I bet there's a big ole bass just sitting there under it."

Using that same lure, I made a perfect cast that softly splashed within a few inches dead center of that deadhead log. Within a single crank, another good bass grabbed it and the fight was on. When I landed another near five pounder, my brother was beside himself.

Rocky at Beggs Lake

Old Beggs Lake became for us, me, Ken, Rocky, Ralph, and Curt, a place of refuge where we could enjoy a good morning of fishing and simply get away from the trials of living. Over the years, I lost touch with that small lake, but the memories it produced have remained powerful reminders of just how important it is to do such things. Time has a way of changing everything and I'm sure old Beggs has changed a great deal since then. Even so, that single day on March 15th, 1979 remains one of the most memorable and that is how I choose to remember it.

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.

********

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.