From "Good Hunt" - Some Things about Muzzleloaders

My collection of Muzzleloaders

I wanted to take a moment for a little cross-promotion. As some of you know, I've been writing a hunting blog, Good Hunt, for the local newspaper, the Lakeland Ledger, over the last nine months. Really enjoy it and feel it is going well. We have covered a wide range of hunting activities in this time. In addition to my efforts, the paper's regular outdoor writing staff has contributed a wealth of information on freshwater and saltwater fishing, hunting, hiking, and environmental issues. Together, we are grouped at the Polk Outdoors website. If you live in Florida, plan to visit here or already do so on a regular basis, or just find an interest in our outdoor lifestyle, I encourage you to visit the site and bookmark it for future use. 

Below was my last post on Good Hunt. It's a little longer than I usually publish there and not as Florida-centric, and I was torn on which site to post it. Problem solved now!

Anyhow, please take some time to visit Polk Outdoors and snoop around. Hope you enjoy and feel free to drop a line with comments, suggestions, etc. 

Thank you.

Over the last 15 years I’ve hunted muzzleloading season it’s been quite entertaining watching folks trudge into camp all excited about an extra weekend or two of hunting, only to leave without their new weapons, having sold them in fits of rage for pennies on the dollar to anyone willing to take the cursed tokens off their hands. One year this camp regular, who had gone through at least a half-dozen frontstuffers that failed him in some way or another, showed with his single-shot Ruger No. 1 in .375 H&H arguing it was the same general concept of muzzleloading. Of course this was very illegal, and I would never recommend or endorse anyone to do likewise – unless maybe they’ve gone through, at minimum, 10 different blackpowder devices.

The truth is, failures with blackpowder equipment are typically the result of operator error. Though the guns they manufacture today are about as fool-proof as you can design these tools, they still require more diligence than your standard issue cartridge-fed, breech-loaded rifle.

Just wanted to run through a list of errors and issues I’ve witnessed in the past.

1. Trouble with Sidelocks – It seems most folks who first dabble with muzzleloading start with those $89.99 sidelock CVA’s. Then they buy the coolest looking sabot-ed projectiles and the Pyrodex pellets and doom themselves to disaster before they’ve left Wal-Mart. One, those sidelocks aren’t designed to use pelleted forms of powder. They require loose powder. Yes, you can get them to ignite from time to time, but reliability is severely compromised. There are no shortcuts with these guns – you must measure the loose powder. Two, those 250-grain sabots with the colorful polymer tips aren’t designed for sidelocks, either. Using the factory sights, these bullets will always hit high and usually above the target. I’ve witnessed folks – seriously – file down the front posts on their sidelocks to get sabots to print on paper. It’s depressing and frustrating to watch. You’ll need to shoot 350 – 385-grain MaxiBalls or Plains slugs, and if you can put three of those in a softball-sized circle at 50 yards, friend, you’re killing deer.

2. Care with Primers – You want to avoid handling your primers as much as possible. Your skin has oils that will ruin the caps. Percussion caps are the worst. Musket caps are a little better, followed by the 209 Shotshell Primers. If I drop a cap, I throw it out. I hunt with it once, then throw it out. No part of this process is as important as keeping your primer’s integrity intact.

3. Ramrods – Carry an extra ramrod. They are made of plastic, carbon fiber, or wood, and their job is to push a tight fitting bullet 20 inches down a rifled tube. They break. Also, once you load your rifle for the first time, cut a line or notch on the ramroad where it meets the crown of the barrel. This will ensure in the future that you have the proper seating for the load – or that there’s not another, forgotten load in there, Mr. No Fingers.

4. Realistic Inline Accuracy – As designed, inlines are inherently more accurate than sidelocks. Having said that, I’m sure someone in the Heartland has a sidelock that prints 1/2-inch MOA and if that’s the case, I would parlay that luck into lotto tickets and a trip to gamble on the ponies. Still, inlines do have accuracy issues. Let’s set a standard first – if you’re getting 2 – 2 1/2-inch groups at 100 yards, you’re in the stink. Most factory centerfire rifles barely do better than that. If you’re wandering outside of the 3-inch mark, there are some things to look at. Start back at the primer and work forward. At first, using standard 209 primers, my Knight Disc rifle wouldn’t even group, just randomly splatter shots across paper, certainly not what I had in mind when I purchased it. When used with Pyrodex or Triple 7 pellets, I discovered those generic primers left a fouling ring in the throat of the barrel that prevented proper seating by about a quarter-inch. This was enough to send the bullet astray. I switched to Remington’s Kleanbore primers and the patterns immediately tightened. The amount of powder you use is important. I use 100-grains of Triple Seven. Some guns are designed for 150-grains, but I’ve never felt the need and have heard about wild accuracy issues as the space needed for three 50-grain pellets takes up barrel space and shortens the time the bullet has to stabilize. If you’re having accuracy issues with 100-grains, back off to 90. It could be the bullet/barrel combination is more accurate with less powder behind it. Or it could be you appreciate not being violently beaten as bad in the shoulder. If you’re still having trouble, try different bullets – after that, switch to a .375 H&H…

5. Gun Function Issues – Above were mostly internal issues with muzzleloading accuracy, but, in reality, many of these guns aren’t exactly built for benchrest shooting. The triggers have the grace of a ratchet strap. Many of the cheaper models have hollow stocks, not all that much comfort when launching a .50-cal. projectile at a couple thousand feet per second. My first inline was like this. If you filmed the stock in slow motion while I shot it, I bet you’d see it crumple like a used toilet paper roll against my shoulder and the receiver actually hit me. With little weight to help brace for the recoil, it doesn’t take long for The Flinches to take control. One day I filled it with fishing weights and epoxy and that tamed the beast, though it became a bear to carry in the woods. As for the trigger – thanks to a litigious society, I’m not suggesting anything here other than to take it to a gunsmith and see what he or she can do for you. All I know is it’s hard to accurately shoot any rifle that beats you to death and requires a tricep flex in order to pull the trigger.

But don’t let me deter you. As I’ve said before, muzzleloading is a fun way to experience deer hunting. Just keep in mind they require a touch more attention than you’d put towards other firearms.

That Old Doe

2004 South Carolina Doe

The old doe fed in a clearing between palmetto patches, munching on acorns from the sweeping live oaks that rapidly diminished what was left of the fading light. She’d come from a marsh accompanied by a younger doe and a yearling. She was a chocolate-gray color, unlike her unseasoned counterparts who still sported a pine needle red coat that had carried through the heat of the summer into the early fall. While the two other deer audibly splashed their way into the hammock like children running through the surf, she tip-toed, an almost imperceptible wet hoof-beat.  She’d walk a few steps and then stop to survey her surroundings, that long Roman nose gauging the swamp air for any hints of danger. This old doe had been around a while. Always cautious with animals like her, I was careful not to breathe, even though I was 20 feet up a pine tree with the wind in my face. I've played this game before.

Still, she never could defeat that natural wariness of hers. She sensed something. The scabs on surrounding pines from other hunters scaling the trunks in climber stands betrayed any notion that I’d tapped into a virginal hunting ground, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing moment that she’d had an unpleasant encounter prior to my visit. She’d ceased focusing on her buffet, raising her head and pinning her ears back as she’d gaze in my direction. Occasionally she’d stoop her head as if to continue feeding but immediately snatch it back up to see if she could trick anything into moving.

Finally, that old doe had had enough. She oozed back into the understory, circling through the creek to get downwind of my position. I knew, without doubt, what would be coming next. That nanny finally hit the current of air she sought. I’ll never know if she caught my scent or the fumes from the Therma-CELL, but this once-silent creature who went to great lengths to avoid being detected, raised Hell a mere 30 yards away, blowing and snorting and slapping her hooves into the water. She still did not have a bead on my location and stood exposed, broadside for 5 minutes adhering to this routine. I had never wished for an antlerless tag so badly in my life.

This was on a Special Opportunity Hunt at Lake Panasofkee last Saturday evening. An archery hunt, the rules for the property required a tag for the harvest of does. I’m not sure why I upset this doe so much; I hadn’t killed any of her relatives. Heck, I don’t think I’ve even shot a deer within 100 miles of this location, but she had it out for me. And if you’ve ever had an old doe stomp and blow at you, you are well aware that this is Taps, the 3^rd strike in the bottom of the 9th. Game Over. Content with her damage, she finally trotted off into the gloaming, and that was it for the deer that evening.

That’s the way of things with those old does. They can be your worst enemy in the woods, worse than squirrels barking in your face. But just as with those obnoxious tree rats, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes of their bluster to start contemplating revenge - an arrow, a bullet, a hand grenade, something to shut them up.

One of my favorite “Return to the Campfire Tales” is when a hunter reports with wild excitement how That Old Buck winded him down in the Pine Woods and blew at him all evening. I never want to spoil anyone’s big buck story with my attitude and theories, but more than likely, it was a doe calling you out. If a buck winds you, he’s outta there. Mature bucks, as elusive and crafty as they are, just don’t have it in their DNA to hang around and intentionally ruin your hunt. Plus, they have the does to warn them; no point risking their own hides when their sentries will sound the alarm. It's just good business.

Maybe I’m wrong, but it probably comes down to a doe’s maternal instincts. Bucks aren’t burdened with raising fawns and protecting them from the perils of the woods. I’ve watched does chase coyotes and bobcats and run off wild boar. Does will reliably come to a predator call – like a mouse squeaker - during the spring. I’ve watched them decoy themselves to distract attention from bedded fawns. So the fact they’d open themselves to sacrifice during hunting season isn’t all that surprising.

This isn’t to say they are easy targets - not at all. The fact this one was caught in the open was as an anomaly. In my experience, the older does hang in the woods a little longer than the younger ones, having since lost their reckless ambition over the course of several seasons. They have a knack for shielding themselves from a direct shot, and oftentimes the first glimpses you have are of those ears, ever-shifting above the brush. Then the nose is tossed in the air, and this is the truly frightening part. Those wet nostrils can calculate scents we can’t even begin to register.

If her safety checklist is met, she’ll slowly proceed into the open, cautious to the last step. If the area has been hunted before, you probably won’t be in her graces for too long. Those old does will remember stands and always keep an eye on them, often just staring in your direction daring you to move.

At this point, you are left with two options, one that is out of your hands, and the other completely under your control. You could just let her be and hope she passes through, but if she’s so inclined to stick around, know that the spotlight is on you. If you shift to relieve a cramp, pick your nose, flick a mosquito, or finish Level 20 of your iPhone game, she’ll know. If the vagaries of the wind turn on you, you’re screwed, and God help you if you inadvertently kick over a water bottle or ding a jacket zipper on a metal stand.

The other choice is to grease her. You’ll probably sacrifice your chances at a buck that evening, but when she showed, that was likely anyhow. There is no shame – quite the opposite, in fact – in taking a mature animal like this. It’s a far nobler and challenging quest than collecting any random set of antlers.

Hardee County Doe, 2001

Of the forty or so does I’ve killed, I can only think of a handful that were legitimate old-age trophies. I recall one in Hardee County that tried slipping behind me through a chute of gallberry bushes. Luckily my stand was just tall enough to fire a clear shot. I took another in Erhardt, SC in 2004 right after the four hurricanes pummeled Florida. The guide had warned me she’d be there and to smoke her if I had the chance. Seems she’d busted other hunters during the course of the immature season. And I shot one last year in North Carolina that seemed staked behind a fence of clearcut before slowly slipping out to munch on sweet potatoes.

But there is one old doe I’d love to catch up with. She’s been haunting my hammock in Manatee County for years. Already mature and noticeably large-bodied when I first met her, she had a habit of staying out of bow range during archery season, but would come within feet during blackpowder hunts when she was off-limits. She’d have no trouble patrolling that clearing, blowing and stomping and generally ruining the world. I thought I had her two years ago. Her hips had been sunken by advanced maternal age, and she seemed a tad off her game as she actually fed underneath my lock-on stand. All she had to do was clear the grating of the footstand and meander a few yards in front and she was mine.

As it turned out, a gobbler flew down and started drumming, alerting the other doe that had slipped in with the old mare. Her friend got to blowing and circling downwind and finally caught my scent, busting off for the swamp. The matron leisurely followed suit, saved by her new apprentice who had quickly learned the ways of the old doe. I'm not sure that deer is still alive, but I can't help but hope I get one last crack at her. 

And there’s another lady up in Lake Panasofkee who’ll be in mind when I return one day – hopefully with a doe tag.

A Few Things About Treestands

I hung my stands a couple weekends ago. To say they are in precarious positions would be an understatement. Unfortunately our lease consists mostly of scrub oaks, trees not well-suited - with their twisty trunks and reaching, Dark Forest branches - for treestands. I managed to place a Gorilla lock-on in a young white oak of some variety. It took creativity. The ascent is a combination of swinging and climbing up branches like said primate with two Ameri-Step Rapid Rails filling in the gaps. The foot platform rests at a 70-degree angle. It’s a herniated disc waiting to happen. My other one isn’t much better. Nearby I hoisted a generic 16-ft ladder stand that is situated on a thin scrub oak. At that height, it waves back and forth to the point I may need Dramamine to sit in it if there’s more than a gentle breeze. This may be the season of safety harnesses.

Treestands are traps and should be treated as such. And if you know anything about trapping – and I don’t care if we’re talking about a line of lobster pots or a cardboard box propped up with a pencil and kite string trigger – you have to a) put them where the game is b) give them time to work without disturbance. I don’t recall any episode of Deadliest Catch where Captain Sig said, “This bottom sucks, but let’s drop our gear here and hope the Opilios come to us. When we’re done with that, just for fun, let’s go check the cages we just dumped out. Maybe we’ll pick up Edgar while we’re at it; he’s probably getting cold.”

I recall, with very mild amusement, a group I hunted with in Georgia a few years back. They hung stands in early November having never seriously pre-scouted the property, would finish their morning hunts with little deer activity, and proceed to move them for the evening hunt. This would repeat itself several times over the course of a few days. They only came to camp for lunch and prepare to move stands again. I’m convinced moving stands was their sole purpose for joining a lease – it was their hobby. Needless to say, they didn’t kill a thing, darn near ran everything off before Thanksgiving, and spent the rest of the season walking…I’m sorry, “still-hunting” the place. They weren’t bad guys or anything, just novices with all the gear and no patience.

So the stands I hung aren’t exactly ideal if comfort is your measuring stick. But the fact remains they are located in areas where the deer travel. The lock-on lords over a major trail that leads from the scrub into an open pasture. It’s the last finger of woods winding from thicker cover towards the field and bordering orange groves, places with more browse than the scrub. Several trails converge in this general area. It’ll be my bow stand as the deer will continue using this trail through the early fall to feed.

The ladder stand is directly behind the lock-on by no more than 40 yards, shielded from view by an oak and vine canopy. But, I’m able to look at something different from this vantage point. While the bow stand pinpoints where trails come together, this stand guards the trails as they fan out through the scrub. It’s much more ideal for rifle hunting during the rut as bucks roam different paths for hot does. Why so close to one another? Well, there are three other folks on this small property with plans and agendas of their own. This is one spot of deer activity I liked. No need trying to cram stands in between everyone else’s business. Done properly, it’s all the space I’ll need.

I get married to stands. I’ve never hung more than a two or three on most places I’ve hunted. You can only hunt so many spots and trying to cover them all is betraying your scouting efforts. Detail your strategy, hunt it as such, and know when not to hunt. I have lived and died in this manner for a long time. As such, I also get very jealous and paranoid about how stands are hunted. I used to hang a decoy stand to lure other hunters away from my honeyholes…or maybe I still do…

I only begrudgingly permit use by others – unless they are community stands or something like that – and have to pop Seroquel to prevent nervous breakdowns when I know someone else is in there. I figure everything I do when around my stand is ruining my own chances at Big Buck. I constantly feel as if I'm screwing up. Absolute paranoia. But paranoia has helped me shoot a lot of deer.

The factors that will kill a stand location are as follows – weather and curiosity. There’s not much you can do about the weather. If a wind is bad and alternate stand locations are limited, forgo the sit if you know a big buck is in the area and you have more time in the season to hunt – that’s kind of a moot point on quota hunts or if you only have a weekend or two a year; by all means, stay out there. But if you’re actively hunting a particular buck or quality of buck you know to inhabit your land, you are only hurting yourself hunting swirling or otherwise bad winds, not toughing it out or fighting the elements. Rain is a different story. Big bucks often move in the rain – it’s not something I like to do, but I’ve seen enough hunters pull in nice bucks during a soaker that I believe there is merit to the theory. Rain plus wind – not unless I’m in a covered Cadillac stand with plenty of juice on my iPhone for entertainment.

Curiosity, though, is the biggest preventable factor in ruining a stand location. My dad is culpable of this. We’ll hang stands one weekend, and he’ll spend the next few checking back to see if acorns have fallen, to add one more strap to the tree or adjust it just perfectly on the trunk, check on rubs, add tarsal glad misters and scrape drippers etc. Before hunting season starts, my SOP is to hang them way beforehand and leave them the Hell alone, best of my ability. It’s hard when running trail cameras and corn feeders. I wear rubber boots at all times and avoid contact with vegetation as if I’d catch cooties by brushing against it.

Also, when the season does start, be wary of Stand Burnout. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never completely eliminate scent. It may not be a big deal if you hunt a stand every few days, but a morning-and-evening slog back and forth several days straight will foul up the area, no question. It may not even be scent; it could be the noise you make while walking in or unseen deer seeing you and spooking. I don’t plan on hunting my lease but maybe once a week so it doesn’t concern me to have those two stands so close – given more land and time to hunt, I’d certainly spread out my efforts, having different set-ups to adjust for wind, time of the season, time of day, etc. Again, I’ve never been partial to Musical Stands and only place 2 or 3, but there is something to be said for options.

Again, a treestand is essentially a trap. It must be kept fresh and kept in one spot long enough to work. If everything goes to plan, you’ll be the one springing it, and the planning and cultivation and successful execution of that area is the highlight of deer hunting.

Velvet Bucks

If I were a less law-abiding citizen, I’d probably spend the better portion of July camped out over a corn pile with my .300 Win Mag on a Harris Bipod. There’s a gorgeous buck who’s been hanging around the area. Being that it is only early June, those horns are in their infancy – hope to see them come October, but you never can tell. While he’s a daily visitor now, it’s possible he’ll be a memory by then. A mainframe eight and quite a prize for this area, those antlers would look great on the wall. Even better covered in velvet.

I shot one velvet buck when I was 17. I missed the first several days of my senior year to hunt the traditional August 15^th South Carolina rifle season. He was a young six-point that took just too long crossing a road before the aforementioned .300 caught up to him. A few more steps and he’d disappeared into the swamp bottoms of the Salkahatchee. As it played out, he’s a unique mount in my collection.

I returned a few days after my 21^st birthday – you have to about be young and dumb to participate in these brutally hot, humid, and flat-out mosquito-infested hunts. I hunted the very same area I’d killed the six 4 years prior. The deer action was nearly constant in the mornings and evenings – the Low Country of South Carolina has some deer, I’ll clue you. At the time I had a handheld video camera that I purchased right before everything went digital and captured wonderful footage of does and lesser bucks feeding and fighting, but nothing big enough to satisfy camp rules.

One evening, a gentleman arrived at the shed with a dandy eight-point. It was nothing that would grab the attention of a far-gone Midwestern antler crank, but he was a stud for those parts. The guy had shot the buck as he fed in a wide-open soybean field with two or three other bucks. I’ve personally seen and taken larger deer, but this was about the most handsome whitetail I can recall. That summer red coat contrasted so perfectly with the darkening fuzzy antlers, it became my mission to find a trophy like that.

Unfortunately it’s still on my dream list. The fellow who hosted us passed away. I was invited to the same area in 2004, but Florida had a pesky hurricane problem that August which prevented any travel. By the time I did return to South Carolina that September for a guided hunt, the bucks were off their summer feeding pattern preparing for the rut, and had shed their velvet. Invites that never panned out and dueling financial realties have pilloried any chances of return, but I still have that urge to find that trophy velvet buck.

So it’s with great interest that I watch this buck. He and a younger, far less impressive six-point are mowing through my corn. I’m trying to decide which child of mine will have to cut back on their feed so I can continue to keep this guy around.

When a hunter thinks about whitetail bucks it is often about how crafty or intelligent or adaptable they are. The more you study them the more you realize how inefficient they actually are as an organism. Imagine working out and taking supplements constantly for a few months over the spring and summer pumping up the guns, chasing women through the fall, and then laying around exhausted and gaunt through the winter – actually, I believe most gyms rely on this very model.

Deer antlers are the fastest growing bone in the animal kingdom and each year they drop them and grow new ones. That velvet is actually a vascular system that transports blood and nutrients to the growing antler. It takes a great deal of nutritional support to grow those things and can be seen as an indicator of a deer’s health or ability to gather nutrients from its environment. This is why black soil bucks will grow larger racks than a deer around parts of central Florida with sandy soil and palmettos, put simply.

As they mature, they quite literally flower out from the bases or pedicles. The velvet carries supplies to the tips of the tines while the cartilage that forms behind it converts to bone. Once growth has peaked the bone dies and the velvet is shed leaving that classic All-American Whitetail antler. All of this takes place in a span of 3 to 4 months.

Fun side note, antler velvet has long been considered by the Chinese to have medicinal value. It is believed to function as an anti-inflammatory, boost immune systems and fight cancer. As you can imagine, this has created a market for antler velvet, but the main contributors are elk and red deer farmed on ranches. I believe I’ll continue to ingest backstrap and venison in the form hamburger for my own health.

So whitetail bucks are locusts, eating machines during the offseason. It’s why I take only small stock in their patterns right now. It’s helpful as can be to have trail cameras around feeders and food sources to appraise the deer population. But once that velvet is shed, it signifies the start of the challenge of deer hunting. Obviously a buck still has to feed throughout the fall, but that drive is overshadowed by a much more powerful one and the reason bucks even grow antlers – the rut. The bucks that so reliably dine on feeders throughout the summer will start traveling far and wide to find as many ladies as possible. This is when we’re in the woods and realize he’s not the dumb creature that’s been stuffing his face in the heat of the year.

I’m still not sure how I’m gonna go about hunting this buck. It’s nice to know he’s there, but the property is small and there aren’t too many deer to start with. He could be a mile away by pre-rut. Or maybe not; always hard to say with these things.

I do know for certain that velvet will be discarded and a fine set of antlers rests underneath, and I’d love to have a crack at them. May turn out, though, that these trail camera pics will be only tangible mementos of this buck.

Which is more than OK, too.

A Doe Management Hunt

Hogs always need managing. A herd of a dozen piggies ran in front of the Chevy mere minutes after arriving for an afternoon hunt on a private ranch in Sarasota County. We’d see probably 40 more before the day was done - but not without taking a few shots.

I spied three young hogs tossing dirt under a low hanging oak. It was early in day and we were seriously after deer, but these guys did not spook as we drove past. We parked the truck and opted for a stalk. Travis grabbed his pet .257 Roberts. I elected for the Marlin .22 Mag riding in the back; my .300 would have blown swine this size sky-high.

With the wind in our favor, we stalked in the wide open, over a creek crossing to within 20 yards of the hogs who were too busy rooting to care for our advances. Travis was on point and squeezed the trigger, flopping a 50-pound sow. Another hog bounded out, and I fired high as he dipped down a slight depression in the terrain. The next pig was not so lucky, catching that small bullet behind the shoulder and rolling up in the dog fennels. Two meat hogs in the truck and four hours left to find a doe.

This ranch is an amusement park for hunters, and to be allowed to hunt deer – or hogs - here is special. For decades the whitetail population tried to bounce back from a tick-borne disease that severely thinned the herd, as the story goes. Only about 15 years ago did the owners decide enough animals recovered to allow a couple deer killed per year. It’s hard to believe, driving around this 9000 acres of Old Florida pine and palmetto flats and prairie, that this was ever an issue.

These days, bucks are restricted to family members and special circumstances, but the doe program is less restraining. With cooperation with the FWC, the ranch has access to a high number of doe permits based on yearly surveys and harvest data collection. Most years, the quota is never reached. The ranch manager requires information such as estimated weight of the deer, time it was taken, and names of successful hunters to be logged at the cleaning station. The hunter is asked to remove the head, heart, liver, kidneys, and urethra from felled does, and they are turned over to biologists to gauge the overall health and age of the deer. At the end of the season, this information is consolidated and presented in a yearly report.

Over time, the overall harvest account of does and bucks reveals vital herd statistics and is used to pinpoint rutting dates. It’s been fascinating to review over the last few years. All I know is there’s been no shortage of deer on my visits, and I’ve glassed really impressive bucks for this part of the state.

Last year the FWC changed the hunting dates for South Florida to try and accommodate the varied rutting times. In far South Florida the rut could be as early as August. On this ranch, generally speaking, the rut occurs in mid-October, yet it does not occur within a concise measurement of time. The rut is often strung out with a fairly strong secondary rut – if even this can be easily defined. Maybe with the data collection applied over the long term, that’ll get figured out. Regardless, by October, bow and muzzleloader seasons are long retired.

Which pleases me just fine; I love a rifle hunt more than all else. And while bucks were out of the equation, I equally enjoy taking a doe for freezer meat. It’s not carte blanche slickhead shoots, though. One, they want to take older does from the herd, and hunters are encouraged to pass on younger animals. Also, a hunter must use caution that he or she does not punch a small buck. With its sod fields, cow pastures, and prairie, it’s easy to mistake a young spike for a doe at long range. In fact, with a breeding season as scattered as it is, yearlings born early in the Spring easily reach 100 pounds as winter approaches – accidentally blasting a button buck or small spike would be a cinch without a careful forehead review.

With the rut underway, Travis and I expected to see the bucks a-chasing, but even on private lands, the weather can waylay anticipation. A full-moon and lingering low-pressure front hung over the state on this hunt, and it hindered the deer activity. (Which makes it really weird we saw so many hogs because they are typically invisible during full moons.) We saw one small buck with its nose to the ground on the north fenceline but that was the only deer sighting for most of the day.

Besides deer hunting, we also needed to do feeder maintenance. A summer storm had flooded a couple of the older ones, rotting the corn and creating a wretched sour stink that maybe only moonshiners appreciate. Travis and I were preparing for a barefoot slog through the wetland mitigation area – a section of the property protected from cattle grazing and other agricultural activities - to retrieve one of these feeders. I glanced West and noticed a lone deer standing on the edge of a palmetto island.

Though she had spotted us, she was at such a distance that she did not spook, allowing us ample time to check that she was in fact a large doe and not a rutting spike. I found a quick rest, upped the Nikon to 9X and settled on her high shoulder. The last thing I remember before flipping forward the safety was Travis asking if I could hit her at this distance.

My Savage Tactical .300 Win. Mag. - shooting 165-grain Winchester XP3’s - barked and the doe crumpled on the edge of the treeline. I gotta say I was quite pleased with the shot, right around 250 yards. With my rifle zeroed to hit where I aim at this distance, the bullet caught her exactly where I held the crosshairs.

Though confident the doe was legit before the shot, I was awfully apprehensive walking forward to check my prize, hoping I wasn’t tricked by the low light of the cloudy evening and long distance into shooting one of those smaller bucks. Since it is a rare privilege to have access to such a place, you don't want to do anything to ruin the hospitality. Turns out, this was the kind of doe the ranch was looking to harvest – mature, with a long nose and blocky head. We loaded her in with the hogs and went about collecting the feeder as the sun fell towards the Gulf.

The PSE Buck

On September 14th, my wife and I welcomed our baby girl and boy - happy, healthy, beautiful, perfect. As one may imagine, the twins have delayed the start of Ol' Huntin' Season. At least for long-range, all-weekend deer.

As much as I hate missing archery season, I should be back on my grind towards the end of October with a muzzleloader.

I took this buck three years ago and the story was posted on my old Polk Voice blog. Since that original website is long gone, I thought I'd re-post this and reminisce.



"All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken." – Thomas Wolfe

An honest 30-bird covey of bobwhite is a rare sight these days. But here they came, a pair or three at a time, near endlessly scooting out from the palmettos, chirping as quail do, picking their way though the short grasses of the oak hammock in their uniquely nervous, quirky procession. And though given the opportunity I’d hunt them with fervor, just seeing these strikingly handsome birds was a pleasure, just enough to knock me out of a foul mood.

See, my gentle disposition in the woods is dictated, sadly, by favorable conditions; too cloudy, too windy, too rainy, or too hot and I start poo-poohing the hunt, second-guessing myself and moping like a jilted bride. And this day was a steamer. Surely, no deer would get within bow range the way I’d been perspiring, scent killer or no.

Making matters worse, my stand was a Frankenstein job – 8 feet of ladder and seat, with a blind fashioned from PVC and camo cloth, barely wide enough for my shoulders. I couldn’t hang a taller stand in the hammock or I’d never see anything through the branches of the live oaks. I wanted to put a ground blind in here, but didn’t want other light-fingered hunters to relieve me of one. This stand was an abomination, uncomfortable and ill-suited for taking bow shots. But there’s one philosophy I do subscribe to; even if your stand is less than ideal, the only way to kill deer is to be where they are, and this hammock swarmed with game.

But, oh, the heat. The quail, my only entertainment in three hours of sitting Saturday afternoon, abandoned me alone, I thought, until I caught the swishing tail of a young doe feeding under the short oaks to my left. A 60 or 70 pounder; if she got in range, she was going in the freezer.

As she slipped behind some palmettos, I awkwardly rose from the seat, catching the stabilizer of my PSE Octane in the blind, and tangling the Grim Reaper in the netting. Ugghhhhhhh. I worked deliberately to right my situation, mad I’d even messed around building a blind, sweating even harder in the desperation and anxiety of having a target nearby and the entire prospect of success rapidly going to pot.

Thank the Heavens though, even with all this commotion, the doe fed undisturbed. Still, it wasn’t to be as she meandered away from the stand, until finally disappearing back towards a creek bottom.

Discouraged and still convinced that’d be the only action for the day, I cursed my way back to the seat, bow dangling over the edge of the blind, and began second-guessing my stand placement. I should have put it closer to the swamp line. But then again, I’ve hunted this hammock for three years. I’m right where most deer cross in the evenings from the creek to get a mouthful of acorns before entering a palmetto flat at dark - the classic transition zone. And there’s still plenty of light left. Luckily, through all my buffoonery, I didn’t spook the doe and wasn’t winded. Hope remained. Just settle back down.

Around 6:30 a cow bellowed in the distance. Almost as a response I heard the unmistakable, “bahhhh, bughhhhh,” of a grunting buck. I stood slowly, this time avoiding hanging the broadhead in the blind, just in time for a tall and wide swamp buck to come trotting out, a mere 15 yards behind my stand.

I half-expected the deer to keep walking to a small clearing where the quail had been feeding. I slowly turned that direction, but the buck – and remember, while I am in a ghillie suit, surrounded by a blind and oak branches, I’m still only 8 feet off the ground – caught my movement. He stopped, bobbed his head a couple times, peering under a low-slung branch, hoping to catch me screw up more.

Avoiding direct eye contact with him, I waited for him to put his head down. When he obliged, I spun back the opposite way, guessing he knew something was wrong and would return to cover. Call it once-in-a-row, but I was right. Not spooked, but definitely alerted, the buck slowly turned around to head back towards the swamp.

I had one window to shoot through; the buck just had to cross there. As he did, with the bow already drawn, I grunted with my mouth and in the next motion as he stopped, touched the release and delivered the arrow to the strike zone, him taking off with two other whitetails that I’d not noticed.

On the ground, I found my arrow with good sign, but still resisted the urge to immediately follow-up. I returned to the truck, called Dad, and chiefed down a couple smokes, just trying to rein in the adrenaline.

After returning to the scene and an easy tracking job, the beautiful eight-point rode the game carrier back to my Dodge for pictures and the triumphant return to the check station where the biologists took a jaw for aging, and examined the kidneys for fat content while hunters approached to congratulate us. As it turned out, mine would be the only buck taken from the property this weekend – blame it on the heat, or moon phase, or lack of acorns.

For all its aggravations, when success finds you, bowhunting is immensely rewarding, and in a couple weeks, I’ll be back for another round.

In all likelihood, sporting a much better mood.

Deer Plans & Scouting - Lake Panasoffkee WMA Special Opportunity Hunt

I stood at the gate staring down into the swamp. I wouldn’t be able to drive my truck any further. The road into the dark was steep – a rough ride back up on bike. Bikes didn’t matter, though. I didn’t have one with me. Middle of July, I wasn’t about to walk into that skeeter pit.

This is going to be a tough hunt, I thought.

I pulled a Lake Panasoffkee Special Opportunity Archery permit for 12/1-12/4. With twins on the way in September, my chances of driving far and wide for deer appeared awfully grim, so I made a desperate tag grab for anything close to home. Luckily, it all panned out, and I may salvage part of this season.

The FWC markets Special Opportunity Hunts as the opportunity to hunt “large areas with lots of game and low hunter quotas and (that) provide excellent opportunities to bag trophy deer, wild hogs, quail, wild turkeys or doves.”

Much of this is done in conjunction with other agencies, in this case the Southwest Florida Water Management District commonly known as “SwiftMud.” You pay for the privilege to hunt here. Pay to apply, pay if you are successfully drawn and want the hunt. It is difficult to draw a tag. This is the first time I have been successful. You can apply for as many hunts as you want to help up your odds. I applied for three. Drew Lake P; am currently on the waiting list for two Green Swamp West deer hunts. One hunt I’m 353rd in line. The other, 435th. So I’m feeling pretty lucky about what I did get, especially since this hunt has a limit of 20 hunters.

But, wow, now the work starts. Lake Panasoffkee WMA is nearly 9000 acres of floodplain forest. From Google Earth you can see the land is mostly swamp and wetlands with scrub and flatwood habitat on the northern end of the property. With a large equestrian camp on the premises and being part of the Great Florida Bird Trail, I am assuming the roads and paths – 26 miles total - will be easy to travel.

The greatest trouble with hunting swamp like this is figuring where to set up. For starters, there’s no telling how much water will be standing come December. I betting not as much as there is now – and that makes scouting difficult, as well. All it takes, though, is a hurricane or tropical storm to fill up those bottoms through most of the season. Next, swamps – at least those from my experience – lack many of the funnels and edge territory that one would normally queue on when setting up a stand. Scouting from the sky doesn’t help a whole lot. Also, I’ve not found much in my research about the property.

And to top it off, it’s an archery hunt with a four-point on an antler rule. Really limiting my odds, people.

Ideally, in a swamp like this, I’d find a promising locale, hang a lock-on, and pour corn 'til it shined through the canopy. Of course, I’d probably end up with a whole lot of hogs and not many deer. And it's illegal on public land anyhow.

Hunting in the swamp is much different than hunting broken and mixed terrain. I could sit and percolate on this hunt for a while and makes desperate guesses and assumptions of how it’ll play out, but it’s just going to take shoe leather. Look for some oaks, old rub lines and trails. It's standard issue scouting, just much more difficult to know where to start.

I’ve signed up for a tough hunt, no doubt.

Deer Plans & Scouting - Half Moon WMA

Whoever checks the sign-in sheets at Half Moon WMA and Lake Panasoffkee WMA probably wondered what kind of lunatic this Nance fellow is who claimed to be scouting at noon in the middle of July. I pulled deer quota tags for both of these lands, and I’d never set a toe on either. This was going to be a project.

Scouting Florida’s WMA’s is challenging, especially those open only to quota hunts. State hunters are lucky to have access to so much land, but if all you have are the rules and regulations yet no real kind of plan, you could be in for a trying time. Most quota hunts last only a handful of days, and the best lands are difficult to pull. So, consistently drawing a hunt from one year to the next is tough and doesn’t exactly help with any sort of institutional knowledge.

And I use the term “access” very loosely. To prevent damage to environmentally sensitive lands, the FWC keeps vehicle traffic on most public lands to a minimum during the offseason. While I’d much rather scout from the comfort of the A/C, that wasn’t going to happen. These places allow scouting days – but they are a day prior to the hunt. I need more time than that.

So, a plan. I drew the tags; that was the hard part. I drew general gun quota for Half Moon in November and a Special Opportunity Archery Hunt for Lake P in December (talk about more in the next post). I had a general sense of where the properties were, but was absolutely delighted to discover their entrances just a few miles apart. While scouting, I can kill two birds with one stone.

The next step was to explore Google Earth and other aerial sources. Immediately, one can tell there’s a major difference in terrain between the two. The solid dark green of Lake P meant swamp. The patchy landscape of Half Moon revealed more edge territory – and I suspected at first glance, more deer.

So I was in Homosassa this last weekend and decided to take a little detour on the way home and put my eyes on these places, get a feel for how far they were from the house, and get a better feel for the place itself. I probably should have taken a bike with me, but I needed to be back in Lakeland for a party.

I loved Half Moon on sight. I’d long heard it to be a popular WMA with a successful deer program. From what I understand, this property is one reason the FWC switched to non-transferable permits. People in the area would have family and friends apply for tags each year then transfer them to hunters. The FWC got suspicious when the same folks kept showing up year after year to hunt what would otherwise be a difficult draw.

I’d never been too keen on general gun hunts, mostly because I don’t want a bullet hole in me. Still, word had gotten around that this was a fantastic place to hunt. I felt remiss that I had yet to see or hunt the property. So when the time came to apply for tags, I decided to go the rifle route. One, because the hunt I applied for was right in the middle of the rut. Two, I already knew where I wanted to hunt for primitive seasons. If I didn’t score on Half Moon, so be it. Turns out it was my lucky year.

The property is 9,480 acres of the most ecologically varied landscape I’ve set foot on. There are 20 different natural communities on this property, from marshes and swamps to scrub, flatwoods, and beautiful mesic hammocks, hosting quite the diversity of wild life. The Withlacoochee River runs its western border and improved pastures of bahia grass hearken back to the old days of cattle ranching.

Now, I didn’t walk too far in, but my initial impression about there being a lot of deer seemed correct. I found a pile of tracks near the equestrian trails by the entrance. The place just felt whitetail-ish. And the good folks from the FWC had the harvest report on the kiosk. Over 5 weekend hunts last year – 2 general gun, 2 archery, 1 muzzleloader - hunters took 66 deer, 37 of which were antlered bucks that had to have at least 3 points on one antler. Not shabby.

Then Dad ran across the Recreation Master Plan for Half Moon that excited me even more. They have estimated the deer density to be around 60 animals per square mile. That’s a high number. In addition, the plan claims that “Hunting is consistent across the property with no ‘hot spots.’”

I’ve almost made it sound too easy. I’d be a real nincompoop if I couldn’t kill a buck here, huh! I’ll probably opt for the ground blind option in the white oaks – it is important to have a couple back up plans, too, if fellow hunters get too friendly.

The edge territory from the varying ecosystems is probably the reason for the high deer population. With the variety of browse, it’s easy to grow and hold more deer than a location with a widespread, consistent ecosystem. It’s always a handy thing to keep in mind when you are looking for a new lease or place to hunt. If the land appears broken and patchy, odds are there are plenty of deer. Add a major river to the mix and you have a right fine piece of deer land.

So, Half Moon, rifle season, November 11-13. I’m jacked. Much more so than I thought I’d be. But there is still a ton of work to be done. I’m going back in a couple of weeks with the bike but even then it’ll be a haul. Heck, the check station is a mile deep into the property. Gonna have to put the pedal to the metal. An opportunity like this deserves a little extra sweat, though.

If anyone has any advice on hunting here, let a brother know!

The Economics of Acorns on Deer Hunting

Acorns dictate deer movement in autumn. Even as the pre-rut and rut starts, does will be seeking acorns while bucks will be seeking does. They are a deer’s comfort food. When the mast is heavy, deer habitually abandon other crops, food plots and feeders. They love acorns that much. When the harvest is low – you’d better find what they are feeding on and quick. It’s all very frustrating, and when combined with vagaries of weather, hunting pressure, moon phases - well, it just makes you more thankful when you’ve succeeded in taking a nice buck.

I hit a wall the last two years hunting Florida. The oak hammock I bowhunted in Manatee County was devoid of deer activity, and I now believe the variances in the acorn crop to be the reason. While the hunts were disappointments, they have proved excellent case studies on boom and bust years for acorns.

Once upon a time, this particular strip of woods was a haven for game movement. Three nice bucks were harvested in consecutive years, and many more spikes and young deer passed through unharmed. Does and hogs were expected to be seen during each sit. They’d wander out of the swamp to feed on the water oak acorns in the evening before meandering into a palmetto flat for the night. The mornings were the reverse. It was essentially a buffet between rest and play. During these years, one could reasonably describe the acorn crop as normal.

The last two years? Something happened. The deer more or less vanished. Sure, there were tracks, and Dad did kill a young piebald in 2009 from my stand, but by and large this honeyhole lost its sweetness. I could run through the whole history of hunting excuses, but I find final fault in the weird acorn drops during these times.

Let’s start with 2009. It was hot - very hot - during September and October. But beyond this, the water oaks had very few acorns on the branches. Still, I believed the area would still hold deer thanks to the abundance of browse and intersection of trails. History was on my side, I thought.

In six hunts and dozens of hours in the stand, I saw one doe with a pair of yearlings who fed on shrubs and grasses. Occasionally I’d hear a splash of a large animal in the creek, but it could have easily been hogs. The only buck rubs I discovered were from the previous year. The deer had shifted out during hunting hours - as did the swine and turkey – and it took me too long to realize this. I had no plan to overcome it.

2010 was the exact opposite – except for my failure to identify an alternate location to set up. September and October were unseasonably cool – not cold, but with low enough humidity, Florida would call it cool. Acorns of all varieties fell early and kept falling through the hunts. They plunked in the creek at a constant rate. Honestly, I can’t recall a bumper crop quite like it, though 2007 came real close.

Once more, I had a single run-in with deer over six hunts – two does that fed under my stand until they were spooked by a gobbler. I convinced myself that since I was rolling over acorns like marbles on the way to the stand, eventually they’d come out to catch an arrow.

Both seasons were described by the local biologists as off years. The game harvest was dramatically down and staff reported fewer daytime sightings of deer. So it wasn’t just me suffering. I will atone to the fact that I didn’t do enough to make these successful years – had no tricks up my sleeve, no contingency plans, no ace in the hole. I placed one stand based on past experience fully expecting to cart more venison out of that hammock.

So what should I have done? This is all conjecture since there’s no way to go back in time to correct my mistakes and enforce my hypotheses. But it was a learning experience when I started researching acorns and deer movement. Several theories correlate with my woes.

Let’s start with the economics of the acorn crop. When they are plentiful, deer simply don’t have to travel far to eat. Deer hunters rely on deer movement for success whether bucks are chasing food or love. And if does aren’t moving far and wide seeking sustenance, a buck won’t be either.

It makes perfect sense. If fresh hot wings and Hooters Girls were dropped off at the Ol’ Bachelor Pad everyday, there’d be no reason to risk DUI’s and public embarrassment to run down to the local bar or club. Food and sex drive competition. In years with a normal acorn crop and a healthy deer – and hog – population, deer get on their hooves in a hurry to hit hammocks and other feeding stations.

Not so much when there’s a boom year. The pressure to compete for food and sex amongst deer directly leads to hunter success, whether it involves inspiring animals to travel further or leave their beds early during daylight hours. If an animal doesn’t have to move ten feet for a belly-full, hunters are in trouble.

The deer are somewhere, though. The quick answer is to hunt bedding areas. That’s going to be difficult in most parts of Florida and the South. The land – with its swamps and planted pines and cypress heads - is too thick to penetrate without making a holy racket getting in and out. Deer do it easily. It’s not impossible to kill a buck in these conditions, but not always the best strategy, either.

One thing I have started thinking about and focusing on is what kind of acorns deer prefer. This is a project in motion but worth merit to study, in my opinion. Florida is home to 19 species of oak tree, split into two main categories of red and white oaks. The water oaks I hunted are of the red variety. Red oak acorns are bitterer in taste than the whites, and I’ve long heard and read that deer prefer the whites when available. Advanced scouting and knowledge of different trees is really important. As the season progresses, different species of oaks will drop their seeds – it’s worth paying attention to what the game prefers.

In 2010, with the plethora of acorns available, the deer reportedly hung around live oaks – those majestic, moss-draped trees of the white variety. The deer had such an overwhelming variety of food they literally ignored water oaks and went with the sweeter brand.

This is mostly anecdotal evidence talking, but a plausible hypothesis that probably explains some of the dead air where I was. Dad reported more deer than I at his stand of live oaks. He wasn’t exactly trampled by whitetail, either, because - as told above - a ton of acorns inhibits deer movement regardless how much they like one species over another. But, it made his set-up more attractive to action. It’s not a perfect solution but something to consider in years of a massive acorn bumper crop.

2009 was a different problem. No acorns were anywhere. White or red. In Georgia and other southern states where you can focus early in the season on persimmons, crab apples, and honey locusts for deer activity, South Florida is loaded with different food sources and browse and little of the aforementioned plants.

Food plots and feeders mitigate this problem on private properties but is not even a consideration on public lands. Finding game trails is about the best you can do without having one active source to clue in on. The inside edge of that swamp I spoke of earlier was the place to be with its cover, water, and supply of large, broad-leafed, tender green plants. (It’s worth noting the importance of this water source in what is largely sandy, scrub habitat.) They will also feed on younger blackberry bushes and muscadine vines.

None of these sources, though, concentrate deer numbers like acorns. You’d think that with a shortage of acorns, that competition and traveling I espoused as so important in the beginning would come into play, but, for some reason, without at least an average harvest, they don’t even seem to entertain the game.

Without a time machine, it is impossible to say whether I would have tagged out with these adjustments. And an arborist, I am not. But after these last two seasons with limited time to hunt and failure to do well in the time allotted, it’ll be worth ironing out some wrinkles in my knowledge and learn more about the importance of acorns – and other food sources - on deer habits.

At least then I can stop completely blaming acorns if things go awry.

GUIDE TO FLORIDA'S OAK TREES

Florida Deer Journal 2010 - The Upper Hills Hunt

Behind me, I heard the dry leaves of the cypress swamp Corn Flake as the deer approached at a trot. It was coming fast. Though the weather was clear and beautiful all weekend with temperatures in the 40’s, after 12 hours perched in the stand with nothing to report, action couldn’t come fast enough.

I glanced over my right shoulder and finally saw the large-bodied buck. His antlers, tall and tobacco-stained in color, curved straight forward like lances. Points, I cannot say. It was too thick for a shot, at least with a bow.


He paused briefly then resumed his pace into the Thickness of Central Florida. I grunted on the Knight & Hale a couple times, but I knew Mr. Deer was history. He was the only buck I have seen in Florida all season.

I was satisfied. So be it. Save an unexpected invite somewhere, that was probably my last chance for the year. At least it ended on somewhat of a high note. Seeing a Swamp Buck is always a thrill.

But something felt askew. Why was he running? I thought at first he may be chasing a doe that slipped past unseen. January and February is Rut Time in this part of the state. Heck, it’s the reason I applied for the bowhunt here. Usually, though, when on the tail of a skirt, bucks will be nose-to-the-ground. This guy was heads-up and high-stepping. He was spooked.

Maybe another hunter pushed him. This was public land, after all. The evening before a gentleman and a portly young fellow crashed my set-up. Heard them coming - sounded like a herd of elephants walking down the trail. People don't realize how loud they can truly be. The pair politely moved along, but I knew they probably lurked close.

Another thought was more pervasive, however. Dad was hunting the northwest side of the cypress head, maybe 200 yards away straight line. And he’s had all the luck with seeing game lately. Problem is, I’m not sure he could kill a deer with an arrow if it had heat-seeking capabilities and a thermo-nuclear broadhead.

Had to check the texts.

“I just missed my buck.”

Sigh. The night before, he said he let a nice buck slip under his stand and couldn’t find an ethical shot in the remaining light. Nothing more frustrating than when you aren’t seeing anything and having to endure kith and kin bemoan their lost opportunities. It’s like, put me in the game, Coach!


Upper Hillsborough WMA is a few thousand acres in Pasco County. They offer only a few hunts a year, all by quota drawing and all primitive. The rut, as I said earlier, is late winter. On this hunt, I was finding fresh rubs and scrapes, sign that’s gone long cold in southern regions of the state. (Actually, the picture of the rub in the header of this blog was taken here last year.)

I’ve only hunted Upper Hills a few times; I get the sense there is not a ton of deer. The land is comprised of cypress bottoms interspersed with pine and palmetto flats and sand scrub. It is pretty land but without much in the way of nutrition, not all that conducive to a large population. (I’m also guessing a Cracker Season has been in effect in this area a long time, further suppressing numbers.)

This is not to say there aren’t a few nice ones. One person this year tagged a 198lb. nine. Not too shabby for these parts. As I said, Dad has had all the luck, but it correlates to the scouting he had done. The eastern end of the property can be reached only by bike and the trails open during game seasons are closed the rest of the year. You’ll need your hiking boots and a two-wheeler if you plan on advance recon.

This has been a strange year in Florida. A biologist buddy of mine reports harvest numbers are down across the region. It’s the way things go.

Next year things will be different. Next year I’ll do more scouting. Next year things will work out.

Next year I’m following Dad into the woods, clubbing him over the head, and hunting his stand.

Florida Deer Journal 2010 - Blackpowder Bummer

Of all the things great and small I do not understand in this world, from the appeal of NASCAR to why women hate Rachel Ray so much when Kelly Ripa lives and breathes fresh air, I’ll fail to explain the doldrums that has been my Florida deer season thus far. Weather great. Proven stand location. Maximum effort in the tree. Acorns aplenty. No deer, minus the does I saw opening morning of bow season. Null and void.

It’s seems to be a down year at Duette park in Manatee County. From what I've been told, nothing big has really squeaked in to the check station over the first four hunts that covered the pre-rut and rut. A bunch of hogs, but deer hunters were mostly left wanting. I may forgo my dues next year and take my talents back to South Georgia.

The muzzleloader hunt on the weekend of the 13th was most disappointing. I don’t really get excited until I can put the stick and string away for something that goes “boom!” And I enjoy hunting with this setup – a .50 Cal. Knight Disc Rifle with a Bushnell Banner scope firing a 250 grain Barnes Expander MZ served over 100 grains of Hodgdon 777 pellets. Kaboom! Accurate and dependable, it has made muzzleloading a corn feeder’s worth of fun.

But alas, nada. Just two big ol’ gobblers that showed up Saturday around two and poked their heads about before feeding into the palmetto flat. Dad saw a bunch of hogs and some gobblers, and that was that.

Duette met their quota of four bucks by Saturday evening, though the biggest was a small six. Twenty-some hogs met their maker. Dad hunted Sunday and saw nothing while I was on my way to North Carolina hoping the deer drought would not follow.

In all honesty, and I've made excuses in a previous post, I think it's just one of those years. The weekends allowed did not coincide with when the deer were moving, I guess. Successfully hunting deer in FL requires more time spent in the woods than I've been able to offer. I made the most of my innings but appear to be striking out.

I have other hunts in FL. One in Levy County. One in Sarasota. Two at Upper Hillsborough. Looking forward to it. Taking a FL buck is always a challenge I will put the work in for.

Florida Deer Journal 2010 - Bowhunting Dumpfuggle

No, I have no idea what that title means. Thought of it on another fruitless sit Sunday morning. I also can’t figure out this last weekend bowhunting at Duette in Manatee County.

Here’s a situation that appeared just perfect for a successful deer hunt - the air was cool and dry under the high pressure system that has settled across the country; the pre-rut is about to start; acorns are Plinko-ing down the oaks. As a deer hunter – or someone arrogant enough to dispense advice on deer hunting – this is how you’d draw up a hunt on the chalkboard.

I mean, there was nothing moving. Unlike two weeks ago when turkeys scared off my deer, the forest was empty. No deer, no turkey, no hogs, no Therma-Cell fumes-induced hallucinations of unicorns or flying dogs. 13 hours of sitting on the stand staring at nothing and thinking of dirty parody lyrics to Christmas songs.

I have a few theories on why the deer weren’t frolicking in front of my stand.

1. The hammock has changed. Three or four years ago, the park managers burned the palmetto flat on the south side of the hammock that drew the deer into the open to feed on the new growth. Combined with the acorn harvest, it was a buffet the game could not pass up. The flat has matured greatly since then, and the edibles have been choked by the waxy, obnoxious palmettos.

Sitting in the stand, I could hear acorns plopping down into the creek behind me. Since it is early in the year, much of the swamp vegetation these deer eat is still growing. The deer don’t have much cause to leave their hidey-holes during the day. I suppose I could move back into the swamp. I should move, but don’t really want to either (I'll explain below).

This is forever a problem with hunts like this when you have limited time to scout. Scouting in February is good because you can get a clearer view of trails and old rubs, and stinking up the joint wandering around just isn’t a big deal. You rely on the history of hunting an area. I failed to recognize that this changes. My success in the past has relied on finding this spot then doing my best not to disturb it for fear of putting pressure on the deer.

Which brings me to...

2. I’m getting help hunting this area. Saturday afternoon I heard a truck on the other side of the swamp banging around. Ten minutes later I could hear the unmistakable clanging of a climber stand ascending a tree. Even though I said above I should have probably hunted the swamp, doing so depends on serious stealth. As I’ve written before, swamps breathe. The moisture traps scent and the breeze swirls it throughout the oaks. It’s a high-risk situation, and if you have any intentions of hunting more than once in this area, probably not the best plan. Deer unseen pick up on this phenomenon in a hurry, and it does not take them long to totally maneuver around set-ups. I heard a couple deer blow Saturday evening at these other hunters to the upwind side of me.

Also on Saturday evening, I had already walked to my stand, but Dad hung by the truck for a little while longer. He said he was sitting there and had two hunters approach with climbers on their back. When they saw the truck and Dad, they started cursing and moped back from where they came. Undoubtedly, they were the ones who hung the green flagging tape in my hammock. Dad recognized them. Their trick is to tape off multiple areas and use their climbers to hunt thereby never committing to the two spots Duette Park mandates. I’d love to wrap their truck in that tape.

3. It was just one of those weekends. There is probably a combination of the guesses above that contributed to the lack of activity this weekend, but something larger was at work, too. The biologist at the check station said that nobody has been seeing much yet. One guy had brought in a 6 point and a doe hung from the cleaning rack Saturday evening, but as of leaving Sunday morning, that had been about it. It is still early. I noticed a couple rudimentary rubs leaving the hammock Sunday. The deer are just being deer, and hopefully my next hunt there in November when the rut is cranking will result in more action.

I'll be there, for sure.

The Boneheaded Bowhunter

Bowhunting and I have had a stormy relationship over the last decade. There’s been name-calling and threats and throwing things. Abandonment on both sides. Even today, it knows I’d leave it in a second for Full Season Rifle Hunting, and there has been casual to serious flirting with purchasing a crossbow as that season expands. We don’t have the most stable foundation.

Still, bow season is a great time to be in the woods, and I need that companionship. Things have settled down to a degree where we’ve learned to work together, but, man, I just couldn’t help but rehash the old days as we sat in the stand a couple weeks ago and whittled the hours thinking through the What-Could-Have-Beens.

I thought of the Top Five moments in my bowhunting career that have been soul-crushing and painful…

1. In 1999, I perched in a lock-on in Manatee County on a rather coolish October morning. I was fresh to this archery game, but the rubs and nice weather had me jacked up. About an hour into the sit, I pulled out my grunt call and gave it a few notes. From the swamp bottom, a six-point came rushing up to the stand and stood broadside 25 yards away.

Now, this was a young deer, but I was a young hunter. His close proximity and 30 inches of antler disturbed the Shakes within. Still, I rose carefully and clipped the release onto the string, ready to send my first broadhead into a buck.

This release was one of those palm deals that would be totally suitable for a bow that shoots arrows with plastic suction cups but not ideal for the real thing. Despite the fact it had performed flawlessly through hours of practice, as I came to half-draw the 65 pound pull caused the mechanism in the release to fail. The string snapped forward limply flying the arrow about as far as a three year old can toss a baseball, and my hand flew back into my lips, instantly fattening them.

If only deer could laugh. But as I said, this was a young deer, and I was a young hunter. The buck paced in a circle and again stood broadside. I re-nocked another arrow thinking, "There’s no way this would happen twice."

Angelina Jolie does not have as pouty lips as I did after that morning.

2. A couple years later I sat in an old wooden ladder stand guarding a corn feeder and watched a hive of yellow jackets fly in and out of a palmetto clump, no doubt plotting a vicious attack on some poor creature. A doe slipped out of the gallberries behind me and fed in front of my stand. I had no bowhunting mentor and had to learn by trial and error and error. I shifted in the seat ever so slowly and drew back on the doe.

When I hit the release, the arrow tumbled through the air not unlike Darth Vader’s ship at the end of the original Star Wars. The doe hauled tail as I wondered what the hell had happened. Then I noticed my string had come completely off the wheel and cam. When I shot, the bottom limb had been resting against the wooden rail. The force of the shot unspooled and snapped the bowstring.

I know not to let that happen again. To make matters worse, as I sat there with no functioning weapon, a herd of meat hogs arrived at the feeder.

3. Speaking of hogs. I had fashioned a ground blind out of palmettos and old logs in a scrub hammock. I grunted in a nice 8pt my first sit. As they tend to do, this buck showed up on the one weak side in my concealment and busted me immediately. Hoping for redemption, I patched the problem and returned that night, but as we all know, Second Chances are few and far between.

As dark came to the hammock, I elected to slip out to a feeder on the edge of a large palmetto flat hoping to stick a hog. When I arrived at the feeder, no hogs were to be seen, and I desperately needed to answer the Call of Number 1.

So I sat the bow down and unzipped because, you know, peeing where you are trying to attract game is always a professional idea. I had gotten down to the last drop when I heard an oink behind me. All of a sudden I had a herd of 30-60 pound porkers literally feeding within a few feet.

There I stood exposed, bow on the ground, The Great White Hunter. When I stooped to reach my bow, they alerted and slowly trotted back to the palmetto flat. I zipped up and hurried to catch them. When I hit a fire trail that circled the hammock, a large boar was wandering his way to the feeder.

He turned broadside, just inviting that perfect shot. I sailed the arrow a foot over his back and cursed my way back to the truck debating whether I should tell others about this story.

4. I had this buck dead to rights. He had just enormous rubs near my stand. I was cautious about entering this area on anything less than the right moment. But, I did hang a film canister filled with cotton on a small pine tree that I’d occasionally touch up with store-bought doe urine.

I’ve never been struck with a ton of patience, but finally the evening had arrived. The wind was agreeable and the air was cool. The rut was just about to spill out all over the place. I should have stood when the doe came trotting by. I should have stood when I heard him grunt.

You know it’s a nice buck when the first thing you notice is the horns. Dark chocolate, like so many swamp bucks in the area. Nine points outside the ears. He had followed the doe's trail right in front of my stand, and when he walked behind a palmetto patch, I drew.

The buck stopped to sniff my film canister. A lot of things went wrong. One, my bow at that time – which came across on the Mayflower – had no let-off and my arms were fatiguing. Two, I never stood to get a solid anchor point and my body was torqued. Three, I didn’t follow through on the shot, lifting my head to see the arrow fly high and right into the meaty part of his neck. I should have just lowered the bow.

The buck bounded away, and I waited an hour before getting down. I found the broken aluminum shaft a few yards into the woods where he ran, no more than 3 inches severed from the broadhead. I located the blood trail and realized if I didn’t find him fast, I wouldn’t. A shot like that either hits blood or air. Anything else is about a lost cause.

My tracking job ended well past dark, caught in a tangle of thick swamp vegetation with no more blood to find, and what sounded like a pretty riled up pack of hogs that would be at eye-level as I crawled through that mess.

I was so sick and disappointed in myself. I came close to killing my bowhunting relationship for good that evening. The experience still haunts me every time I pick up archery tackle.

5. There stood the biggest buck I had laid eyes on in the woods, up to that point. He slithered out of the pines behind me. This was a truly large Florida buck, golden antlers from rubbing pines, ten points, at least 17 inches wide, massive - every bit a wallhanger. You’d have to be a much more dedicated hunter than I to let this guy walk.

He appeared ragged and tired from a night of chasing does and was in no big rush. A friend had invited me to his family’s ranch and strict rules were in place about the size of bucks one could take. This guy met the standards, for sure.

The buck turned away from me to cross a small creek and walk out towards an open wet-weather pond. I took the opportunity to stand and get ready. But, he only offered me the rump shot until he meandered to a myrtle bush and stood broadside, surveying his land.

The shot might have been 50 yards; it may have been 35, but I never drew the bow. Two weeks prior I had sent that arrow into the neck of the aforementioned buck, and I just could not harness the confidence. I know they say you have to Cowboy Up and get back on the horse when the iron is hot and the tough get going, but I watched that trophy buck stand there for an interminable length of time until he moseyed into the swamp and out of my life forever.

I can’t say if I did the right thing or not. Hopefully a deserving hunter did finally tag him. I never heard.

Like all relationships, one must learn from their mistakes, how to compromise, and how to move past it all to become better.

As rocky as my relationship with bowhunting has been, it has made me a more complete hunter.