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Bucks in a Bog
- by Milton F. Whitmore
One of the drivers was in sight, walking on a hillside
in the aspen slashings, on the other side of a narrow
finger of a blueberry bog. No deer had popped out to make
their escape across the wide open wetland stretching to
the south and west of my stand. The warm sunny
Thanksgiving Day made for easy waiting while we made a
push of the tangle of cut-over aspens which bordered the
eastern edge of this particular bog.
Suddenly, not forty yards in front of me, like some
silent apparition, rose a deer. It was a buck, and he
sported a nice set of antlers, not trophy class by any
means, but shootable in my book. The deer, intent on
watching the walker in the aspen, knew nothing of my
presence. As quickly as he rose, back down he lay with
only his head and antlers showing above the three foot
tall brambles of blueberry shrub.
As my brother-in- law closed the gap, unaware of the
deer in front of me, the buck, obviously getting nervous,
made his dash for freedom. He was easy to pick up in my
scope. I swung with his bounding escape attempt and the
cross hairs being where they needed to be, I touched off a
shot. The deer stumbled, sped out of the bog and up a
short hill, dropping at the feet of my youngest son who
was just then cresting the hill.
The eternal question that deer hunters ask after
Opening Day concerns the whereabouts of those bucks
carrying wall-hanging racks as well as their smaller kin.
We see them in summer and early autumn. Some of us are
fortunate enough to watch the progress of antler growth
from early nubbins in May through the soft velvet of
summer and on into the hardened adornment of September. We
anticipate Opening Day, whether it be for bow or gun,
under the impression that we’ve found the secret, the holy
grail of monster buck territory and we plot the strategy
which will put those massive beams on our wall.
Alas! Opening Day arrives and for one reason or another
the wall hanger never appears. It seems as if they have
been swallowed by the very bowels of the earth. What
happened?
It is stock deer hunting lore that these trophies slink
into the thickest, densest cover areas at the first sign
of pre-dawn hunter activity. These impenetrable whitetail
havens are described variously as, "Thick cedar swamps
crisscrossed with years of dead falls", or "a mass of
brambles and brush that only a Sherman tank could
penetrate." It is even suggested that these areas still
hold the ghosts of unknowing hunters who attempted to ply
their secret recesses and got lost in the attempt, never
to return.
Then there are the vast stretches of clear-cut aspen
patches, whose new growth presents a veritable walled
citadel, keeping hunters out. There are of course huge
conifer plantations, where a green curtain drops and
prevents prying eyes and stout legs from delving their
secret cache of big bucks. It is from within these
vegetative mazes that deer of all sorts, bucks included,
especially the big boys, smile and laugh at our futile
attempts to get a good look at them.
Standard
Deer Lore about Big Bucks and another Side to the Story
I hunt a local swamp that consists mainly of larch, and
black spruce. Bowhunting in there is out of the question
because of the near impossibility of finding an arrow hit
deer that may go fifty or more yards. In most of this
cover a deer could be lying dead within six feet and the
hunter still would not see it. Indeed, rifle shot bucks
that run mere yards take careful and thoughtful tracking
in order to be found.
To get to my stand I choose to canoe across the bay of
a bordering lake rather than trudge through the mass of
vegetation. Tracking a deer in there without a compass is
not wise, unless the ground is snow covered. That is, when
you can find the ground.
Indeed I’ve taken many bucks from this swamp during
rifle season and had shots at two that carried very nice
racks. One I missed due to my own carelessness and the
other I passed up because I had already harvested a buck
sporting, larger antlers. As for seeing a steady stream of
big bucks in that swamp, I can’t say that I have. They are
there, but are virtually unhuntable.
Where then can a hunter, who hopes to tag a trophy
whitetail, go in hopes of success? Finding the deer is one
thing; getting a decent shot is quite another.
Let me tell you a bit of a secret. In the northern tier
of states there are such locales. The strategy calls for
still hunting, but not at a glacial pace as is usually
described in deer hunting literature. "If ya cover 100
yards in an hour yur movin’ too fast, son. Yur huntin’
whitetails, not racin’ ‘em." Such is the accepted wisdom
and for the most part it is correct.
Getting
Bogged Down
I hunt my favorite still hunting spot not more than
three times a season and never with snow on the ground.
For some reason snow cover keeps the deer out of this
particular bailiwick. I am able to walk/stalk upright and
have a clear field of vision for hundreds of yards if I so
choose. In this most productive and huntable terrain I am
never taunted and torn by briars, thorns, masses of
intertangled branches, or other such nuisances. As a
matter of fact I find a pair of binoculars and a shooting
rest to be of value.
Where is this unlikely deer heaven you ask? What I
describe is hunting in naturally occurring
blueberry/huckleberry bogs. These glacially created
depression are found in many areas within the northern
tier of states. Deer favor them because they offer
security.
How can a deer hide and yet feel comfortable in an area
where the only vegetation, other than surrounding tag
alders and low willow along the edge giving way to
conifers and hardwoods of the bordering uplands, are
blueberry and huckleberry bushes growing on and between
innumerable mounds of sphagnum moss? The fact is deer do
find security in such places. They lie in the low areas
between the mounds and blueberries with the wind at their
back and use their eyes and ears to locate danger from the
downwind side.
My sons and I have hunted a nearby bog for several
years, have taken bucks of every size and have seen even
larger ones than those we have harvested. Without
exception, the deer, does and fawns included, bed in the
bog within twenty yards of the edge. They face out towards
the center and use the wind to cover their back. They
depend more on their sense of smell than they do sight.
Odor differentiation always takes priority in the world of
the whitetail.
I first discovered this honey-hole while grouse hunting
along the edge of the bog about fifteen years ago. In
several areas I noticed buck rubbed aspen saplings.
Looking out over the low growing vegetation of the bog I
dismissed it as an area that would hold deer. A well used
runway crossed the low lying land from east to west about
a third of the way across, but this only indicated a route
from one piece of cover to another, or so I thought..
Every year I hunted along the bog and noticed buck
rubs. It wasn’t until the evidence became overwhelming in
the form of several areas of freshly rubbed trees right
next to the bog that the idea struck me. The area needed
to be hunted. Even then the full importance of the bog
escaped me. My idea was to conduct a deer drive in the
cut-over aspen on the east side of the blueberry bog as a
possible escape route.
Our bog is oval shaped with a width of about 200 yards
and a length of nearly 1/4 mile. The south and north end
both have an area of slightly higher land upon which pines
and other trees grow. We call them "the islands". Each is
less than an acre in size, and sit out in the bog. It was
during the summer that I cut a lane which would afford me
quiet access to the eastern side of the north island where
I planned to put a stander to cover the bog during a drive
of the cut-over aspen. In those days my boys and I did a
bit of deer driving, especially on Thanksgiving when
brother-in-law, Roy, would bring his family up for a
visit. Neither he nor his son hunted, but they enjoyed
walking the woods in a deer drive.
On that day of discovery we had hunted in the morning
and one son and I scored on the first drive. After taking
the deer to the house and hanging them in the garage, we
looked for new worlds to conquer. We lay plans to drive
the aspen cut on the east side of the bog out back. I was
to stand at the edge of the north island to intercept any
westward bound deer that exited the aspen stand. One son
covered the back door in case a deer went that way and
another stood at the edge of a field. The wind was from
the NNE and my chosen spot was at the northeast corner of
the bog.
I took the long route to my stand on the north island
so as not to spook any bedded deer. Coming across the
field to my recently cut lane I found that the wind was
perfect. My scent was not going out into aspens. Walking
carefully, as if still hunting, I followed the path to the
southeast edge of the island.
All was ready and in place. I looked out over a small
cove in the bog to the cut over aspen. The distance across
the blueberries to the far edge at this point was about
fifty yards. The view was unimpeded above the three foot
height of the short bushes.
The drivers commenced their trek through the aspen at
the pre-determined time. Slowly they progressed through
the 1/4 mile of cut-over. After several minutes I could
see my brother-in-law and his youngest son moving inside
the aspen about ten yards from the bog. No deer had yet
appeared and it looked like a dry run.
Roy was moving closer, being about 100 yards from me
when the buck described in the opening of the story, made
his appearance. The buck bedded again, but his antlers
could be seen above the blueberries. He was getting
nervous because of Roy’s approach through the aspens.
My gun was ready for the inevitable jump and bound out
of his bed in the blueberries. Indeed, the deer careened
into the air and began his escape into the wind to the
open field. My rifle, a Remington 742 autoloader in .308
caliber with a Leupold variable scope sprang to my
shoulder in a well rehearsed move. The deer was in the
scope and I touched off a shot. The buck shuddered, but
continued out of the bog, through the narrow border of
trees and brush and out into the field.
My youngest son Andrew, who was not yet old enough to
hunt, had been recruited to drive and was out in the field
after emerging from the aspens. He was at the brink of a
slope that lead towards the bog. The buck, now out in the
open, raced up the hill toward Andrew. Later on he
described his surprise and wide open eyes as the deer
bounded his way. The buck, hit fatally by my shot, dropped
and lay not ten yards from his feet.
The buck dressed out at 135 lbs. and carried eight
points with a 14 inch spread.
This was not a trophy deer, by any means, and certainly
not one for the taxidermist, but its harvest had taught a
valuable lesson. Bucks did use the bog itself as a bedding
area and a hunter could get close to them for a decent
shot.
Three of my
most memorable deer hunts took place in this bog
One sunny and warm day during deer season, a north wind
called for a bog stalk. Beginning at the southern end I
worked my way northwards toward the island mentioned
above. Moving slowly through the mounded blueberries
shrubs, I crisscrossed toward likely looking "cover"
within the bog. Something caught my eye near the north
island. Paying no attention to the thought, I continued on
for a few more steps. Realizing that what I saw just
didn’t belong where it was, I took a more focused look.
Laying down, with his head held high above the brush, was
a hugely antlered whitetail buck. He was over 200 yards
away and all I could see was his head and wide, massive
beams.
A quick look through the scope confirmed what my
unaided eyes saw. A huge buck was bedded at the edge of
the north island. He was using the wind to cover his
backside and looking southward over the expanse of low
growing blueberries. There was nothing to use as a rest
for my rifle. Thoughts of a low, slow stalk through the
mounds of sphagnum moss and blueberry shrubs crossed my
mind. It was at this point that a truck drove along the
northwest edge of the bog on a little used farm two-track
trail. The driver/hunter was oblivious to the presence of
the deer as well as my plight in trying to get a bit
closer and find a shooting rest for my trusty Remington
autoloader.
The deer, obviously getting nervous as the scent of
this unwanted intruder reached his nostrils, bounded up
and headed west. His exit was successful. The driver of
the truck never knew the deer existed.
During the 1992 season there was no snow and a
southwest wind enticed me to still hunt the western edge
of the bog from north to south. Hugging the alder growth,
and walking through the blueberries, I moved at a slow,
but steady pace. About half way through the stalk a doe
and twin fawns bounded up in front of me and scurried into
the heavier alder cover and off into a large block of
pines. Those deer had made their escape while I was about
fifty yards away. Does and fawns had never held as tightly
as bucks and once again this point was proven. I chuckled
at the sight of the deer as they made their exit and
headed west.
Continuing along, I approached the magic southwest
corner. Experience, that steady, but capricious teacher,
had taught me that if there was a buck in the bog I was
getting close. I slowed my pace and became alert to all
that lay in front of me. I knew that any buck laying among
the brambles would jump in a quick start.
Stopping with every other step, I was ready. A large
deer, sporting high, wide antlers exploded from his bed.
He seemed to leap straight up into the air high above the
shrubbery and began his leaping bounds to heavy cover. My
rifle snapped to attention on my shoulder and was firmly
planted. The deer, angling away from left to right, with
his nose into the wind was only a few yards from the
taller alders and willows when my rifle cracked. The deer
tumbled immediately with a well placed shot. He did not
move.
The antlers had excellent mass with an inside spread of
almost 18 inches. They sported 9 tall points and only the
short brow tines kept the set from scoring much higher.
The head now adorns our living room wall.
Two years ago a southeast wind called for a stalk to
that corner of the bog.
This time I crossed the north island and headed for
it’s high land partner to the south. As is usual, nothing
happened as I crossed the open area of the bog. My senses
and alertness heightened as I approached the southern
island and the southeast corner of the bog. Rounding the
eastern end of the island I made my careful stalk towards
the corner, ready to swing into action. The huckleberries
thinned out here, and there was more open ground making
the travel easier and quieter.
Looking ahead I was astonished to see, rising from the
very depths of the bog and behind a mound of blueberry
bramble, a set of tall, wide, well massed antlers. They
were about 35 yards away from where I stood. Shaking my
head and blinking my eyes to clear any fuzziness because I
didn’t believe what I saw, my brain confirmed what my eyes
thought they saw. Never had I been this close to a bedded
trophy whitetail buck.
All I could see were the antlers, no head and certainly
no body. The antlers stood at least eighteen inches above
the short brush.
What to do?
I inched my way about 5 yards closer, but still could
see no deer, except for the antlers.
My mind raced with thoughts concerning a course of
action. Should I try to move closer and to the left or
right in order to see around the mounded bog earth? What
if I tried to wait him out a bit longer? I decided to try
to put a bullet through the thin brush below the base of
the antlers hoping to take the deer in the neck. If I
missed and he bounded up and away I would have another
shot. "Yes", I thought, that’s what I’ll do.
Raising my rifle I put the cross-hairs below the
antlers at a point where I thought his neck should be. My
index finger did its slow squeeze until, "click". The
sound told me of my failure to bolt a shell into the
chamber. I was holding an empty rifle. "Damn!" I thought.
The buck remained motionless in front of me.
Quickly and carefully I worked the autoloader’s bolt to
chamber a round of 150 grain .308 Remington Corelock. The
buck’s only reaction to the noise was a quick left and
right movement of the antlers. He remained rooted to his
bed.
Again raising the rifle the cross-hairs quickly found
the desired spot and I squeezed the trigger. The buck
bolted straight up at the shot and bounded directly away
from me heading for the safety of the nearby brushy edge
of the bog. This was what I call a "grouse shot", an easy
one. The cross-hairs found the back of the buck’s neck and
I squeezed. The rifle’s report was loud and echoing in the
lowland. Unfortunately, just as I pulled the trigger the
huge deer moved to his right. It was a clean miss. In an
instant the deer was in the thick edge cover of willows
and tag alders and bounding away.
He stopped momentarily in the aspens about a hundred
yards away, his vitals covered by trees. Following his
easily found tracks in the soft soil, my heart sank as I
found no signs of a hit. Trailing him to the spot where he
stopped and about two hundred yards further and finding no
signs of a wound confirmed my fears. I had missed him
cleanly. Actually, a clean miss is far better than any
type of nonfatal wound.
I was, of course, disappointed, but I also learned.
What I should have done was to make a deep, guttural grunt
with my mouth. This might have caused the deer to lift
it’s head in order to see what the noise was. With rifle
raised and ready this would have offered a quick, one shot
killing opportunity. But, I didn’t do that. I become one
hell of a hunter with hindsight!
This particular bog adventure didn’t end with a trophy
being harvested, but it has given me many fond memories
and it was a learning experience and I treasure it with
just as much relish as any deer that I have ever shot.
In the intervening years, my sons and I have taken
bucks from this and other bogs, always using the same
still-hunting strategy of walking into the wind within 30
yards of the edge. Each time we have seen deer, they have
been on the windward edge of the bog facing downwind with
the breeze covering their backside. They are there and are
very approachable.
The next time that, in your outdoor activity, you come
upon a wide open, treeless bog, don’t dismiss it as a
veritable desert for deer. Look upon the discovery as an
excellent opportunity for a very different deer hunting
adventure. Indeed bog bucks, and some real trophies,
frequent these lowland remnants of ancient ponds and
lakes.
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