The day before deer season, I wrestled my climbing stand though the woods to the tree I had picked a few weeks earlier. I thought it prudent to climb the tree and see if any limbs needed clearing before opening morning. I clanked my way up the tree and looked around. My eyes instantly fell onto a distant ridge. In my mind, angels strummed harps and sang ethereal songs. Just look at that ridge! How could I have missed it?
Even from a quarter-mile away, I knew the ridge was my destiny. The strip of aspens created a natural runway, and I was sure if I sat there, I would kill a buck.
It was an unusual opening morning. I did my due diligence and sat in my pre-selected tree, but all I could think about was that ridge. I decided to stick it out in my opening morning spot until noon before I moved. But I only made it to 11.
At midday, I climbed down and set a course for the ridge. Easier said than done. I had already fought my way along a creek, scampered up a steep hill on hands and knees at times, then bushwhacked through a fortress of trees and brush more impenetrable than Fort Knox. And all while wearing a climbing tree stand on my back. Moving through the woods with that stand was like trying to swim through a net. Every low-hanging branch grabbed the stand and spun me around. And the bungee cord designed to hold the seat back against the trunk snagged every possible vine and bramble, going taut, and at times, snapping back at me. By the time I had made it the half-mile to the original stand site, I was cut up, dripping sweat and reeking so badly any deer that didn’t flee at the sound of clanking aluminum had certainly at least winded my stench. In my mind, I envisioned the tree stand manufacturer coming out with its latest model, then going on an expensive hunt to “field test” it. I suspected the hunter walked down a manicured trail leading to a food plot, never passing within 20 feet of a single limb until strapping the stand to a tree. After hunting from the perfectly de-limbed tree and shooting a monster buck, the company declared the stand a success and brought it to market. I was ready to write the company a scathing letter – no, better yet, I’d send them an invite to hunt in some real woods with their new stand! That would teach them!
It was a half-mile from my truck to my opening day tree. And the ridge was another quarter-mile beyond that. After fighting the stand through another quarter-mile of brush and uttering some unmentionable phrases (which also served to scare deer) I finally got set up on the ridge.
My distant vision was correct. It really did look promising, and a lot better than my original spot. I don’t know how I missed it, but this was before Google Earth, smartphones and the like. The only high-tech equipment I carried was a bare-bones GPS with no background map.
It took me two minutes to scale a birch tree. It took me two hours to stop panting from my arduous struggle with the stand through the woods. A thought finally occurred to me: what if I actually shot a deer? Then I’d really have my work cut out for me.
I didn’t see a deer that afternoon. I left the stand at the base of the tree overnight. It was still a long hike to my truck in the dark, but at least I didn’t have to fight my way through the woods with a stand on my back!
The following morning, I did indeed shoot a buck from atop that ridge. I was excited, of course, but I really dreaded the task of removing the stand and now a buck from the woods. I decided to haul out the stand and my hunting gear first and then come back for the deer.
I sighed, shrugged my shoulders and began the agonizing slog back to my truck, through the brush, through the trees, down a hill that was as bad to go down as it was to go up, and then ultimately uphill along the creek. After finally reaching the truck, I huffed and puffed as I rested on my tailgate, utterly exhausted, but with only one trip complete.
There had to be an easier way! And then my mind replayed a sound I thought I’d heard earlier that morning. As I sat in my tree in the dark, waiting for first light, an unusual sound reached my ears.
“Was that a car door?” I thought.
I decided this sound merited further investigation. Where there are car doors, there are roads. I retrieved an atlas from my truck and took a closer look at the area. Indeed there was a road – a faint, lightly maintained road – about a mile south of where my truck was parked. If that road actually existed, it had to be much closer to where my buck was.
I headed south, and lo and behold I found that little road, which was a scant 200 yards from my buck! I felt like an idiot, for sure, but that slamming car door saved me from one heck of a brutal drag through the woods.
