05-N0V-B-2
THE EVENTS
OF THE THANKSGIVNG HOLIDAY OF 2005, BEGINNING WITH THE
WITH THE
AUKWARD FAMILY, AND THEN A DRIVE TO THE EASTERN SHORE AT TRAPPE FOR TURKEY
DINNER WITH THE SCHAEFER FAMILY
THEN, FROM
TURKEY CHASE TO DEER CHASE
November 24—28, 2005
I scrambled around a few Derwood
details and got the packed car ready for the
I had been at Ashburn working with
Ernie Smith on coding our interviews, and then stopped at Jared’s—an upscale
jeweler to talk about having a special piece craftted in their shop. They told me when I asked them if this were
the season when about forty percent of their annual business took place, the
sales woman looked at me and shook her head—“More like 85%!” she said. I came
back to Derwood to put two rifles in their cases in the Audi and to go to bed
early for an early morning rendezvous with all the Aukwards. I got a call about 10:30 from Virginia who
had received my email sent from the Ashburn computers in the library, saying
she had printed it out and read it on the plane from Kansas City to which she
had driven for the cheaper non-stop flight to Orlando where the whole Croskery
clan is rendezvousing for the Thanksgiving holiday in the time share nearby
Orlando, which is up form Tampa where her parents had gone to be with Rob who
is stationed there on active duty. His
wife Mindy is trying to keep the law practice together as he is deployed, and
it was Mindy (Melinda) who had sent me a note regarding her friend Eileen, a
retired nurse who would be interested in going on a medical mission.
Early in the pre-dawn I got out in
a surprise---snow! It had snowed and
drifted overnight, but at 5:00 AM it was 41* so it would not last. At the time I got to the all-Aukward family
fun run at the Turkey Chase, it was melting, and then began a light
drizzle. I had gathered Joe who went
with me to the registration where I did my packet pickup and he registered
three of the two mile runners---Betty, Maria and Joseph, whereas he would run
without a tag and there need be no tag for four year old Michelle. His niece would also be running –her first
ten K so I was the one commissioned to guide her in the race. I took off with her and ran backwards a few
times to keep her within range, although she fell away at the hills, urging me
to go ahead. The big news is that all
the family made it! Even little Michelle
actually ran all 2 miles on her own feet!
I had given out the tethers for the links between me and Joe and one of
them was done between Maria and Joseph; his niece finished in about 58:00 and I
made it in at about 53: 20. We had previously
got the turkey started at his house, but I had to take a pass at this holiday
since another feast was awaiting across the
I pulled out the stuff I had carried to the Eastern Shore for our traditional opening day deer hunts and called back to Orlando where Virginia was meeting with the whole family, concerned about her niece Robin, Rick’s daughter, who is a wannabe ballet dancer, but needs to be exposed to the real world to make a realistic plan for her life, Virginia had once asked me to take her to Haiti, but now thought that if she talked with both Rick and the local Church they attend in Charlotte NC, it might be possible to have Robin accompany me to Rwanda, a possible transformational experience for her as it has so many others. I am gong to have to tuck into the leftover ELDP work upon my return to Derwood but for the next four days I am a whitetail and Sika deer hunter with abundant freezer capacity to fill and one space on the wall to await the last of my Eastern Shore trophies, at least as far as deer are concerned.
“BLACK
FRIDAY” AFTER THANKSGIVING:
THE “COMBAT
SHOPPING DAY” FOR SOME,
AND A
“SCOUTING DAY” FOR ME,
AS WE
PREPARE FOR THE DEER HUNTS OF 2005
I went with Craig to Blackwater Refuge and the small overgrown patch of twelve acres with ramshackle abandoned buildings falling down around which Craig had scattered shelled corn. There is a small burial plot ahead of the flooded road, with the family name Wroten on it, with the burial vaults on top of the flooded non-perking marshy ground, with two small burial vaults toped by two little lambs—few month-old children. Next to it is an exposed and cracked open cement vault, exposing a lead casket of a twenty four year old young man who was killed in WW II. There are a couple of other vaults with dates ranging from 1874 to 1975. As we stood there on the property that a senior nurse at Dorchester General named Norma Howell had allowed Craig to hunt when he talked of our interest in hunting Sika deer, up drove the very crotchety bearded neighbor she had warned us about who has a right of way through the flood plain of her property. He was riding his golf cart with the corn he was using to bait Sika deer in a tree stand adjacent to where we would be—fifty yards away from his elevated blind. He asked angrily, “With whose permission?” We answered with the land owner's name, and he said “Humph!” Do you know where the property boundaries are?” Yes—Craig told him where they are on the plot we had. So, we have met the crotchety fellow who is going to be troubles for us, but there is nothing he can do about our legitimate hunt.
We went to the new Gander Mountain
store in Salisbury where I bought a couple of air line gun cases on sale, and
hen a box of the .340 Weatherby ammo, and a folding chair for the blind we will
put up in two days. We then went to
visit
OPENING DAY OF MD DEER HUNTING IN
THE GUY’S FEAST DAY TO FOLLOW THE
THANKSGIVING TRADITIONS AND TO WAIT OUT THE WHITETAIL DEER
We mobilized form Trappe MD to make it an hour and fifteen minutes down to Princess Anne to arrive at Bill Webster’s farm an hour before sunrise. Bill had been scurrying around doing the last minute arrangements for his feast at late brunch. He had put on a great steak and egg fest last year and this year in a well-gussied up garage adjacent to his “Outdoor club” room still in the making was not to be second to that good event. Bill is already planning the next year’s feast on opening day of deer season and that will be a roast suckling pig. I will fill you in as we were filled up (for a second feast this week) after we came in on schedule form our deployment to the various tree stands Bill has distributed around the farm.
I sat in
the tree thinking, as I always do, about the events year-to-date each year at
this milestone point where after a lot of bustle, I am alone with the natural
world and my aging gracefully or not through it. It is always the day after a feast and a 10 K
race, so I can stretch and digest, and keep a sharp lookout for deer, as I
watch the other events unfold round me, as geese fly form water overnight
roosts to fields for plucking grain, as owls call the last of the night,
pileated woodpeckers begin hammering on dead wood, and occasional sightings of
anything from fox to eagles to turkeys—all and always unexpected when it
happens. The squirrels came out in
waves, for a half hour of very noisy tramping through the leaf litter making
approximately ten times the nose that a deer 100 times their size would make
covering the same wet ground. It was
cold. If I had not got the 2,000 gram
insulated rubber boots between last year’s experience and this year, I would
have been driven off the stand by the cold and numb feet as I was last
year. But, I toughed it out and looked
around in the flooded woods to see evidence of any deer. None.
I saw a flutter of beech leaves seem to drop on their own cue, with no
stirring of wind, as though their time had some, and it sounded like rain
hitting the leaf litter all brown and orange now on the ground with occasional
glints of the puddles of the non-perking marshy
We came
together with Bill’s series of guests also without a shot fired among the group. But, we were not unhappy, we had a god time
as if we were back in the clubhouse of the wildlife
I watched the waves of squirrels come out in their own designated fifteen minute feeding intervals. These are big wary fox squirrels, and Bill had said they could be targets of a hunt some day. He has a rifle which is a new device, somewhat replacing the smallest riddle that almost everyone knows—the .22 caliber rimfire, like mine. This new one is a .17 caliber, a tiny needle like bullet that travels at supersonic speed so it would be a good rifle for plinking squirrels. I carried it out to the stand and watched as squirrels would jump out of sight if I raised the rifle, but I could aim where they would eventually be, and let them walk on over into the range of the scope. But, I never loaded the chamber. I kept telling myself that I was deer hunting still and would remain doing so, with no intent of making noise to disturb that chance, which through the darkening moments of the twilight bewitching hour would remain sterile in even good deer country. So, I held out, and watched.
I heard something behind me on the other side of the tree in which I was sitting. I turned around the tree and saw a glimpse of grey fur back in the flooded forest which has a swampy footing which I had heard splash as the deer walked through it. I chambered around in my tack-driving .270, the ultimate deer rifle for most purposes around here, although the 30/30 would be the classic for close in heavily wooded or brushy areas. I had packed both along, but had reserved the latter for the next day’s Sika deer hunt. I listened and waited, figuring I could shoot at the 100+ yard distance through the brushy woods any time I saw a clear target, but the deer moved in an out of view. I then heard a noise coming from a different place than the deer I had seen, and it kept making splashing sounds, even when the deer I had seen had stopped. It was four thirty PM and I knew I had about fifteen minutes of shooting light. I made a decision. I would try for both or neither of the deer; I would wait until I could see both at once, even though I still had not seen the second and had only interment views of the first through the gaps in the brush as trees obscured it form me. I looked through the scope with one eye at the source of the sound, while keeping the other deer in the general view of the eye above the scope. It got a bit blurry trying to track independent targets. I thought I would wait another five minutes, since the first deer seemed to be ambling in my direction, and soon would be with a leafy backdrop over some standing water as contrast. I then saw the second deer and lost sight of the first. I followed the second deer through the scope as they seemed to be going in roughly the same direction, figuring I would take one when it was clear that the other would be entering a visible backdrop area. I waited patiently, knowing there was no urgency, and I would get neither or both if I played for the dwindling light to the end of the day’s shoot.
The first
deer re-appeared and stopped just short of the leaf litter, but with a keyhole
of space between us, so that if I moved around to the other side of the tree
trunk in which I was standing, I could align the keyhole with the junction of
the neck and forequarter. As I did so, I
could see the second deer only as a dim grey shadow behind the brush about
fifty yards behind the first. The .270
made up the decision and timing for both.
With the crosshairs on the specific target of the first deer, the .270
barked and the first deer dropped. The
second did not run, but raised its head above the dark shadows of the brush and
the crosshairs settled on the neck after I had jacked in a second round, which
I sent on its way. Both deer ever knew what had happened, and both had
neurologic shots without any contamination of any tender venison. They had gone form deer walking stealthily
through the deep cover of flooded woods to field dressed hanging venison in
five and a half minutes. I climbed back
into the tree, to collect my hunting kit and checked to see there was no more
light in the deep woods with which to try to see to shoot. At that moment I heard a shot that came from
the deeply wooded area of forest at Bill Webster’s stand. I got down and dragged the first deer through
the leaf litter to the field with only moonlight as my guide, leaving the .270
rifle and Zeiss binoculars there, and I
returned to haul out the second one with my makeshift drag line with the
parachute cord I had in my game coat back game bag pocket. I arrived at the field as David and Craig
arrived, and Bill Webster came in with the tractor and bush hog attachment
which would accommodate both deer. He
had shot a doe and floated the deer through the water without field dressing,
so my dressed deer were ready for hanging as I field dressed Bill’s deer on the
hook at the barn. We had three deer
cleaned and hanging in the 31* outside temperature, as we packed up to return
to Trappe MD. Bill will do some chores
tomorrow as we go to the small plot in
So, we set no records, except for extending our ability to be patient, but did collect three deer on opening day to start filling up the vacant freezer capacity as well as the requests on the parts of a half dozen people for fresh venison . We were not trophy hunting, (although we would consider any Sika deer—a new species for us—as a trophy of the one remaining wall space in Derwood’s Game Room—and the real purpose of our day afield is to enjoy the setting, the pileated woodpeckers, the endurance for the cold and immobile perch in which we sit, entertaining ourselves with what ever mind games we carry with us, and the camaraderie of the male bonding feast of the hunt brunch. It was a good opening day, and at the last minute, even concluded with three shots, each of which connected where they were supposed to!
SIKA DEER HUNT IN THE MARSHY HOOPER’S
OVERGROWN TUMBLEDOWN FARM BUILDINGS OF
THE
DEFUNCT “WROTEN FAMILY” PLACE
We got in early and felt our way though the dark to sit in second growth in marshy non-perking lands adjacent to the tumbledown shacks of someone’s past. A “Color TV” was sitting in one roofless room, with a sofa with its springs scattered and the head and foot of a bed pushed against rusted out appliances. There must be thousands of such abandoned farms in this area of the world. This derelict property was sold to a nurse administrator at Dorchester General to “flip” the insurance claim for the homestead she had before the hurricane destroyed it and the plot which is now all under water. I sat next to a surviving set of wagon wheels, with nothing left of the wagon. It is actually picturesque. Craig was on the left of me sitting on a folding stool we had got at Gander Mountain yesterday, as a noisy pack of Sika deer had splashed and pushed through the flooded brush and marsh to his left, with the deer whistling and bugling to each other like the Rocky Mountain elk they resemble, if one tenth their size. This all happened before sunup so we did not see them, but only heard them. We also saw pileated woodpeckers and bald eagles and a lot of marshy wetland wonders, but no deer.
We have returned for the interval lunch and regrouping, as David goes back to Towson to be ready for school and work, as Craig and I make plans for a return to the small plot and one more attempt to see Sika deer before deciding whether to hunt whitetails with Bill Webster tomorrow or a return go at the Sika deer, which are a rather local unique trophy in Dorchester County. I will “keep you in the loop.”
A RAPID CLIMB IN TEMPERATURE,
FROM SHIVERING TO SWATTING MOSQUITOS
I saw no Sika deer, either last night or this morning’ but, I did hear them! They chirp and whistle like elk, and are quite vocal as they maneuvered through the thick darkness of a moonless night and the heavy marsh swamp and the flying horde of mosquitoes that have stayed down when the temperature was forty degrees colder. But, I would not want to be sitting in the middle of the BlackWater Marsh in mid summer lest I would be exsanguinated by mosquitoes. I had a chance to experience the shivering of opening morning and the 31* temperature changing in the course of 24 hours to 71* and mosquito hordes.
I also turned bird watcher. As we left the Blackwater area, we stopped to admire a large mature bald eagle in a tree and I took pictures of the big bird flying away.
When we went to Bill Webster’s and had a chance to look over the adjacent farm which he has leased but has not yet been hunted, we saw five eagles as we came in and I also took pictures of another four as we left. They are almost more numerous than the ospreys which seem to be replaced by them. The once endangered American Bald Eagle is a very common sighting here and I have a dozen pictures of a half dozen individuals.
These activities let you know that I saw things other than deer today, either Sika deer or whitetails, quite probably since we are experiencing this very odd winter heat wave which will probably dissolve in rainstorm coming soon. I will see what it is that happens tomorrow, when we try again to see Sika deer in the early morning and then go down towards Somerset County and try a new place fore the whitetails which are probably hiding out during the unusual heat wave.
AMAZING!
IF CALLED HUNTING, IT IS TOO BALMY;
IF CALLED “BIRD WATCHING” IT IS
ASTOUNDING!
OK—if it is one kind of bottom line you need, in the last 56 hours I shot no deer—in fact, saw no deer. Since I am deer hunting, this should rank as a lack of success. However, when doing something other than the designated title of what I have been doing, other things might pop up in the unexpected categories, among the long and fallow periods of watchful waiting in which “nothing is happening.”
We started
yesterday early by sitting again at the mosquito-swarming area adjacent to
Backwater Refuge, where we heard Sika deer again in the pre-dawn blackness, but
found nothing when it was light enough to see, except for a horde of mosquitoes
that have left my hands and face (the only exposed parts) puffed up and
itching. I had worn my woolen hunting
outfits just to give a longer distance than the mosquito proboscis and still I
had to keep my gloved hand in front of my face to swat the annoying flying
pesky things form my eyes. I have not
had an experience of a forty to fifty degree change in the hunt from the
shivering on opening morning, to the 71* and muggy conditions of our hunt when
sitting in a swamp is not a paradise for people. It might be this way most of
the year, in Blackwater, which is in the heart of
I have been advancing one day at a time trying to figure out when I am supposed to be responding to voice mails and when to the conference calls our ELDP group will need to finish off a large project while I have done nothing on two papers which will need me to work overtime on return to get caught up before ten days away when I will need to be in the ELDP. I have hoped to hunt as much as possible, figuring I could rec3eive a few emails in the interval. I had not turned off the mail in either place, and will try to catch up when ever I go back, but this is a unique opportunity, since Craig had taken the week off, and Bill Webster is retired and eager to hunt with us—so where else would I want to be? I had shot the only two deer I had seen and I had them in my sights after a long wait followed by even longer waiting in fallow good deer country, probably disturbed form the heavy deer infestation by the unusual weather pattern. So, I am seeing a few new places, and an amazing sight or two has popped into view.
For yesterday, both Craig and I got up from our respective stands and walked around the swamp of the Blackwater extension and gave up on the hunt. We then took back roads around the area of Blackwater seeing areas that had Indian names, including one which was a Waimash Long House, with no presently extant Indians around to claim it.
One of the bits of folklore in Dorchester
County is the “Underground Railroad,” terminus of a number of slaves form the
south who were escaping to the North in entering this area. Principle among these names is that of
Harriet Tubman, who is a legend except that all I know are the two words
“Underground Railroad” and what part she had to play in it is a bit misty in
historic terms. Her house is out h ere
in the edge of the
So,
apparently there is some active demythologizing going on here in the marshes of
We drove up
to the Route 50 intersection and then went around
We sat in the trees at Bill Webster’s farm after a quick tour of a nearby farm he had leased for Glenn Marshal to hunt on it—but Glenn, having been released from the “McCready Hospital"—the name of the tiny facility here in Somerset which is in danger of closing—has not hunted there, although he had invited friends to come to hunt Bill’s lease. We drove into this awesome huge farm with abundant thinned out woodlots with large corridors of cut trees to eliminate the hardwoods (no market for them) to help the pines grow (for pulp production) It is an almost ideal “Hunt Club” with abundant cover and food plots adjacent to thousand acres of corn fields cut over. As soon as we entered we saw them. And lots of them
Eagles. American Bald Eagles—white headed mature birds and fledgling and immature individuals. They were wary, since when we stopped to photography them perched as many as two or three in a tree, they would spread there wide wings and fly off. Three years ago I had hunted with Bill and we had seen the stunned buck at the road side which had probably been hit by a car. We stopped to photograph it and then Bill had asked the farmer what he had wanted down with it. “It is another long legged rat with a mouth to feed” he said, so Bill had shot it. WE then were going to get it to the nearby 80-year old farmer whom Bill knows and we went to his barn and asked if he wanted a deer. He declined, saying “There weren’t but five in this barn hangin now!” But, I could not wait to tell him the news of what we had spotted. There are two bald eagles in your tree over b y the fence row. He looked interested, and went to get his cane and hobbled over to look at the tree I pointed out. “There weren’t but 42 there last week!”
I figured
then that this is the sort of hyperbole one is entitled to at age 80+ and we
have joked about how high he could count in recounting this story
subsequently. I certainly owe him an apology
after today—but not before yesterday. As
we drove around to see the two tree stands Bill was going to point out to us,
we flushed two and three eagles at a time, and I counted up toe a dozen both
mature and immature. I have not seen as
many eagle sin one visual sweep in
We went back to sit in the trees at Bill Webster’s farm and saw—nothing except squirrels moving. We went out to try the new place, and I thought I was in a nearly ideal spot, but saw no deer, just a pileated woodpecker directly over my head. At 4:457 PM I heard a single shot form Craig’s direction and a spike buck had walked out in the cornfield in the last minutes of shooting light and he had plugged it. Good! Now we are up to four deer for the season, having seen only four and each of these are hanging in the meat locker. We packed it back to dress it out, and then had dinner in the seafood place in Princess Anne that had furnished Bill the Steamed Oyster feast on opening day of Chincoteague Oysters. We drove to the meat packer and put in the new spike buck along with the other three we have there, and came back in the rain to visit a while with Bill and to tip a glass of the Forty-Five year old Courvoisier I had discovered in the Dark Room at Derwood, and Craig and I went to the Princess Anne motel to be closer for an early morning start on the same place we had seen at evening to have a chance at deer. We did not see a deer---what we saw was more amazing by far.
HUNDREDS OF EAGLES!
The
American Bald Eagle! You know---the
endangered species? The official word is
that there are four nesting pairs in all of