AN OLD BUCK RUBSunday, noon. It was another very quiet morning in the woods. I moved slowly through the woods all morning, not being able to sit any longer after yesterday, walking a way and then sitting or standing for twenty minutes, but saw nothing except one lively chipmunk and one raucous pileated woodpecker. Otherwise not even a curious chickadee, or a crow on the wing. The barometer, now rising, has been down for days and I think everything has been anticipating a change in the weather. I heard not a shot. One acquaintance on Hwy J, who hunts with a big crew, usually has three or four deer hanging by now, but his hanging rack is empty. On the other hand, Don Knoke up the street and his two sons have a spike buck and an eight pointer hanging. I will help Joan with some housework to keep the peace, and go out again for the hour before dark.
The buck rub on the shrub willow is old, probably from last year. Where is that buck?
Later: went out to sit on the old logging road that goes down to my stand, hoping a deer would cross it late in the day and I could get a shot. I have seldom seen the woods so quiet, not a sound, only the sound of the blood coursing through my veins. Not a peep out of the omnipresent coyotes that inevitably yip and howl at dusk. I believe we have a huge storm brewing, and nothing is moving out of heavy cover. Now, maybe it won't materialize, but I really believe all the animals and birds have taken shelter until either we have that storm, or the barometer rises quickly to a new high.
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