Pine Knot Outdoors: Making time for outdoor pursuits can pay off

Sometimes you can’t wait for perfect, you just have to jump in. A week-long vacation in Canada slamming walleyes? Sounds nice. Two weeks bow hunting elk in Montana. Sign me up.

When I’m retired.

Most of us are under varying degrees of a time crunch. Jobs, families, finances, responsibilities all take up large chunks of our time, as they should. When it comes to the outdoors, it’s not about having the time, it’s about making the time. The night I got a crack at my biggest buck is a prime example.

I’m not a big fan of daylight-saving time. Each year it crunches the little time I have after school and before legal shooting hours end. I need to run home after school to grab my hunting stuff and try to race to one of my spots, oftentimes leaving me less than a half-hour of actual hunting time. Certainly, it’s tempting just to wait for better odds. Sometimes you take what you can get.

I pulled into my driveway as the clock flipped over to 4 p.m. Sundown was 4:24 p.m. A half-hour after that, legal shooting hours would come to an end. I was back out the door within five minutes. Gun case, knife, calls and clothes piled high in the backseat. No time for a scent-free shower, I pulled my hunting bibs and jacket over my teaching clothes as I walked towards my hunting spot. Walking at a brisk pace, sweat poured from under my stocking cap as I fumbled through the oversized pockets of my blaze orange vest. I pulled a small Ziploc bag and worked to free its contents. A small bottle of Tinks 69 doe-in-estrous clanked to the ground in the stillness of the evening. I quickly scooped it up and poured some of its magic elixir on a nearby branch. I plopped down on the ground and settled in for the short-haul. I checked my watch: 4:31. Twenty-three minutes for a deer to show itself.

I scanned my surroundings and immediately detected blaze orange working its way along the trail I had just walked on. I jumped to my feet and worked my way back to the hunter. It turned out to be an old neighbor of mine who apparently wanted to chat. We stood side-by-side for a couple of minutes catching up before I convinced him we should at least sit down and keep our eyes peeled. We settled in shoulder-to-shoulder. Again I checked the time, eight minutes until I would have to pack it up.

In desperation, I decided I needed to try and make something happen. I reached into my vest and pulled out my grunt tube. I laid into it hard and heavy. I released into the wild a loud and steady challenge grunt. As I tucked it back into my vest, a sound I will never forget resonated from the swamp below. A sound I’ve never heard before, nor since, flooded the woods. The buck that answered was mad. Period. Anyone or anything within earshot cowered. For six or seven seconds he let rip the deepest and longest whitetail vocalization I’ve ever heard. Pure violence. He charged from the safety of the swamp appearing in a rage. His antlers dug at the ground throwing grass skyward. His massive body bristled as he searched desperately for the buck that dared challenge his supremacy.

Some have lamented hunting is hours of boredom and monotony punctuated by seconds of pure adrenaline. From the time I tucked my grunt tube into my vest until my crosshairs were on the buck, less than 15 seconds had ticked by. My heart raced. My scope confirmed antlers well outside of his ears as my crosshairs danced around his shoulder, settling in on their mark. A shot rang out.

I popped up from my seated position and hurriedly covered the 100 yards between us. I couldn’t wait to wrap my hands around his antlers. I counted and recounted his tines. Each time reaching the same number. My adrenaline kicked in. I shook like a kid on Christmas morning. A 17-point buck, my 17-point buck, would take the ride home in the back of my truck.

I probably should have stayed home. I probably should have waited for a better morning or evening to hit the woods. But the truth is, you never know. Sometimes carving out eight minutes of hunting time can produce a memory that lasts a lifetime.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures our region has to offer.