Pine Knot Outdoors: A clearcut rendezvous gone by the wayside

A couple of nagging health issues have kept me out of the whitetail woods and off the newly formed ice. I have to rely on the stories of others or think back to hunts of the past to keep me sane, knowing bucks and bluegills are out cruising.

Some of my earliest hunting memories revolve around my brother Bruce taking me under his wing. We covered a lot of ground chasing grouse and woodcock in the fall, and speedy cottontail and snowshoe rabbits in the winter.

He took me deer hunting just once.

I stared at Bruce’s boots as we worked our way up the logging road. Small puddles gathered in the deep tire tracks left from heavy equipment. Ice formed along their edges, crackling as I tried to sneak around them. Four inches of sticky snow had fallen through the night and into mid-morning.

Breaking out into a fresh clearcut, we wound our way to our destination: a pile of brush and pine boughs piled 15 feet high on the side of a small ridge. It was the perfect impromptu stand to get me off the ground and a little closer to the warmth of the sun.

Bruce held my rifle as I scampered up the brush pile. High atop it, I settled in. It was midday so Bruce planned to make a wide circle penetrating the thick swamps surrounding the clearcut, hoping to bump a deer my way.

I pulled at pine boughs, tucking them under my legs and back until I was completely comfortable. I surveyed the clearcut as Bruce trudged out of sight. My main worry was being able to stay still. It didn’t take long until the wind started to bite at my face. I yanked the collar of my jacket over my mouth and exhaled hot air in a futile attempt to stay warm. I shook. I trembled. This was going to be tough.

Mercifully, the wind subsided and the sun shined high above. Looking to the skies, oranges and reds blazed behind my eyelids from the burning sun. The brush pile came to life with the sound of dripping water as icy brush and logs surrendered to the early afternoon warmth. At age 14, I was pleased I had sat still for almost a full hour.

I envisioned a giant buck galloping from the swamp below, startled from his midafternoon siesta as Bruce entered his bedroom. The buck would slow to a trot, looking back over his shoulder for the perceived threat. My scope would dance along its shoulder, settling in, as I squeezed off a shot.

I continued to scan the clearcut; Bruce’s tracks were the only sign of life. Since the snow had stopped not a single squirrel, rabbit, or deer had crossed the opening. The afternoon had become glorious: bluebird sky, light winds and temps reaching into the 40s. I leaned back into my perch, enjoying the show and encouraged I could make it until Bruce returned.

Breaking free from the thick cover ringing the edge of the clearcut, a massive buck trotted into the open directly in front of me. Water dripped from his underbelly and off his legs as he scampered away from danger and towards my perch. He slowed from a trot to a steady walk.

Looking up, he would have seen a lump of blaze orange 15 feet atop the brush pile. If he looked closely he would have noticed my eyes closed, my head tipped back. If his ears shifted my direction he would have heard me snoring in the afternoon sun. I will never know if he even noticed me. His giant tracks came within 30 yards of me, never disturbing me. And for my part, I hadn’t disturbed his escape.

I was shaken awake by the sound of Bruce yelling. “Did you see him?”

Bruce was slogging back across the clearcut following the newly cut tracks. His wool bibs were covered in ice. He had belly crawled through the thickest cover in the county, wading through knee-deep brackish water to jump the buck from its slumber. He looked down at the clean white snow dotted by brown muck and water where the buck had walked just a stone’s throw away.

I can’t repeat what was said at that moment, but I will tell you the ride home was quiet.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the outdoors.