Pine Knot Outdoors: Mirage

When I slow down, staring out the window late at night, it eats at me. It pulls at me. It bothers me, but I try to ignore it. Thirty years I’ve hunted whitetails. Not this year. It began in September. I could barely walk, and pulling back my bow was an exercise in frustration. It ramped up during rifle season. I knew I could sit for a while, but dragging and processing a deer would prove difficult, if not impossible. I waited. Each week I hoped the next weekend would find me healthy enough to spend a day in the whitetail woods. I seriously contemplated heading to Wisconsin for their rifle season, then Snowmageddon hit. And then time just ran out. Almost.

I decided come hell or high water I was going to spend one afternoon tied to a tree. My entire deer season, usually stretching from mid-September to the end of December, would boil down to 120 minutes. The last Sunday of muzzleloader season I slowly worked my way up a ridge to a trusty stand location not far from my heated truck seats. Carefully I tackled each rung of my ladderstand. Resting on each step, ensuring both of my boots were firmly planted. Pain ricocheted up my legs as my back screamed in disagreement. Four more steps, I thought. By the time I swung onto my platform I was sweating despite the frigid temps. Descending in the dark would be a problem to solve later.

I settled in.

Bone-chilling dusks are the stillest times in the woods. Two ridges over I could hear a squirrel making its last errand of the night. It shuffled through the remnants of fallen leaves and ice-free corridors carved out by the heat rimming the base of mature red pines. Hundreds of yards away, a woodpecker searched exhaustingly for any sign of life from the same dying oak that provided a gluttonous buffet in September and October.

Having only one afternoon, I soaked it all in. The sky turned brilliant pinks and purples infiltrating through the pines as the sun began its final descent. Late-season deer hunts often come down to the last few minutes of legal shooting light.

It started as distant, ever so slight shuffling sound. I lifted my stocking cap over my left ear, cocking it toward the perceived disturbance in the fading light. Out of sight, the noise grew louder. My eyes now joined my ears straining to pick out the first flicker of ear or reflection of antler. The noise stopped. A minute passed. The shuffling resumed. I shifted myself into position, my movement rang out, shockingly loud in the December air. The shuffling continued its march, undeterred.

The black of her nose caught my attention first, followed by the brown of her ears and the white patch below her chin. She led a line of deer that began to materialize behind her. Their ultimate destination was unknown, but it was clear they would parade past me if they kept their current course.

The night air proved too still to breathe. I held lungfuls of air as a half-dozen does and fawns slid past me. I reduced my eyes to their smallest aperture, afraid to lock eyes with the congregation. I remained frozen. Chocolate tines silhouetted against the snowy alders had caught my attention. Trailing the does by a couple of minutes, a hefty buck was about to stroll broadside at 30 yards.

I could see every detail of his rack. I could count his points, see the fading light reflect off his black irises. He did not pass unaware of my presence. He stood at full attention, knowing something was up, but unsure of what was amiss. Old bucks have a sixth sense; hearing me exhale, he jumped back, taking two bounding leaps toward the safety of cover. He spun, blowing at me, trying to get me to move. He stomped at the ground, less than 50 yards away. I had no gun to raise. I never bought a muzzleloader tag, I simply wanted to spend one afternoon tied to a tree.

Staring out the window, late at night ... flustered, still tethered to my couch. Wind and snow and mirage swirl past. None of it was meant to be.

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.