Post by Woody Williams on Mar 14, 2006 13:54:57 GMT -5
I thought you all might enjoy this..
Sprinklers, Scuddlers, Soccer Moms, & Sheriffs
- by Gil Lackey
"Fat, fearless, and stupid. You could just sit on my back porch sipping a beer and score every time. Easy as a TV Guide crossword."
No. I'm not giving you the skinny on my former girlfriends. It's the scouting report I commonly hear on urban whitetails.
It seems like every time I'm bemoaning a hunt with no deer sightings, one of my buddies snickers at me because his back yard is crawling with cud-chewing critters. "Man, you must be a pitiful hunter. I have to shoo 'em away just to take out the trash in the morning." These folks don't live out in the country, but they're just far enough out of town for deer to inhabit their property. Obviously, they have never tried to hunt these residential ruminants.
I've heard the comments for years and have even had a few invitations to hunt friends' back yards, but the prospect never appealed to me. Laying in wait behind a swing-set on a ½ acre lot with cars zipping by just doesn't seem natural. Getting away from the hustle and bustle is part of hunting's appeal. Besides, these deer are accustomed to humans. Arrowing a doe while she's sipping from the baby pool just doesn't qualify as fair chase. I'm too "au natural" and ethical to go for ghetto game.
At a New Year's Day party a little over a year ago, I was bellyaching about being buck-less with one week left in the season. A friend of a friend chimed in, agreeing to let me hunt his property and hoping I'd head up project "Save the Begonias." The deer were putting a hurt on all the high-dollar landscaping in his neighborhood. Ethically, I knew I had to deny his offer. It wasn't until he mentioned the 8-pointer that my morals collapsed.
I had only one week to arrow the pet Pope and Young. If I could overcome a few minor obstacles, it would surely be a slam dunk proposition.
Yuppies either laughing or screaming as they encountered an armed blob silhouetted against the sky was not an appealing thought, so ground hunting in full camo was the only way to go incognito. I would sneak in by the cover of darkness and stay out of sight
Rambo dragging "Bloody Bambi" across the neighbor's manicured lawn would make a perfect PETA poster, so I needed to address that potential nightmare. The landowner calmed my fears by assuring me there would be no problems. The neighbors agreed it was time to introduce a new predator to cull the formerly sheltered deer herd. Apparently, the dogwoods and daffodils were taking quite a hit. Obviously arrows, not bullets, would be the order of the day within the city limits. I wouldn't want to get in trouble with the law.
With my meticulous game plan in motion, these "domestic" deer surely didn't stand a chance. The following is a true story. Kids- don't try this at home.
The first morning, the family Shih Tzu busted me while the sun was still tickling the horizon. The scuddler (my girlfriend's word for any fuzzy yip-dog that wouldn't stand a chance against a housecat) pawed at the sliding-glass door and yelped throughout the entire hunt, certainly sabotaging my chances. Due to the ever-fickle wind, I was compelled to spend some down-time doing a little scouting city-style. I'm embarrassed to admit that I did my urban reconnaissance in a parked car, engine running to keep my toes toasty. Across the street, I spied the infamous 8-pointer and his spiked disciple crossing a yard at the exact time and place on two consecutive mornings. I received permission to hunt the property for the last day of the season, just as the wind decided to behave. Unfortunately, some workmen screeched up in a truck ten minutes before the magic hour, and the deer decided not to join the party. Season over.
The next year, I was as determined as ever. I was relegated to afternoon hunts because of some nearby early morning construction. Luckily, the deer were chowing on the prized begonias every evening just before dark. Hopefully, I could hunt the back yard woods in fading light and still fly under the radar of the local Neighborhood Watch.
One day in early bow season, a lone doe sidled through the woods just as a truck pulled up to the house. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the underground sprinkler system maintenance company (you know where this one's going). I drew on the doe just as the sprinklers exploded. They flushed out the system with such incredible force that it muffled the bursts of laughter coming from the hunting gods. Completely freaked by the eruption, the doe and I simultaneously did a back flip, I got drenched, and the deer skedaddled, blowing at me repeatedly. Amazingly, she returned to the scene of the crime to check me out, but I had relocated up under a bush deeper in the woods to stay dry, and she couldn't find me. I drew and released, but my bow limb slammed into the bush as I tried to lean around it, my arrow landing backwards on the ground almost within reach. Game over.
I had a few encounters in the following weeks, but the deer were just too wary to get close. As it turns out, they recognize an urban predator just like a rural deer knows the difference between Farmer Bob on his tractor and a hunter. City deer don't flinch at passing cars, children playing, people working in the yard, or any other every-day human activity. If you're in camo and in stealth mode, however, they know something is amiss and avoid the area.
After thoroughly contaminating the woods, I opted to hunker down among the bushes bordering the neighbor's property. Right at game time, the little old blue-haired lady next door and her toddler grandson began frolicking noisily and tossing walnuts onto the lawn, some threatening to perforate the 3-D leafy netting I had artistically strewn between boxwoods. They remained oblivious to my presence until Grandma's snow-white toy poodle caught my wind, marched right up to me, and started barking incessantly. After ten agonizing minutes of pretending to be a statue, I relented and made friends with the scuddler, waved nicely at Grandma, and turned my attention back to the hunt. Glancing back, I was pleased to see they had vacated the area.
About a half hour later, I heard, "Put your hands up!" As I jerked around and lifted my facemask, I found myself staring down the wrong end of a .40 caliber Glock. Apparently, Grandma mistook me for a serial killer and called in the cavalry. Lying on my face, handcuffed behind my back, I tried to explain my noble intentions to the police officer. After frisking my fatigues, he took me to the street still handcuffed and fully camo'd up for everyone to ogle as they came home from work. The neighbors started dropping by just as dispatch was running a background check for a list of priors. The cop, being a hunter himself, ended up being a charitable soul and mercifully shooed the busybodies away. When the landowner showed up and vouched for me, I got my get-out-of- jail-free card and was finally released.
Just as I was about to flee the scene, a soccer mom pulled up in her newly-waxed Suburban and delivered an unending dissertation on how I was going to **** for shooting Bambi. Deerless and at my wit's end, I momentarily considered filling my remaining tag on her. As I peered into the car to check out her 2.2 kids and white picket fence, I chuckled to myself and let it go, surmising she must have left her scuddler at home.
Conclusion:
Deer are deer, no matter where they hang their horns. They are extremely adaptable, and they pattern their environment. Somehow, they instinctively know that any unusual behavior is a threat, and they go to DEFCON 2 when they detect it. Suburbia poses formidable challenges for the hunter, too. Like wild dogs running deer in the big woods, many scenarios can pop up in the big city to spoil your hunt. If you ever get an invitation to hunt "citified" deer, be prepared to work for your success, and don't be surprised if you have some unexpected company- namely sprinklers, soccer moms, sheriffs, and scuddlers.
www.cumberlandtu.org/newsreel/articledetail.php?id=4
Sprinklers, Scuddlers, Soccer Moms, & Sheriffs
- by Gil Lackey
"Fat, fearless, and stupid. You could just sit on my back porch sipping a beer and score every time. Easy as a TV Guide crossword."
No. I'm not giving you the skinny on my former girlfriends. It's the scouting report I commonly hear on urban whitetails.
It seems like every time I'm bemoaning a hunt with no deer sightings, one of my buddies snickers at me because his back yard is crawling with cud-chewing critters. "Man, you must be a pitiful hunter. I have to shoo 'em away just to take out the trash in the morning." These folks don't live out in the country, but they're just far enough out of town for deer to inhabit their property. Obviously, they have never tried to hunt these residential ruminants.
I've heard the comments for years and have even had a few invitations to hunt friends' back yards, but the prospect never appealed to me. Laying in wait behind a swing-set on a ½ acre lot with cars zipping by just doesn't seem natural. Getting away from the hustle and bustle is part of hunting's appeal. Besides, these deer are accustomed to humans. Arrowing a doe while she's sipping from the baby pool just doesn't qualify as fair chase. I'm too "au natural" and ethical to go for ghetto game.
At a New Year's Day party a little over a year ago, I was bellyaching about being buck-less with one week left in the season. A friend of a friend chimed in, agreeing to let me hunt his property and hoping I'd head up project "Save the Begonias." The deer were putting a hurt on all the high-dollar landscaping in his neighborhood. Ethically, I knew I had to deny his offer. It wasn't until he mentioned the 8-pointer that my morals collapsed.
I had only one week to arrow the pet Pope and Young. If I could overcome a few minor obstacles, it would surely be a slam dunk proposition.
Yuppies either laughing or screaming as they encountered an armed blob silhouetted against the sky was not an appealing thought, so ground hunting in full camo was the only way to go incognito. I would sneak in by the cover of darkness and stay out of sight
Rambo dragging "Bloody Bambi" across the neighbor's manicured lawn would make a perfect PETA poster, so I needed to address that potential nightmare. The landowner calmed my fears by assuring me there would be no problems. The neighbors agreed it was time to introduce a new predator to cull the formerly sheltered deer herd. Apparently, the dogwoods and daffodils were taking quite a hit. Obviously arrows, not bullets, would be the order of the day within the city limits. I wouldn't want to get in trouble with the law.
With my meticulous game plan in motion, these "domestic" deer surely didn't stand a chance. The following is a true story. Kids- don't try this at home.
The first morning, the family Shih Tzu busted me while the sun was still tickling the horizon. The scuddler (my girlfriend's word for any fuzzy yip-dog that wouldn't stand a chance against a housecat) pawed at the sliding-glass door and yelped throughout the entire hunt, certainly sabotaging my chances. Due to the ever-fickle wind, I was compelled to spend some down-time doing a little scouting city-style. I'm embarrassed to admit that I did my urban reconnaissance in a parked car, engine running to keep my toes toasty. Across the street, I spied the infamous 8-pointer and his spiked disciple crossing a yard at the exact time and place on two consecutive mornings. I received permission to hunt the property for the last day of the season, just as the wind decided to behave. Unfortunately, some workmen screeched up in a truck ten minutes before the magic hour, and the deer decided not to join the party. Season over.
The next year, I was as determined as ever. I was relegated to afternoon hunts because of some nearby early morning construction. Luckily, the deer were chowing on the prized begonias every evening just before dark. Hopefully, I could hunt the back yard woods in fading light and still fly under the radar of the local Neighborhood Watch.
One day in early bow season, a lone doe sidled through the woods just as a truck pulled up to the house. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the underground sprinkler system maintenance company (you know where this one's going). I drew on the doe just as the sprinklers exploded. They flushed out the system with such incredible force that it muffled the bursts of laughter coming from the hunting gods. Completely freaked by the eruption, the doe and I simultaneously did a back flip, I got drenched, and the deer skedaddled, blowing at me repeatedly. Amazingly, she returned to the scene of the crime to check me out, but I had relocated up under a bush deeper in the woods to stay dry, and she couldn't find me. I drew and released, but my bow limb slammed into the bush as I tried to lean around it, my arrow landing backwards on the ground almost within reach. Game over.
I had a few encounters in the following weeks, but the deer were just too wary to get close. As it turns out, they recognize an urban predator just like a rural deer knows the difference between Farmer Bob on his tractor and a hunter. City deer don't flinch at passing cars, children playing, people working in the yard, or any other every-day human activity. If you're in camo and in stealth mode, however, they know something is amiss and avoid the area.
After thoroughly contaminating the woods, I opted to hunker down among the bushes bordering the neighbor's property. Right at game time, the little old blue-haired lady next door and her toddler grandson began frolicking noisily and tossing walnuts onto the lawn, some threatening to perforate the 3-D leafy netting I had artistically strewn between boxwoods. They remained oblivious to my presence until Grandma's snow-white toy poodle caught my wind, marched right up to me, and started barking incessantly. After ten agonizing minutes of pretending to be a statue, I relented and made friends with the scuddler, waved nicely at Grandma, and turned my attention back to the hunt. Glancing back, I was pleased to see they had vacated the area.
About a half hour later, I heard, "Put your hands up!" As I jerked around and lifted my facemask, I found myself staring down the wrong end of a .40 caliber Glock. Apparently, Grandma mistook me for a serial killer and called in the cavalry. Lying on my face, handcuffed behind my back, I tried to explain my noble intentions to the police officer. After frisking my fatigues, he took me to the street still handcuffed and fully camo'd up for everyone to ogle as they came home from work. The neighbors started dropping by just as dispatch was running a background check for a list of priors. The cop, being a hunter himself, ended up being a charitable soul and mercifully shooed the busybodies away. When the landowner showed up and vouched for me, I got my get-out-of- jail-free card and was finally released.
Just as I was about to flee the scene, a soccer mom pulled up in her newly-waxed Suburban and delivered an unending dissertation on how I was going to **** for shooting Bambi. Deerless and at my wit's end, I momentarily considered filling my remaining tag on her. As I peered into the car to check out her 2.2 kids and white picket fence, I chuckled to myself and let it go, surmising she must have left her scuddler at home.
Conclusion:
Deer are deer, no matter where they hang their horns. They are extremely adaptable, and they pattern their environment. Somehow, they instinctively know that any unusual behavior is a threat, and they go to DEFCON 2 when they detect it. Suburbia poses formidable challenges for the hunter, too. Like wild dogs running deer in the big woods, many scenarios can pop up in the big city to spoil your hunt. If you ever get an invitation to hunt "citified" deer, be prepared to work for your success, and don't be surprised if you have some unexpected company- namely sprinklers, soccer moms, sheriffs, and scuddlers.
www.cumberlandtu.org/newsreel/articledetail.php?id=4
;D
