The deer hunter featured the above piece as its theme. which of the following pieces is it?12/3/2022 ![]() I could see down through there for a good shot at a buck fairly well.Īs I worked my way higher, the balsams and cedars got thicker. The slope to my left was a big mixed hardwood bowl. The rocky finger I followed dropped off steep on my right, to a small fast flowing brook. Despite each careful step, frozen leaves crunched as I walked, echoing my presence to anyone who might be listening. They were easy to see in the frosty brown flakes blanketing the forest. We had cut a couple of fresh tracks on our way up the trail. We rarely encountered anyone else in those woods. As long as I didn’t cross over Phelps Ridge onto the Klondike Brook side, I knew that if I got disoriented, all I had to do was cut downhill until I hit the trail.Įven at that young age, I felt comfortable hunting alone in the wilderness. I had a map, a compass, a lunch, a good watch, a whistle, some paraffin wax dipped waterproof matches, and my gun. We’d each hunt the day alone, then link back up again on the truck trail or back at the car after dark. It was still an era well before cell phones. If there was no fresh deer sign there, I’d drop down into the lowland alder swamps on my way back down the trail later that afternoon and try to scare up a rabbit. ![]() ![]() I planned hunt a long ridgeline below him. He was headed further up the trail to hunt along Phelps Brook towards Phelps Mountain, looking down towards Marcy Dam. We donned day packs and guns, signed in at the register, and started up the old truck trail towards Marcy Dam together.Ībout a mile and a half up the trail, I peeled off the trail to my left, separately from my dad. There was a light dusting of fresh snow on the ground. We eased our olive green station wagon down the seasonal dirt road to the South Creek parking area, just before dawn. So, there we were, early one fall morning. Dad bought me a new shotgun for my birthday, a twelve-gauge Remington pump with a rifled slug barrel. When I turned sixteen, I was finally old enough to hunt big game myself. In fact, hunting together with me, Dad had never even taken a shot at a deer. Though in all the years we’d hunted and camped together up to that point, I’d never seen any. As long as we remembered to pack a container of ketchup, and added more salt.ĭad insisted that the Adirondack High Peaks wilderness was home to some big mountain bucks. They tasted pretty good though, after a long day’s hunt. The outer part was always charred, the centers blood raw. We buried them in the coals of a hot fire for an hour to cook. Mom’s Hunter’s Stews were pretty rustic, a ball of raw hamburger, half an onion, salt & pepper, a carrot or two, and a par boiled potato, all double foil wrapped. Two of Mom’s foil wrapped “ Hunter’s Stews” cooked in the fire for dinner. Peanut butter and jelly, bologna, or potted meat sandwiches, 2 homemade cookies, and an apple were lunch. Breakfasts consisted of instant oatmeal and Tang. Our first “deer camps” consisted of sleeping bags, a good rope, two trees on high ground near a stream, a few rocks for a fire pit, two backpacks with food, flashlights, matches, spare clothes, and Dad’s old canvas tarp.ĭad and I would spend three days meticulously planning and preparing our menu, packing list, and each day’s schedule. Sometimes we made a day trip first, familiarizing ourselves with the area, and doing some scouting. He taught me to read both a topo map and a compass. Generally, either up near Ampersand Mountain or somewhere in the afore mentioned Phelps Mountain basin. Dad would get out his topographical maps, study the trails and terrain, then pick some remote spot. Occasionally when it was sunny or warm, we picked out a couple of big rocks on a hilltop or ridge and sat “on watch”, sharing a packed lunch.Īt least once every deer hunting season, we camped. Usually, we walked all day hoping to cut a fresh track. I started carrying his old sixteen-gauge Ithaca pump shotgun on our hunts, hoping for a shot at a snowshoe rabbit or partridge. When I turned fourteen, I was finally old enough to hunt small game. I’d been hunting with my dad for as long as I could remember. Saranac Lake High School was out for Thanksgiving.ĭad and I were making plans for a deer hunt over on our usual stomping grounds, the Phelps Mountain basin of the Adirondack High Peaks. “In the mountains lurk predators that remain undiscovered.”Īuthor’s Note: Everything in this story is either true, or could be. “What was that noise I just heard? Was that just a squirrel or a chipmunk? Or is somebody watching me? Are we ever truly alone in the woods?”
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