The Bull

At our annual Moose meeting one year some of the guys mentioned taking their boys along for the excursion.
I was a somewhat apposed to this as it is a rather rugged place and I didn’t know how the young fellows would make out.

I moose hunt with my wife’s family, consisting of her two brothers, her dad and a few cousins thrown into the mix.
Our hunting assemblage also includes a cluster of other guys but I primarily hunt with my family.
The decision to bring the boys was met with a few discrepancies but after ironing out all of the bugs we decided to go ahead and invite them to join us.
My son and his two cousins were the newest members of our gang and were overwhelmed with enthusiasm.

Unfortunately that particular year I had acquired a new job position and was denied the week of holidays I had requested.
I had to settle for the Friday and the following Monday off, but I felt that this may be a long enough trip for my son Jake in any case.

We hunt in and around Sultan Ontario and from where we live, it’s about a seven hour drive give or take a pee break here and there.
It seemed fairly distant to travel for only a few short days but I had promised Jake that I would take him and he had his heart set on it.
So, we swapped my car for a van, removed the back seats and installed a double bed.
I had a battery inverter and a heater that would keep us quite toasty. We packed our gear and headed North mid Friday morning... The rest of our party had departed a few days earlier and our arrangement was to meet them at a selected location in our hunting area.

The drive up was filled with striking autumn colours, rock cuts, lakes and rivers. It was so charming in fact that we took our time and had some good chat along the way, something that Jake and I didn’t often get a chance to do.
We twisted and turned through the array of northern highways until we reached our cut off spot at the Domtar road. This road is private but is open to the public and is owned and operated by the Domtar paper Industry, (formerly Eddy Match road). It is a very rugged road at times and when you spot a truck with a load of timber headed your way you must try your best to keep clear. This desolate thoroughfare is approximately one hundred kilometres long and at the entry spot from the highway there is a gas station, store and restaurant. This is called the Water Shed and it is the last spot to gas up before entering the long, dusty and isolated roadway. Hitting this location also means only one hour left of the drive and is quite a welcome site.
After gassing up, Jake and I visited the washroom and grabbed some snacks from the store.
Once again, back in the van we went and started the voyage down the Domtar road.
The rock-strewn road ends in the humble little village of Sultan. At this point, we travelled a few more kilometres on highway 667 and made a turn off on Kormak road, an old logging route. We now began looking for the cardboard sign my brother in law had set out for us to locate the rest of the group.
Jake and I drove along leisurely until we spotted the cardboard sign and eventually found our base camp.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by the gang and without delay mounted the four wheelers to have a quick reconnoitre of the area.
The camp spot that my brother in law had selected was situated flanking a lake and had a craggy, boggy little trail to it that linked to one of the main logging roads. It was nicely secluded and they had built a huge camp tent complete with a propane heater, tables, cots, barbecue,, TV,DVD and all of the comforts of home. We had a campfire area outside and parked our vehicles around the fringe of the clearing to further shelter us in….. Quite a picturesque spot!
When we arrived back from our scouting ride, we had a bite to eat, a couple of cold beers and told some far fetched and stretched out tales from back in the day.
Opening morning would be the next sunup so we all said good night and headed to our camp beds for a cozy nights sleep.
Jake and I had “pre heated” our van and found with all of our sleeping bags and covers, we didn’t need the heater after all. . We had had a very full, long day and we drifted off with visions of gigantic moose falling victim to our rifle.

It was dark when I heard the rest of the guys awaken and listened as their vehicles pulled away from our little camping paradise. I figured I’d let Jake sleep for a little while longer as we would have a long day ahead of us.
In an hour or so, I gave him a shake and asked him if he were ready to roll.
He kicked off his sleeping bag and in no time we were sitting at the camp table for a quick breakfast before venturing off into the wilderness.
Our friend Trevor had also chosen to wait until a little closer to light and joined us for a bite.
While Jake ate, I packed us a little lunch and some snacks in a cooler and secured it to the ATV we would be using that day. I also packed on my 303 Enfield rifle and a pump shotgun for any grouse we may encounter along the trail. The trails that we cruised in this part of the North were full of grouse and I figured that Jake may enjoy harvesting a few.
I had made Jake a custom hunter orange coat prior to the trip. I used an old winter coat and purchased florescent orange material from the Wal-Mart back home. Surprisingly enough, it is very hard to find anything “hunter orange” in kids sizes. With hot glue and some handy stitch work, once again Jake was suited up and ready to go.
After his breakfast and the ATV was loaded, Jake jumped into the passenger “up seat” and I on the bike and we headed off into the misty twisted trails of Wakami Ontario.
We started making our way through the network of logging roads and trails to an outfitter’s place called Marty’s Bear Den. Marty’s offered cabins, a bar, beer store, general store, gas pumps, and a telephone.
We had been going to this spot for years and we knew Marty and his wife quite well.
Marty had built this place from scratch and had one of the nicest “post and beam” bars I had ever seen.
It was full of custom made hardwood chairs and tables, pool tables and a huge stone fire place.
He had stuffed critters all over the bar including wolves, deer, moose racks and bear.
It was kind of strange seeing something this nice out in the middle of the tim buck two like this and it kind of offered some degree of comfort.
Marty would always greet us with a wild tales of his hunting escapades or his Vietnam days or even the days when he served as a Police officer in Detroit before coming to Ontario’s northern wilderness to build his dream. Quite a character ol’ Marty was and I enjoyed seeing him each year. He had a rather long grey beard and a braided pony tail that ran half way down his back. He usually dressed in camouflage and sported a thick black belt complete with a shiny Yankee buckle that secured a large hunting knife to his hip.

As Jake and I traversed through the trails I could see a grouse on the roadway up ahead. I brought the bike to a stop and pointed it out to him.
We slowly and steadily retrieved the shotgun from its case on the front of the ATV and I chambered one shell.
After showing Jake the safety mechanism on the gun, I told him to walk quietly down the gravel trail towards the grouse and take a shot.
He slowly crept towards the bird stopping every few feet to make sure to not startle it.
As he grew closer and came into an acceptable range to shoot, I gave him a quiet “OK take it”
With that, Jake took his stance and readied himself for the kick of the gun.
The shot rang out through the northern birch trees and the grouse lay twitching on the trail.
Jake yelled with contentment in his voice, “Gottem’” and moved ahead to retrieve his bird.
I shook his hand, snapped a quick picture and we were on our way once again.

We slowly cruised along the trails as the warm autumn sunshine cast down upon us. We talked and laughed and from time to time Jake would take a turn at the wheel.
Every so often I would see a good spot to stop and do some calling. I had purchased a funnel type of moose call at our local Canadian Tire and had listened repetitively to the cassette that came with it. I wasn’t positive that I was presenting my calls correctly but it sounded analogous to the cassette so I carried on.

After a few hours and a few more grouse encounters, we decided to head back to our camp to see how the other guys had made out. We hadn’t seen anyone from our party or anyone at all for that matter the whole morning and thought we should maybe check in.
We were about twenty miles from our camp so we donned our helmets and swiftly sped through the trails back. When we arrived, my brother in law and my buddy Trevor were there, just getting ready to head out for the afternoon hunt. They said that they had spotted a big bull earlier in the day and were going to that area. I asked if this was an invite and they said yes so we all barrelled down the trail on our ATV’s once again.
We headed down a main logging road and then turned off onto a gravel side trail. I remember it being very dusty as all three bikes roared along the road and I wished that I had a visor for my helmet. The trail was extremely long and led us far from the main logging road. We kept together for the most part but when we neared the end of the trail, my brother in law turned off without warning and Trevor, Jake and I were left alone.
When we realized that we had lost a rider, Trevor decided to go back to look for him.
Jake and I carried on up the trail and it led us to a huge clear cut deep in the heart of God’s country.
The clear cut was about five miles square and the trail made a huge loop around the outside of it.
Where to sit? I thought to myself and spotted a big rolling hill on the far side.
It was getting to be rather late in the afternoon and I figured it would be a good time for Jake and me to take a seat, do some calling and maybe have a snack. I pointed out the hill and explained that if we sat there we would have a good view of the bush line and the clear cut. We rumbled over to the hill, parked the bike and grabbed our gear, including our cooler of treats.
I could see a spot on the hill that would offer us both comfort and camouflage due to the foliage. We made our way into the rugged clear cut through logs and saplings and every other jagged object that could trip up a duo of good men.
When we arrived at the selected spot we quickly nestled in, opened the cooler, set up the moose call and readied my rifle.
Jake had a quick bite to eat and proclaimed that he was sleepy. We had been up very early that morning and had quite an eventful day. The breeze was warm and the lovely afternoon sun bathed us as we rested in our little spot on the hill. Jake lay back and said he was going to have a quick cat nap. He closed his eyes and I sat there ogling the bush line and munching on a few hunks of Kielbasa that I sliced with my hunting knife.
Every time I figured Jake may be drifting off, I would pick up the moose call and give a loud and lengthy “cow in heat” call. He caught on to this after a little while and realized that I was teasing him and only wanted to keep him from falling asleep. I would even go as far as to give him the odd little poke with a nearby twig to bug him, and at one point he giggled and said that he would let out a scream to spook off any moose that might be in the area. I said while chuckling “ya better not!” and stopped poking him with the stick but still kept up with the harassing calls.

About twenty minutes had passed when something off to the left of me caught my eye.
Suddenly a huge bull moose stepped from the tree line and began trotting into the clear cut to see where the racket was coming from. My heart hit my throat. I whispered to Jake who was sleeping beside me at that point “Jake, there’s a great big bull moose” He snapped up like a shot and immediately saw the beast running through the clear-cut in front of us. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as I swiftly snatched up my rifle. I cocked back the hammer on the 303 and lay the bead above the bull as the distance was far greater than the rifle was sighted for. A thunderous shot ripped through the clear-cut but the bull appeared to be unscathed and continued running. He seemed so smooth manoeuvring through the stump and log ridden cut that he appeared to be almost rolling.
I stood up for the second shot attempt and lay the bead even higher this time and added some lead to it as well.
I squeezed the trigger and the rifle drove into my shoulder once again. The big bull reared onto his hind legs as a stallion would and fell to the ground.
As I witnessed him fall I said in an extremely quivering whisper “I hit him”. Jake screamed out with excitement not realizing that he should still keep quiet as the beast rose to his feet again.
Again and again I hurled shots at the bull but none appeared to hit their mark. He was however, stumbling when he moved at this point and would fall about every twenty feet or so. I knew I had hit him in a vital spot but wasn’t exactly sure where. When I saw him collapse into the grass and brush of the bush line and out of our sight, I decided to venture down across and give him a finishing shot. I told Jake to stay on the hill and started out towards the bull.
It took me a little while to reach the spot where he fell as the terrain was extremely rugged and hard to cross. I had only one shell left in my firearm and approached with extreme vigilance. I had not taken my eyes off of the spot in which the bull last fell but to my dismay he had, without our seeing, moved and was not where he was laying previously.
I placed myself in the exact spot that he had fallen and did circles a few yards apart around the area to try to locate the beast.
Jake was yelling something to me from the hillside but due to the distance and the strong breeze I could not here him. He did however keep pointing over to his right so I assumed he could see the bull. Slowly I continued to look on the bush line for the moose until I began hearing something.
It sounded like a jet flying over but was in short spurts and grew louder and louder as the seconds pressed on.
As I pinpointed the area where the sound was coming from and yelled back and forth with Jake, again I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I quickly whipped my head to attention and focussed on the large mass standing approximately twenty yards in front of me. It was the bull and he was not in very good spirits,
He stood watching me, pawing and stamping the ground and throwing his massive rack side to side.
He snorted out loud huffs and grunts and appeared to be on the verge of charging me. Without hesitation, I turned and ran for all I was worth. I knew that I had only one bullet left in my chamber and had witnessed the size of this creature up close and personal. As I ran for my life I looked for a tree to climb but quickly realized that all of the trees in this area were dead and had no branches. Thoughts of the great beast overtaking me and smashing me into the ground were running through my head as I felt his nearing presence. As I ran along I drew back the bolt on my rifle and chambered my last shell.
When I finally realized that there was no where to run, I hurtled myself up onto a big bolder and quickly snapped around with my rifle.
Expecting the bull close on my tail and breathing down my neck, I was delighted to see that he was only a few feet from his original position and that I was safe at this point. He fell down once again but quickly stood up.
It was at this point that I realized that my shot from the hill must have broken his back and that he was immobilized. My heart eased its pounding somewhat but I still shook as the adrenalin surged through my body. I positioned myself for a finishing shot and lay my sights upon his neck.
I let my last shot go and the bull was driven to the ground. I was so close to him that I witnessed the blood splatter on the foliage behind him and the pink mist in the air.
He huffed and snorted while lying on the ground and managed to pull himself to his feet once again. I had no control at this point as I was out of ammunition and stood and watched as he rose and fell time after time.
There was a cluster of cedar trees directly in front of him and each time he would ascend he would try to smash through them to escape to the safety of the forest. Fortunately for me, his gigantic rack would get caught in the trees and not allow him to go any further back into the bush.
I stayed within twenty yards or so in case he did make it to his feet and past the cedars. I didn’t want to loose this big guy and I knew he was almost finished, but if he did move, I wanted to follow him and mark my way out of the bush at the point in which he expired.
The bull now lay quiet and his snorts and huffs became calmer. He would give a kick once in a while as I stood staring with awe. I looked down at my trembling hands and figured a cigarette was what I needed to calm myself.
The wind was blowing directly against me so I figured that the moose wouldn’t smell anything and he wouldn’t be startled. All was well until the wind changed direction and wafted the smoke towards him. The beast lunged to his feet once again.
Scared and startled I quickly extinguished my smoke as the bull fell back to the ground once again.
I had no more ammunition and the moose was still thrashing. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave him for fear he would get past the cedars and venture deep into the bush.
I yelled to my son, still up on the hill to jump on the ATV and go and find his Uncle Ricker for help.
He agreed and as I heard the bike pull away, I realized what I had done. I had sent my son into the wilderness alone. I became overwhelmed with worry at this point, left the bull and started off across the clear-cut to find him. With all of the excitement, I had made a bad decision, and sent my son out on his own. I now wanted desperately to have him back with me and scrambled through the brush in a panic.
As I jumbled thirty or forty yards into the clear-cut, the sound of an ATV drifted over the hill.
It was Jake back and I have never been so relieved in my life. He had gotten scared and returned.
I yelled for him to stay where he was and turned back toward the bull.
The bull had stopped moving by now and I couldn’t hear any breathing. The king was dead.
I slowly and cautiously walked toward him with empty rifle in hand to confirm his expiration.
His rack was huge and he was enormous. A smile emerged on my face as I turned to start the journey back to the bike.
It was getting to be late afternoon and I knew that there wasn’t much light left. I pulled my florescent overalls off and hung them in a tree to mark the spot.
After the long scramble back to the ATV, I hugged Jake and apologised to him for sending him out on his own. We secured our gear and fastened on the rifle and sped off to Marty’s to tell the guys and get our tag.
I stopped at our camp along the way and told Trevor that I had killed a bull. Jake jumped off and stayed with Trev at this point as I wanted to make some good time and knew I would be driving fairly erratically.
When I reached the cabins, I made the rest of the guys aware of my afternoons success, grabbed the tag and we all headed out back to the bull.
As I slid the bike to a stop I could see my brother-in-law Ricker down standing with the bull. He knew the area and must have spotted my orange cover all’s marking the spot.
When the rest of the gang arrived, we congregated around the bull and I began the field dressing.
Upon completion, we tied the head of my monster to the back of my father-in-law’s four wheeler with another bike tied to the front of it and started to slowly drag the moose out. This is where the hard work began and where I saw a crew of men come together. Everyone had some sort of job to do, weather it be clearing a path for the bikes to go through or reefing the bull’s head over logs, rocks and brush. The bikes sure got a work out that day and by the time we had dragged it across the clear-cut and loaded the bull onto the trailer we found ourselves under the cover of darkness.
It’s hard to explain the feeling I had that day but I must say that it was most definitely the hunting highlight of my life and the best part is that my son was by my side the whole way.

Young Lads First turkey

My son finally reached a stage where I felt he was ready to take a turkey on his own. He was eleven that year and had hunted by my side since he was five. He had been part of at least five wild turkey harvests and had five years of calling or “turkey talking” as we say it under his belt.
I was extremely proud of him with how perceptive he had been in the field and he had made an enormous effort to listen to and understand my guidance.
His patience was definitely something he had to work on but hell; I’m not the most patient fellow around either. He was ready.

I had purchased a camouflaged pop up blind the winter prior with expectations of using it for the turkey hunt. This particular year it would prove to come in handy.
I spoke with Jake and asked him if he felt ready to take his shot. His eyes lit up with anticipation and he assured me that indeed he was ready.
I began preparing him mentally for the actual time when the turkey was in range and it was time to take the shot. A lot of grown men choke at this point and I knew it could be a very nerve racking experience, especially to an eleven year old.
We discussed proper breathing techniques when the heart is pumping for all it is worth. We talked about slow movement and proper timing when the turkey was in front of him. We also spoke about safe, ethical and effective ranges in which to take the shot and where exactly on the turkey he should lay his bead.

We were staying at our camper trailer the evening before and awoke before the alarm sounded.
The air was brisk and damp but a wonderful kind of calmness greeted us as we opened the door of the trailer and scurried toward our truck. It would be a nice day.
As we headed down the highway toward our chosen hunting area, I quizzed Jake with an array of questions pertaining to shot time. “where ya’ gonna’ aim?” I asked “bottom of the head and top of neck” he replied.
“How ya’ gonna’ breath?” “Two deep breaths and one half short one before the shot” he said.
He had been listening to my teachings and I found it exceptionally rewarding to witness him heed my advice.

When we had reached our destination I slowly brought the truck to a stop and we quietly opened the doors and stepped out. We retrieved our gear from the box of the truck and began our walk down the trail.
This was the same trail that led to our duck hunting spot.
The trail was very wet with rather large ATV ruts. It had become over grown in the past year or so and the trees seemed impede onto the path more than usual. As we slithered toward the trail’s end, it was all we could do to avoid sliding into one of the bike ruts and getting a soaker.
This particular trail went through a mixed bush consisting of hardwood and cedar.
When we finally made it through all of the obstacles the trail had to offer we toted our gear up the bush line to a spot with clear viewing.
We then sprung open our little pop up blind and positioned our seats within.
I had made a gun rest for Jake that was telescopic to adjust to a comfortable level for him and we drove it into the dirt inside our blind.
When we had finished with our place of hiding, we walked out about fifteen yards or so and placed our hen
Decoy as strategically as possible and returned to take our seats.



Once situated inside, we readied our gear and gun and began the wait for the first morning cackles.
Sometimes just being out in the field is as nice as the hunt.
We were positioned on the edge of the bush, overlooking a kind of field marsh that in turn bordered the bay.
The turkeys were frequenting this area every morning to strut and show their stuff and were roosted a hundred yards or so over to our left in the hardwoods.
Jake and I sat there whisper chatting for a while taking in the all of the marvellous surroundings that this morning offered us. The sun was bright orange and it’s reflection in the water was astounding as it slowly rose above the horizon.
A beaver swam and playfully directly in front of us, slapping his tail every now and then on the water, creating some colossal thuds and splattering. Fish jumped repeatedly and a flock of trumpeter swans gracefully meandered in front of us, not at all disturbed by our presence. Wood ducks and Northern snip whistled and fluttered through the air, dipping and plummeting erratically around the cove. The air was tranquil and the chirps of the birds echoed almost as if they were saying good morning.
“Isn’t this nice man”, I whispered. “It’s awesome” he said gazing around at the panoramic view.
Suddenly we were snapped from our trancelike state by a piercing gobble that reverberated to us through the hardwood to our left
I didn’t say a word to Jake as his actions told me that he had clearly heard it as well.
Another gobble and another, until they too were interrupted by the cackle of some roosted hens nearby.
I could see Jake’s grip on the Browning Auto five tighten with elation and he looked at me as if to say “bring em’ on, I’m ready dad”
I snuffed out the cigarette I had lit earlier on the dirt floor of our blind and seized the box call that rested at my feet.
I began blending in with the already exited hens to make the gobbler take notice of our position.
Gobble after gobble struck back to us and we soon realized that there were at least three males in the bunch.
As time went on, the turkeys became closer and the gobbling became louder.
The toms were screeching back and forth to one another and finally we saw the first head of a hen come into view through the marsh grass.
“There they are Jake”, I whispered as the small flock of hens ambled into sight.
“I see em’ dad” he replied as he ogled the congregation of hens.
Not far behind, the tom trailed, strutting and gobbling for all he was worth. He was desperately trying to get the attention of his female counterparts and didn’t pay much attention to our call or decoy for that matter.
They strolled directly in front of us but unfortunately were about twenty yards or so out of range.
“I softly whispered to Jake that they were too far out and he replied with a very disappointed “I know dad”.
As we studied the turkeys and watched them saunter out of sight, we then focused our attention on the next two Toms that were tailing the group.
They also would scream back and forth to each other, completely giving away their whereabouts and we patiently waited for them to expose themselves to our view.
Finally a white head appeared through the foliage, bobbing and jerking as he cagily stepped toward our decoy.
I presented him with some soft clucks and purrs at this point to entice him closer for Jakes shot.
I could feel my blood being thrust into my neck as my heart pounded and could almost hear Jakes as the tom grew nearer.
“Get ready man” I whispered. He was so overwhelmed he didn’t reply
The sensation at this point was so intense that everything around us seemed quiet.
When the turkey had finally progressed to about twenty yards or so, I said “Ok, take him”
A soft “I can’t” whispered back to me and my heart sank. “Take him” is said now in a louder and more irritated whisper. “The grass is in my way” Jake said back to me. I knew then what he was talking about.
We had laid some wild grass on our blind to further blend it to our surroundings and it was in his line of view.
As the tom moved off to the right a few feet it cleared jakes view.
“Ok, now take him”
With a deep breath, my son bore down on the gun and squeezed the trigger as he was trained.
The shot thundered from our little blind, hitting its mark, sending the turkey toppling over in a cloud of feathers. Its wings flapped for a few seconds and then became still.
“Ya got him dude!” I yelled as Jake leaped through the small window of our blind.
His yells and laughter filled the woods as we hugged and high fived’ time after time.
“I’m so proud of you” I said as we stood there for a few seconds smiling, “you did everything right”
As we walked over to Jake’s prize I pulled the turkey seal from my wallet and notched out the time and date.
I handed it to him and he carefully folded it around the bird’s leg. I threw the bird up over my shoulder and we started back up the trail to the truck, revisiting and discussing what had just taken place the whole way.
When we arrived home, pictures were taken and Jake was the man of the hour.
This has been one of my most memorable hunts to date because that morning, I witness my little lad begin to become a man.

My Buck

As is every year, I had been doing my homework and had been scouting for a month prior to the archery season’s opening.
I had stumbled upon a little sweet spot that seemed very promising and decided to stick with it for that seasons hunt.
It was situated behind the grave yard in my little town of Port McNicoll and consisted of an apple and scrub treed meadow that bordered a red pine bush. Beyond this were farmer’s fields and a patch of hardwood with a big boggy kind of swamp right in the center. An ideal location for harbouring Whitetail deer and relatively close to home. I couldn’t ask for a better region to hunt.
Each evening after work, I would park my truck in the graveyard and enter the meadow through a narrow but well beaten ATV trail.
The first night that I ventured into the area, I was delighted to find a rather well beaten doe trail that headed directly through the meadow and into a corner of the red pine bush.
I could see the flattened down patches of wild grass where the deer had been bedding and the soil beneath the hefty and twisted apple trees had been trampled with deer prints.
I quietly skulked down the doe trail taking only a few steps at a time placing my feet ever so gently. Every few feet I would stop and take a very thorough scan of the vicinity hoping to catch a glimpse of any movement within the foliage.
The wind was wafting in my favour depositing my scent behind me and I slowly pressed on towards the red pine.
The path veered to the right side of the meadow and I could see that up ahead in the corner front face of the pines there was a buck scrape. He had placed it beneath an evergreen tree and had pawed and scored an area of roughly two feet in circumphrance. Some light rubs on a few of the surrounding pine trees were evident as well.
A little early for scrapes I thought to myself, but was still quite impressed with my newly found location and the promising indication of White tail presence.
The weeks progressed as did the deer sign in the area. The buck had made a few scrapes along the doe trail and under some other evergreen trees and had completely torn apart the little pine bush. There were scrapes all over the area and rubs on damn near every other tree. This fellow meant business.
Judging by the size of the scrapes and the antler marks dragged through them, I suspected that this buck had some size to him.
There was also evidence of another smaller buck in the area and so, I decided to try placing a few drips of bottled buck urine on the superior buck’s scrapes. This would hopefully send him into a fit of rage as jealousy and territorial instinct kicked in. This could somewhat lesson his senses as to my presence, and anything at this point was worth a try.
In a few days to follow, archery season began and I was lucky enough to be able to use a crossbow that was lent to me from my cousin.
The bow was relatively new with a camouflaged pattern and had a very high tech scope on it making it a rather accurate weapon. I spent a number of hours practicing with it in preparation for the hunt and felt moderately comfortable with its capabilities.
After work each day I would speed home to don my camouflage, grab my gear and bow and proceed to my little White tail haven.
I would always slink in through the meadow, down the doe trail, in an extreme stealth like mode, taking only a few thought out and pre planned steps at a time. I would make my way surreptitiously through the glade and take a seat a few yards inside the red pine bush.
Each time I entered the spot the signs were prominent and fresh but I could never seem to get a jump on or even get a peek the deer. Somehow they were always one step ahead of me.
I sat through sunshine and rain and every element that Mother Nature chose to throw at me during those two weeks of hunting with the crossbow. I remained loyal to the area and kept returning time after time only to see fresh scrapes, rubs and tracks. Unfortunately, these make terrible soup.
As the daylight faded away on the last afternoon of bow season I gathered my belongings and began my lengthy totter back to my vehicle. I felt both thwarted and enthused at the same time.
I was frustrated due to my lack of success during the archery season, but the following day would be the beginning of the gun hunt and I had drawn an antlered or antler less dear seal. I was also a lot more confident in my old Browning Auto five that dad had passed down to me. The ol’ girl shot slugs as straight and true as a pool cue and I had had success with er’ in years past.
As does happen sometimes, my employment got in the way of my morning shotgun hunting. In the afternoons however, I dressed in my orange ensemble and headed out to “the graveyard” faithfully. I had picked up a rather hefty cold somewhere along the way during the two weeks of bow hunting, and felt pretty crumby sitting out in the elements. However, I continued my quest for the Big Buck and returned day after day.
I had hunted three days of the five day shotgun hunt and had accomplished nothing. I could almost feel the Buck’s presence in the pines but it seemed if he were always one up on me.
On the second last day of the hunt, I decided that instead of gaining admittance to the red pines through the doe trail and exposing myself to whatever may be in the meadow, I would park the truck on the far side of the pines and enter into the area without disturbing any thing. This meant crossing a small area of quagmire and walking through another section of red pine. This would be fine though due to the ground’s moisture making the foliage on the forest floor soft and quiet to travel through.
It was raining off and on that afternoon and was rather windy as well. I entered the area through the pines as planned and took a seat behind some deadfall scrub brush in the center of the woodlot.
My chosen position upon arrival enabled me to see a fair distance each way and I felt rather confident that my walk in was made with extreme stealth. . The wind also blew violently in all directions and made for some ideal cover as well.
As I sat there in the wind and rain that day, I kept thinking to myself that with all of my persistence and dedication, I was bound to get a crack at something. At this point I would have been quite content in taking a doe if given a chance and found myself growing rather irritated.
I continued to sit for another forty five minutes wet and shivering, giving the odd grunt and snapping a few twigs to mimic another buck. The wind gusted around me even harder now and I decided that I would try my luck with creeping every few feet and making some grunt calls
I took to my feet and started towards the corner of the red pine where the meadow trail met the bush. This is where the buck had scuffed his main scrape and had tattered a large group of trees with his mighty antlers. As I approached the scrape I quickly noticed the fresh moistness in the center of it and the extremely fresh antler marks that had been dragged through. The rubs on the trees were so recent that the pine was actually dripping from them. These signs were extremely unsullied and I knew at this instant that the buck was very close.
I hunkered down and gave another grunt with my Knight and Hale‘s deer call and went into extreme stealth mode.
With my eyes completely targeted on my surroundings I took about fifteen or twenty slow steps and something out of place caught my eye…. There, just off of the trail about twenty yards in front of me was a great big White tailed buck standing broadside and watching me to see what I was going to do. Because of my hunkered down posture and my incredible slow pace, I believe that he was actually double taking me to figure out what exactly I was.
After a split second I focused in on him, quickly shouldered my Browning and put the bead on his heart.
I squeezed the trigger and sent a slug sailing into his chest. As the bullet penetrated him he faltered as if he had been punched in the shoulder and spun around in the opposite direction.
He bounded forward into the middle of the trail still at about twenty yards. I took advantage of his position on the open trail, knowing I would only have a short clear chance, and lobbed two more slugs into his chest cavity. His body seemed to buckle when the bullets hit their mark but he managed to pull some strength from within and vaulted another ten feet or so. Upon landing, he collapsed under an old apple tree at the meadow’s edge.. The big boy was down.
I stood there shaking and watching this king of deer thrash around in a most powerful manor.
As I reloaded my gun and approached the buck I could hear the death rattle gurgling through the cavities in his chest where the slugs had penetrated. He took long deep breaths and every few seconds, drove his rack deep into the earth around him. Loud snorts of breath shot from his nostrils as he fought death.
I knew then it was time to finish what I had started and shouldered my shotgun one last time. The last shot seemed to echo in an almost eerie way throughout the woods and seconds later his gasps and snorting came to an end.

I let him sit still for a minute or two and then walked over to his side. My ears were still ringing from the thunderous shots as I began to smile.
I had just harvested a buck that some men go a lifetime with out attainment. He was a great big bountiful eight point that an extremely strong and gallant physique. How many times had this chap watched me walk into his territory without my knowledge of his presence? The game was over however, and I had prevailed.
With incredible stimulation I dashed across the meadow and through the trail to find some assistance in dragging my newly acquired gift to a more suitable location.
Unfortunately, with all of the exhilaration and sprinting, I started to hyperventilate and had to cease my fast pace, put my gun down, and breathe heavily into the inside of my jacket as if it were a paper bag.
Once my breath was back and I had stabilized somewhat, I continued through the trail to a buddy’s house to borrow his ATV. He offered to lend me a hand and come directly back through the bush to the deer, tied it on to his bike, and hauled it up to the main trail.
This is where I decided to gut the animal and apply the tag. Unfortunately, once we had reached a spot on the main trail that was suitable for addressing the deer, I realized that my hunting bag with my wallet was back in the truck on the far side of the red pine bush. I swiftly hammered through the gears of the ATV, along the twisted and slender trail until I reached my vehicle. I quickly grabbed my hunting bag and burned back to the deer.
I skidded to a halt, jumped from the bike, and unzipped my hunting sack to acquire the deer seal.
To my dismay however, the seal was not in my wallet nor was it in my sack and I couldn’t find it anywhere.
At this point I thought it best to load the deer onto the bike and head for my house merely a few streets away. The seal had to be there, I must have forgotten to put it in my bag, maybe it fell out, all of these things raced through my mind as we journeyed back to my place.
When I arrived home, my wife and I rummaged through the whole house trying to find the missing tag. Unfortunately we came up empty handed. I was livid at this point and began to panic. I had just shot an eight point buck and was missing the tag for it. It must have fallen out of my sack sometime throughout course of the hunt, without my realizing, and now at this point I could have been considered a poacher.
So, with no other options, I decide to do what I thought was the proper thing, and called the Ministry of Natural Resources. After all, I had entered the deer draw and was a successful candidate in obtaining an antlered or antler less dear seal. I had misplaced my tag.
I figured that honesty was the best policy.
When the two conservation officers rolled into my driveway in their big white truck, they got out and immediately began treating me as if I were a criminal. The buck was still on the back of the ATV. They threatened to confiscate my buddy’s bike as I stood there completely stunned. They seized the deer and loaded it in to their truck. He didn’t believe that I even had a tag and said that their system was too back logged to verify my claim. They were cocky, arrogant, and completely wrong in this situation.
After taking down all information, the big white truck drove away with my deer in the back and I watched it go, completely disappointed and disgusted with the whole situation. I felt like a lottery winner that had their prize torn from their hands.
My head hung low that night, as I had been given such a wonderful gift only to try to do the right thing and have it taken from me in such a manor.
My wife and I searched every nook and cranny of our home and ended up finding the tag in a pair of washed hunting pants. This brought back some hope for me as it confirmed my story.
With great excitement, I called Wayne Lintack, the conservation officer in charge to make him aware of my findings. He said he’d be back the following afternoon with my deer and some charges and also questioned the legality of the seal.
The next day dragged by as I awaited my sentencing.
The white truck rolled into my driveway with my buck in the back and the game wardens jumped out.
After thoroughly examining my deer seal and seeing that it was all legitimate, he rhymed off all of the charges that he could have laid but said he would do me a favour. His favour was a two hundred and forty dollar fine for transporting a deer without a game seal.
Thanks a million asshole I said under my breath with a big fake smile plastered on my face as they pulled away from my drive way.
Oh well I thought, as I looked over at my deer. At least I got him back and the smile returned to my face.
I had learned a valuable lesson
My buddies persuaded me to have him mounted and he hangs on our wall to date.
When ever I enter the room he hangs in, I can’t help but to stare at him each time and remember the games he and I played in the meadow that season.
I win!

Our turkey

I can still remember hunting with my dad and grandfather in the back swamps of Vasey Ontario.
I have a lot of fond memories of these adventures and thankfully my own son enjoys hunting and fishing with me as well.
When I felt it was time that my son Jake was old enough to sit still, I decided to include him on a wild turkey hunt.
Prior to this, I introduced him to a box call and he began to practice.He actually became quite good and so, I thought I might let him not only attend the opening morning hunt, but rather do some calling for me to boot.He was only eight when he started his calling techniques but like most things, practice made perfect and a turkey caller was born.
The night before opening turkey season, Jake and I laid out our gear together and devised somewhat of a battle plan.
We came up with a few quiet hand signals to avoid any unnecessary noise in the bush. For an example, if I wanted my son to yelp, cluck, purr or cackle, I would give him a series of finger signs that would indicate which call to apply.
We ended our evening with visions of a “super size” Tom running towards our place of hiding.
I awoke minutes before the alarm was set to sound and turned it off.
I quietly tip toed down the hallway into Jake’s room to wake him. After a few shakes and some very sharp whispers, his eyes popped open and he sprang from his bed like a slingshot.
Once again down the stairs we went.
After dressing in our camouflage, we made a thermos of hot coffee and a small thermos of hot chocolate. With gun and gear in hand we walked out the door and into the crisp April air. There was a slight breeze and I remember being thankful that we had dressed in layers and would be quite comfortable sitting for any given period of time. There is nothing worse than getting into an extremely promising hunting spot and not being able to enjoy it due to the elements.
It was still fairly dark when we reached our destination... This particular spot was on the edge of a hardwood bush and bordered a small meadow. There were small scrub trees through out the clearing and I felt that these could be used to our advantage.
We had roosted the turkeys the night before. They were sleeping about twenty yards into the hardwoods from the edge of the little meadow. I had been watching the turkeys patterns for a couple of weeks and found that they would frequent the meadow every morning to feed and mate and every afternoon to dust in the small sand bowls the meadow had to offer.
We set up our decoy and took our seats in the little make shift blind we had fabricated a few days prior. We used a bit of camouflaged netting combined with some cedar branches and a few small pine trees.
The situation of our blind was perfect that morning and I could feel Jake’s excitement as we nestled in. I may have been a little excited myself.
Jake and I softly whispered back and forth for a while and I tried to show him where I felt the Turkeys would be coming in from.
The breeze was warm and we decided to take off a layer under our camo to be as comfy as possible.
We sipped on our hot beverages for another few minutes and then finally the time came to take my trigger lock off and chamber a few shells.
I had chosen Magnum number five Turkey load due to it’s accuracy at a distance and its tight pattern.
The proof would be in the pudding.
As the sun rose up over the trees, the early morning mist floated through the hardwoods in a medieval kind of manor.
The birds began chirping and the chatter of a grey squirrel echoed throughout the timber.
The faint honking of some geese could be heard in the distance and the mist started to dissipate as the morning sun grew warmer.
Suddenly, a faint yelp from a hen rose through the woods and my son began to grin.
I gave Jake a nod and a quick finger sign and he picked up the call.
He started in with a few quiet yelps that led into a louder more subtle cackle, mimicking a hen as she fly’s down from her roost
Seconds later a deep and shrill gobble echoed back to us through the cedars and into the meadow.
Jake’s face lit up like a light bulb as he scrambled for the box call that rested on the floor of our blind.
“Sounds like a monster” he whispered as his little hand shook with excitement
I could see his efforts to calm himself, as his face changed back from exhilarated to an almost stone cold state. “Did ya hear him Dad?” he whispered again trying to seem as if he were calm.
“I think he’s commin’”


I nodded my head and couldn’t fight back the grin that grew on my face.
“Just keep still and listen to what I say” I replied. I realized then that indeed Jake was correct; the Tom was on its way.
As I gave Jake some of our pre-planned finger signs he beautifully presented the tom with some clucks, yelps and cackles. All of the hours spent squeaking out calls around the house and his mom telling him to “stuff it” had paid off. He was doing a great job.
“Watch for a small white head bobbing in the bush” I said with my eyes fixed on the gobbling direction.
Sure enough minutes later we spotted a small white head moving about the brush of some thick and twisted cedars. He would disappear and reappear in the blink of an eye and we both had our eyes glued on him. He would let out a tremendous gobble every so often to let any near by hens know he was there for business. He was a fair sized tom and his neck would stretch out long and narrow each time he decided to bellow out a gobble.
With our calls quieted down to clucks and soft purrs at this point, the tom shrieked out time after time and grew nearer.
When the bird was within range, we remained completely motionless. I waited until his feathers were fluffed and he was in full strut turned opposite to us. I slowly raised my trusty Browning up and over the edge of our blind. I put the bead onto the lower part of the gobbler’s head so as the shot would penetrate both the head and neck...
With a short squeeze of the trigger, the mighty Tom toppled over and gave a few violent flaps of his wings.
Success was ours.
My partner and I had harvested our first turkey together. I ejected the remaining shells from my shotgun as the faint smell of gun powder lingered in the air. The boy and I arose from our place of hiding. We shook hands, gave each other a high five and made our way over to our gobbler. Jake commented on a job well done and I returned the compliment back to him. He had been as much a part of this harvest as I and deserved credit as well.
As we knelt down beside our bird, I unzipped my hunting pack and retrieved the turkey harvest seal .I handed it to Jake and showed him how to apply it to the bird’s leg. We punched out the dates and times on the seal and then sat back to enjoy the moment.
The sunshine was pouring down on us at this point and we said a little thank you to god for giving us the bird. I’m sure all of the critters in the forest could here our laughter and chatter that morning and what a special morning it was. We decided that we should be getting back, so, with bird in hand; we started our journey back to the house. Once home, Jake held up our turkey with great pride to show his Mom and sister.
Yet another memorable hunt had taken place that morning, and I knew then, that there would be many more to follow.

Our Mallards

I have been an avid duck hunter for nearly twenty years now. My most meaningful hunt to date however happened only a few years back.
As I stood in a cramped, stuffy factory one evening, my thoughts were inundated with what the following morning’s adventure could bring. It was the night before opening migratory bird season. (Duck Huntin’)
I was also thinking of my son who was only five at the time and who was fast asleep at home. I wanted to include him in the opening morning excitement. I concocted a plan for the following day and to my displeasure the rest of the shift seemed to last for an eternity.
Upon arriving home, I crept with extreme stealth about the house, tip toeing from closet to closet to gather all items needed to carry out my plot.
I rescued a couple of old, and rather beat up mallard decoys from the depths of my hunting gear and brought them back to life to have the full blown duck hunting effect.
My next task was to create a camouflage outfit of a junior size. Luckily enough I had an old tattered pair of paintball coveralls that I had kept in the back of the closet for an occasion such as this. (I have always had a real problem with parting with camo).
With scissors, hot glue, and a some handy stitch work, a fantastic “little man” camo outfit was fabricated that evening.
I laid out our outfits, decoys, thermos’s, and gear and headed up to bed for an extremely short sleep.
When the alarm went off the following morning , my eyes were reluctant to open , however, I managed to pry my head sluggishly from my pillow and made my way to the little fellow’s room to give him a shake. When he gained his senses and realized that I was asking him to go duck hunting with me,he quickly threw off his covers, jumped from his bed and we both headed downstairs. He seemed quite excited to see our gear displayed out on the floor and was quite impressed with his new outfit. It was almost as if Santa had come he said and quickly donned his camo.
Fortunately for us the hunting spot of preference was a five minute walk from our front door.This spot was perfect for a first timer as it seldom had any other hunters and I felt more comfortable if it were just him and I.
As we perambulated down the small bush trail, the dry autumn leaves crushed under our feet and the sweet smell of wild apples pleasantly graced our nostrils. The path was quite blear due to our early jump on the day but we proceeded with caution. The end of the trail touched on an inlet of Georgian Bay and had a small swampy cove complete with reeds and cattails and all of the scenery that made for a delectable habitat for our migratory friends.
We decided on one particular spot as it offered wonderful natural camouflage with utilizing the surrounding reeds and it closely bordered the water and made for fairly east decoy placement.
After situating ourselves in the reeds, I proceeded to wade out into the little shallow inlet to set out our fake feathered friends.
The boy had the important job of holding my gun, in a safe manor and unloaded of course and seemed to take great pride in doing so.
After wading back to our makeshift blind of reeds, we somewhat made ourselves comfortable.
I fiddled around in my hunting tote for a few minutes until I found the duck call I had packed.
The call greatly amused my son and in no time we were making greeting calls, hail calls, feeding rasps and some come back calls.
We were masters.
The early morning mist seemed to blanket us but lightened with every inch of the bright orange sun’s rising.Along with the rising of the sun came the almost war like sounds of guns firing in the distance.We were quite entertained by this and almost forgot about our calling.
We could see a lot of ducks flying further out in the cove but nothing at this point had came close enough for us to take a poke at.
A few minutes later however, something almost magical happened.
With out any warning, two big, plump Mallards flew in and hovered right in front of us above our decoys.
With my son’s eyes fixed on the ducks, I quickly stood up and with a couple snappy squeezes of the trigger we had harvested our first game together.
Turning back to look at my son was one of the most memorable moments of my life.
With his eyes bulging like ping-pong balls and a smile from ear to ear, he proudly yelled “ya got em’ dad”
I quickly replied “no Jaker’ ”, “we got em’”
This was the beginning of a great hunting partnership, and what better partner to have than your boy.

These srories are about, my son Jake and my hunting stories, please feel free to post stories and pictures, as well as information on fishing and hunting places in Ontario that you would like to share with people, hot spots.