"It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves."
Sir Edmund Hillary
Like the Sirens of Homer’s Odyssey, mountains have called to men for thousands of years. Ancient man built altars of worship in high places, while some cultures worshipped the mountains themselves. God spoke to Moses on the mountain. Mountains have provided refuge for hunted men and hunted animals. A home for outlaws and fugitives, mountains provide solace, comfort and a place for reflection and soul searching. Mountains are beautiful, alluring and inviting, but they are also hard and unforgiving. As Bear Claw Chris Lapp said in Jeremiah Johnson, “You can’t cheat the mountain, Pilgrim. Mountain’s got its own ways.”
I was born and raised in the mountains and it was here that I learned to hunt and fish. Hunting in the mountains presents a unique set of challenges that only mountain hunters fully understand. Almost everywhere you hunt in the mountains requires a hike. If you want to hunt in solitude, it’s usually a long hike. To mountain hunters, the longer and steeper the hike, the greater the reward. To find, hunt, and kill a mature whitetail buck is a challenge anywhere. To do it in the mountains is quite a feat. To do it consistently, puts the hunter in an elite category of sportsman.
Scratching out a living in the mountains requires hardiness in man and beast. Life in the mountains is exacting. Food is often scarce, weather is often harsh, and terrain is always challenging. Hunting in these conditions is difficult, but can be tremendously rewarding.
In the post-chestnut blight era, the staple mast crop in the mountains is acorns. And king of the acorns is the white oak. Of all the oak species, white oak acorns have the least tannic acid, therefore are the most palatable and most preferred food source in the mountains. Most hunters will focus on white oak acorns when searching for deer sign. Atmospheric conditions play a large role in white oak production here in the mountains. Frosts occurring late in the spring, drought conditions, exceedingly wet conditions, are all possible influences on acorn production. A hard frost or freezing night coming after oaks have begun to produce buds will kill the buds and render the oak fruitless for a season and make finding acorns like a needle in a haystack.
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| White oak acorns in late summer |
It was conditions such as these that provided one of my most memorable hunts a few years ago. Preseason scouting had turned up zero acorns and precious little deer sign. It was the opening week of archery season and I was sitting at my desk at work. I got a text message from my father in law telling me that he had found a high mountain gap that was loaded with acorns. They must have been the only acorns for miles, because he had seen multiple bears in the first hour of daylight. Shortly after he sent me the message, he called. In a hushed voice, he told me he had just shot a good bear out of the top of a large white oak. He said the place was literally crawling with bears. I made up my mind that I would be standing in that gap the following Saturday.
I had never been to this place, so we sat down together and studied some USGS topo maps and GPS waypoints and formulated a plan. Even with the best directions, there is always some apprehension going into a new place in the dark. But I had visions of black bears climbing white oaks and presenting an easy target, so I eagerly anticipated Saturday morning.
I knew it would be a long hike. I had marked the gap on my GPS and from the closest point I could park my truck, it read 1.61 miles straight line. I spent Friday night loading my pack. I knew it would be a long, arduous trip so I kept my gear minimal: Lightweight lumbar harness pack, knife, paracord, water, granola bars, rangefinder and binoculars.
I set my alarm for an early hour, but like a kid on Christmas morning, I awoke two hours before my alarm. I loaded the truck and drove to the trailhead. I knew the 1.61 miles on my GPS probably meant at least three miles of walking, virtually every step uphill. I could tell by the tightly packed lines on the topo map that I would have some steady climbing before I reached the gap at an elevation of just over 3,800 feet.
After about a mile of brisk walking, I stopped to catch my breath and check my GPS. Still .95 miles to go and I was beginning to sweat. I readjusted my pack and put my shoulder to the grade once more. As I continued to climb, day began to break and black turned to gray. I slowed my pace a bit so I could watch and listen as I walked. As I made my way up a rough, rocky, steep ridge covered in mountain laurels, I was finding bear sign every few feet. An explosion at my feet startled me for a second, until I recognized its source. A ruffed grouse had taken flight at my approach. As I continued on, I jumped another, then a pair, and another pair, and a few more singles. In all, I jumped nine grouse, more than I had seen in several years combined.
After climbing several hundred more feet, I began to see what looked like a summit above me. I checked my GPS once more and saw that I was only a couple hundred yards from the gap I was looking for. I sat down and ate my breakfast and let my breathing and heart rate return to normal while I cooled off from my climb. I unslung my bow, stuck my walking stick in the ground so I could grab it on my way back down, and began my slow, stealthy approach to the gap.
My father in law had described it, but I wasn’t prepared for the amount of sign I could see. Virtually every white oak tree had the bark ripped off where numerous bears had climbed them in search of acorns. Tree tops were littered with broken limbs and several of the limbs had been chewed or twisted off and had fallen to the ground. For some reason, this gap had a bumper crop of acorns when nothing else for miles around had any at all. I slipped silently along, taking a few steps then stopping to watch and listen. The wind was in my favor, and if any bears were up the trees, I would be able to hear them and approach from downwind.
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| You know conditions have been perfect when you the ground littered like this. |
As I neared the gap, I could hear acorns steadily raining out of a massive white oak tree. It was mid-September and the leaves were still thick and green on most trees. I slipped slowly towards the tree, staying downwind. I thought there might be a bear up the tree. As I neared the tree, with my eyes in the canopy, I heard a rustle in the leaves behind me and turned to see two large bucks bounding up out of a ravine below me. I believe they had heard me but didn’t see or smell me.
I already had an arrow nocked and my rangefinder in my hand. One of the bucks disappeared in some brush, but one stopped and turned to see what I was. I was already ranging him at 54 yards. That’s a long shot with a bow, but I routinely practice at long distances. I figure if my shooting form is solid and I can execute long range shots, short range shots should be easy. I dialed up the yardage on my single pin sight and drew my bow.
As the string settled to my nose and the fletching to the corner of my mouth, I found him in my peep. He took a step or two and most of his body was hidden behind a large tree. As he stepped into view, I made a bleat call with my mouth and he froze. I silently prayed, “Lord, let me be accurate,” and released the arrow.
I lost sight of the arrow, but I heard a very audible smack when it hit. The buck bolted and ran full speed out of sight. It sounded for all the world like I missed him and struck rocks. After determining that there was nothing up the tree I had been stalking, I walked over to where the buck had been to retrieve whatever was left of my arrow. I stood where I thought he had been, but could find no trace of my arrow and no blood.
I looked around a bit and saw no sign, so I decided to go back to stalking. I don’t know why, but I looked far out the ridge in the direction the buck ran and I saw something that just looked out of place. I put my binoculars on it and saw a tip of antler. It still hadn’t registered to me that I might have hit him, so my first thought was that he had gone and bedded and was trying to hide. After a few steps in his direction, I put the binoculars on him again and realized he was laying dead.
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| Almost no brow tines, but a memorable trophy nonetheless |
The rocks I thought I had hit turned out to be bone in his front shoulder. The Mathews Monster that I was shooting had punched through the bone and sliced open the bottom of his heart. Death had come in seconds. He had run about 60 yards and piled up. He was a mature old buck with short tines and wide rack that measured 19 and a half inches inside spread.
I had begun the day absolutely sure I would be surrounded by black bears before the day ended, yet here I was, in the high mountains of Appalachia, quartering and caping a wiley old buck in some of the most beautiful woods I had ever seen. After I had the meat squared away in my pack and the head secured, I cleaned up and took a moment just to look around at my surroundings. I thanked my Creator for such an opportunity as this and turned to begin the long downhill trek back home.
