Pennsylvania Game News - Feburary 2011 - 19

would add to my knowledge and appreciation of the outdoors. Wisdom such as grouse prefer southern exposures on chilly mornings, mature gobblers are usually the first to sound off and white oak is sweeter than red. It was a few years after the cutting before I returned to survey the damage. Say what you will about timbering and the value regeneration brings, the results were devastating. Quite simply, everything that made the place special was gone. I walked in circles seeking the familiar. Dozens and dozens of times I had entered this place in the predawn darkness without a light, and without trouble. It made me realize how dependent I was on physical clues to serve as my guide. Finally, amidst the black raspberry bushes and felled treetops, I found what I hoped I would not. As I counted the rings of the jagged stump, I paused when I reached the outer 15. It was during those years that I became a brief part of the century-old story. At age 13 I took my first buck off a nearby mountain. With just three shots from my newly acquired .30-30 Savage pump, the small 6-point introduced me to the sport that would become my passion. In my youthful optimism, I was convinced the spot would produce a deer every season to come. Three years later, I was still looking for my second trophy. A few days prior to the upcoming rifle season, I called my uncle Tom for advice. It was he who suggested that I change locations. “The deer always head for the cattails to bed down, especially once the first shots are fired. Why not post in the beech grove just above them?” I remember my reluctance to give up my “lucky spot.” It had produced once, wouldn’t it happen again? Maybe so. But then again, maybe not. As I scouted the new area that Thanksgiving morning, it became clear my uncle’s advice was sound. Several deer bounded for parts unknown as I approached the grove. It was then that I discovered her.
FEBRUARY 2011

As she had already done so many times in the past, the beech tree was doing her part to fatten the deer for the impending winter. Trails, rubs, scrapes — the sign was everywhere. I was in position beside the beech long before daylight the following Monday. As darkness gave way to dawn, deer filtered past. Unlike virtually all of my previous encounters, these deer were not spooked. They were going about their daily routine oblivious to the shaking teenager above. Hunting deer on their own terms was much more enjoyable than the brief encounters I was accustomed to. It wasn’t long before I filled my tag with a fat 5-point. Little did I know that this buck would be the first of many to come from that beech. In fact, it produced an opening morning buck for me the next 14 years. Now, as I sit on the stump, I place my finger on each ring and can recall the deer with which it equates. I remember the details: the direction of travel, the weather conditions, the time, the number of points. I hear the footsteps. I feel the anticipation. I count back four rings and relive the 8-point chasing a doe in heat. Seven rings it was the 6-point that bedded within sight. Ten rings and I see the albino 4-point that sneaked past my stand only to fall to my cousin across the creek. I shuffle the leaves with my foot. Sure enough, I find spent cartridges that flew from my rifle sometime in the past. Their journey complete, I place the tarnished casings in my pocket. I tell myself that forestry is an important part of conservation, and that someday the place will be special again. I find comfort in the saplings emerging from the brush, knowing they are the product of this beech tree. In time, the scars will heal.
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Pennsylvania Game News - Feburary 2011

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