Kate has told you what happened back at camp on day 8 of our trip to Prince of Whales island, but I thought it might be fun to also give you the perspective from the field.
We got up early, packed our usual snacks of trail mix, pb&j and snickers, and headed out in the borrowed truck. We wanted to finally see some bucks, and our new friend we’d run into the day before said he knew where they were hiding. Sam didn’t just tell us; he showed us. He had multiple pictures and videos on his phone from game cameras and drones. This guy was like the sitka deer whisperer, and we were grateful for his guidance.
Sam told us about his spot because we were visitors, but he also let us know it wasn’t going to be an easy trek, even for locals. The walk in would take a couple hours, and it was slippery and dense. He warned us to keep track of the time so we didn’t face walking out in the dark.
Off we went, layered up with Gortex top and bottom, so the rain didn’t dampen our limbs or our spirits. We spotted a couple of does out in the open as we approached the tree line. We were hoping their boyfriends were somewhere in the green forest beyond.
The journey was tough, but enjoyable. We stayed quiet and focused on tracks, chewed leaves, bedded down weeds…anything that might clue us in to where the bucks were. We saw lots of those signs, but walked for hours without seeing a buck.
We eventually reached a creek and a wall of rock on either side. It looked like going up higher and crossing over the water was a possibility, but we were also conscious of the time. When we made the deal to borrow our neighbors’ truck, we did so promising to pick them up from the docks at 4:30, when they finished their fishing trip. If we went up higher, we’d add more time to the push in and the climb out, and we might miss them. We were feeling like it was time to go.
Just as we’d finished this whispered conversation, I turned my head and saw a beautiful big buck. At first I thought I was kidding myself, and it was just some sticks/leaves/stump combo. Then it moved. It definitely was a buck, with a rack bigger than anything we’d seen. I was afraid to move or make noise, but Edgar was facing the other direction. I slowly reached out and tugged on the bottom of his coat. He turned. “Buck!” I mouthed, eyes big and fingers up by my ears to communicate the size. He followed my gaze and his eyes went big too. I squatted down put fingers in both ears, bracing for the shot I knew was coming.
BOOM. The 7mm vibrated in the forest, and our deer was hit. Edgar saw it stumble as the bullet made contact, and then the big buck took off. We paused a moment to breathe and then made our way over to where we thought we’d find him. No deer. We did see a small piece of bone and blood, confirming the shot, but needed more to follow the trail. The first option was to check the buck’s backtrack – wounded deer will often spin around and go back to the assumed safety of where they’ve already traveled. We traced that path as far as we could, looking for traces of blood and finding nothing. Back to the original spot, we selected another possible path, this time downhill. After taking it down to the valley below, we backtracked again. Sideways. The other way. Uphill, in the unlikely event the buck tried to find a way up and out. Nothing.
The rain was still coming down, and we were slipping and sliding quite a bit. I had mud covering my pants… but the gear was doing its job and I was still dry underneath. A check of the time confirmed we needed to do the two-hour hike out and get to the gas station. We were flying out early the next morning, as were the neighbors, and the borrowed truck needed a full tank before then. The only gas station on the island closed at 5pm.
We downed our last snickers and made a hasty retreat to the truck. Even after wearing our legs out on the search, we actually made good time getting out of the forest, up the hill, through the flat (avoiding the dangers of the muskeg ponds) and up the downed timber to the truck. There was no time to celebrate, and we sure didn’t feel like celebrating. We knew there was a wounded deer out there, and we were losing the light to find him.
It took a few miles through the gravel roads to get to town, and then to the gas station. We filled up quickly, and made the decision both of us had already made to ourselves. We were going back to find our deer.
Back on the logging road, we found the spot, parked the truck, shook out our layers, climbed down the clear cut, skirted the muskeg ponds, scrambled over and under trees and across streams, and back to the last place we saw the deer. Where to now? We hit the backtrack again, taking it farther than before. We ran into a flatter area with lots of deer droppings and trampled down beds… this was likely home for him, and he was no where to be found. Back to the start. Another path. Nothing. The ground was sopping by now, and the continuous rain was rinsing away tracks. We tried to hold onto hope that our deer was just around the next stump, the next big rock, just around that bend… but he was gone. Vanished.
We had to leave before dark, and we pushed it right to the limit. We had just enough light to find the truck and climb inside. As you read in Kate’s recap, our friend Sam went back out and made another effort to find our buck, but never did. Back home, a test fire of the 7mm confirmed it was off. The jostle around in the truck when it slid off the road must have done it, and we didn’t think to sight it back in.
But we are still thinking about that buck, and planning for another journey to Prince of Whales.
