Well today I shoulda stayed in bed. My dog did.
Strong gusting winds today, I so planned on spot and stalk in heavy timber. The movement of the trees would disguise my movement. A cold front moved in and the rut is starting to gear up. Good, right? Wrong-oh, moosebreath!
I went to a high meadow I call "Wagonwheel". It is atop a ridgeline and has small draws and mini-ridgelines radiating out from the central meadow. I figured this would allow me to pick a draw or two where the wind was in my face. Wind to cover my movement and the sound of my footsteps, wind to blow my scent away from the deer, I was golden, right? Wrong-oh, bison-buttocks!
EVERY choice I made was second guessed (gust?) by the wind. It would swirl around and blow from behind, pushing my scent up the deer's noses like a stink bomb of danger. I blew more deer out of the woods ahead of me than I have seen in years. It was like a field of waving white tails saying bye bye sucker! Time after time, I would stop, climb back up to the meadow and start down another draw with the wind in my face, only to have it switch yet again.
On flat ground, wind blows fairly straight, but the Black Hills are a series of irregular ridges similar to the ridges of your fingerprint. As wind blows across, it catches on the tops and swirls up and down the slopes in wild and unpredictable ways.
About 2:30, my phone starts vibrating and it is the boss. Tonite's shift is open because a coworker called in sick. He apologizes for calling me, knows I am locked in an epic struggle to feed myself for the winter, but can I come in. When the going gets tough, the tough get going, right? A bad day of hunting is better than a good day of working? Wrong-oh, fishlips!
This was the excuse I was hoping for and I headed for the Jeep at a dogtrot, showered at home, fed the dog, played with her for a while, and headed in to work. I got 18 days of season left, after all.