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GHOST DEER
By Bruce Goodrow
CHAPTER I
A silvery harvest moon moved almost imperceptibly across the dark Texas sky and the unrelenting prairie wind paused as if to gather strength and prepare for the next
day. Already the coyotes were serenading the goddess of the night as she moved westward through the star-filled November sky. Night creatures were on the move with the soft hustle and bustle that could
only be detected in the delicate ears of those animals soon to be involved in the complex cycle of predator and prey. In that moment, the only sound in the tranquil night air was the fleeting swish of an owl's
wings as it began its deadly decent upon an unsuspecting field mouse scurrying in the grass below.
The Ghost Deer was awake. He had been alert now for several hours but had not stirred from his bed
hidden in an impenetrable plum thicket. The plum thicket had been home for the Ghost Deer for five years now. It seemed a natural place—no human sound or scent. Ghost Deer knew that within the vast
Texas prairie there were areas that seemed more peaceful than others and without human presence. Even with his acute animal intuition he could not comprehend that some ranches did not allow any type of hunting;
he only knew when a location was less disturbed and without the hated man scent.
It was almost time now. His instincts told him that the hour of his nocturnal patrol was about to begin. The moon was
rapidly approaching its zenith. He moved carefully and silently out of the thicket and started his way slowly north down a mesquite-filled draw pausing at times to savor the night air and to listen to the
familiar sounds of the dark. He knew the wheat and peanut fields across the Salt Fork River were alive with feeding does and hopeful bucks. He had ample time and his autumn ritual took priority.
Ghost Deer had established several scrape lines to mark his private kingdom. His nightly routine was to check each area for the scents and signs of other area bucks. Each new buck was ever hopeful
that this year the Ghost Deer would not emerge as the dominant warrior to claim an inordinate share of the soon-to-be-in-estrus does that inhabited the West Texas ranchlands.
His scrape lines marked an area
of over four square miles and the Ghost Deer was aware that not all of those acres were without the risk and dangers associated with human contact. He had learned well and, at times, hard about the folly of
interacting with man. He remembered vividly the near miss of the bright lights of an eighteen-wheeler on the nearby county road. That was the night that his sister lost her life in the sudden glare of onrushing
headlights. He avoided roadways now, those cold strips of blacktop that seemed to stretch endlessly into the Texas horizon. He had long since found ways to travel without endangerment associated with
roads. Ghost Deer had become a master at using culverts and creek beds to reduce risk of being seen or injured by human activity. Over the years he had learned what hours man claimed as his own. He
had learned that darkness was a staunch friend and valuable ally. The Salt Fork River provided a means of undetectable travel and when roads did occur they always passed high above on bridges. Even on
those rare occasions when a car crossed over a bridge, he had learned that the probing lights could never find him to give away his position on the damp riverbed below.
As Ghost Deer moved closer to the
line fence that separated two areas of prairie, his acute sense of smell detected the day old passage of a man. He did not feel at ease when the human stench assaulted his nostrils. He could recall that morning
several seasons past when he was in ardent pursuit of a willing doe. The doe had led him across a peanut field as she stopped to graze, then ran on only to stop again moments later. She had led him down a
rock filled draw and into a small clearing where she was eagerly feeding on deer candy. Corn! Corn was everywhere! Succulent golden kernels were spread out on the dew kissed grass just waiting to be consumed.
He was in his third year of life then and growing more confident and cocky each day. Already he had developed a new heavy rack of eight points, up two from just the year before. He did not think of caution
in those early days and he was mesmerized by the dual attraction of the doe and the corn.
He stepped out of the nearby shadows of the surrounding cedars and was about to enter the clearing when a sudden
noise froze him in his tracks. The sound was a grunt, loud and deep—a guttural reverberation that immediately transcended thoughts of love and food. It was the warning grunt from the dominant fourteen-point
that held dominion over the Salt Fork range. The fourteen-point was huge, with massive beams and a frame exceeding 275 pounds. Ghost Deer was not as confident at that moment as he had felt just seconds
before! He took a step backwards into the cover of the brush just as a tremendous noise rang out from somewhere nearby. He had a split second vision of movement at the far end of the clearing when searing
pain ripped through his left flank. Ghost Deer ran for the cover of a dry wash at breakneck speed. The hunter's bullet had only grazed his hindquarter but it provided one more indelible lesson that he
would never forget.
Ghost Deer remembered those last moments before the sudden sharp report. He had detected the subtle smell of man but had waved it aside as visions of the corn and the doe took center
stage. Only the challenge of the old buck had slowed him down long enough to save his life. All this and more were stored in the memory banks of Ghost Deer's brain. Man was to be avoided!
Experience had taught him to use his God-given attributes to his best advantage. Ghost Deer had developed a sense of smell and hearing that were remarkable even when compared to other deer. He had learned
to use wind and night to stack the odds in his favor. He approached every situation with extreme caution, always moving into the wind and stopping frequently while yet in deep cover. He had learned to
stand motionless for hours at the first hint that all was not well. Ghost Deer had learned to travel only those routes that reinforced his feelings of security and safety.
He moved through the
numerous shelterbelts that surrounded the fields and prairies. These shelterbelts were dense with Bois d' arc, Chinaberry, Mesquite and Black Locust trees. They provided Ghost Deer with his highways of
life. Ghost Deer resisted the temptation to graze in the open peanut fields with the other deer. He entered open areas only during the new moon when the ink black sky signaled that all was well and his nose and
ears could detect no hint of human activity. He knew every ravine, dry wash, creek, riverbed, and canyon in his realm. He had learned to use them well!
Ghost Deer had become the master of
camouflage and concealment. He could move about almost unseen. His only links to the daytime world were the occasional enormous tracks in the wet earth after those rare West Texas rainfalls. Ghost Deer
was also the author of the washtub-sized scrapes left at remote edges of clearings and wooded hollows. Trees were a silent witness to his nocturnal passage as they often suffered from the brunt of his annual rubs as
he polished his twelve-point, heavy antlers and strengthened his neck for the ritualistic mating combat with other area bucks that had enough fortitude to challenge his sovereignty.
Ghost Deer had
left his signature in other ways that were not as easily traced to his existence. Many a silent night was suddenly and violently ripped asunder with the sound of buck-to-buck combat. It was nature's way to
test the strength and endurance of each mating buck every year. Younger bucks grew stronger and older bucks were replaced as each new season reestablished the laws of survival of the fittest. Ghost Deer was yet
in his prime and was eager and willing to demonstrate that fact to all challengers.
The dominance and presence of Ghost Deer became manifest in the number of broken antlers in the other large bucks who
shared the Texas landscape. With each passing season, hunters remarked how their large trophies had damaged horns. A missing brow tine, main beam points broken or, occasionally, a complete antler missing from
the head of a large buck would serve as mute testimony to the existence of Ghost Deer.
Ghost Deer moved silently through his nocturnal world constantly aware of every sound and smell. He did not
venture into the center of open fields abundant with succulent peanuts and tender winter wheat. When he did feed he was always near the edges, just a split second away from cover and safety. He intercepted
does as they left more vulnerable and dangerous areas and he coerced them into entering his realm of invisibility. Together they would move into the areas that were utterly devoid of human presence and the
accompanying feeling of danger whenever they detected man.
This night was the same as many others that had come and gone in the seven seasons before. No hint of danger—only the fading scent
of man at the line fence. He had fed in the abundant fields, established contact with several future mating partners and had intimidated at least a dozen other bucks. His instincts and his biological clock
told him it was time to return to the haven of his plum thicket.
He moved slowly north, jumping the line fence effortlessly and entered the long, mesquite-filled ravine that led to his private
domain. As was his custom, Ghost Deer moved northwest to the far end of his scrape line and diligently checked each scrape for the unmistakable sign and smell of an estrus doe. He stopped to freshen his
old scrapes along the way, urine strong and neck engorged. A pair of raccoons momentarily ceased their foraging and watched silently as Ghost Deer faded into the darkness.
It was still a good hour
away from the first evidence of dawn on the eastern horizon when he entered the last shelterbelt before his sanctuary and the comfort of his bed in the plum thicket. Ghost Deer moved through the wooded area
with little concern that his hooves stirred and crunched the dry leaves that carpeted the ground. As was his habit, he stopped often to test the wind for any scent that would arouse the feeling of
danger. The only sounds were the gentle noise of a light breeze fluttering elm leaves that had not yet fallen from the tree limbs overhead. No scent warned danger as Ghost Deer only detected the sweetness
of damp earth and fallen leaves.
Ghost Deer moved forward into the night, his path only minutes away from the buried line fence that defined the outer perimeter of his haven. It was still
dark. Wispy clouds moved overhead to momentarily blot the star-filled sky. It was one more night that was the same as many nights before. Ghost Deer had no way of knowing that this night was
profoundly different and that these differences would have a dramatic effect on his life. Ghost Deer had been seen!
CHAPTER II
The Hunter had often seen the distant island of trees on the half
section of bleak CRP land that bordered the prairie and range to the south. From a distance it was not an impressive area at all, no more than sixty yards in diameter and characterized by small, runty trees
that seemed to grow as if governed by chaos rather than any logical pattern of nature. The most obvious feature was that the small grove was completely out in the open. There was no way to approach the trees
without an animal having to walk across a thousand yards of knee high open terrain.
At first glance, the Hunter almost dismissed any idea that the island of trees could hold any promise of whitetail
deer—too small, too open and too far from any source of water. It was only circumstance, luck or fate that provided the Hunter with the initiative and opportunity to explore the area in greater detail.
That particular morning had started later than was his usual custom, for a very flat tire on the right front of his black four-wheel drive pickup had abruptly altered early plans. Only the day before
he had driven across the ranch land near the Salt Fork River and must have picked up a mesquite thorn from one of the many small trees that grew profusely in the region. The tire demanded immediate attention
and he was able to temporarily remedy the situation with the aid of a portable butane tank rigged to be an emergency air supply. The Hunter was able to inflate the tire enough to get to town a few miles away
but he did not have confidence that the punctured tire would not again deflate in a far less fortuitous circumstance. With some irritation, but with tacit acceptance, the Hunter knew that this morning would see
him at breakfast in the Cherokee Café while waiting for the nearby tire repair business to open at 8:00 a.m.
One breakfast, five cups of coffee and three hours later the Hunter had the tire fixed and
was belatedly driving south to his previously scouted hunting area. The dashboard clock indicated that it was rapidly approaching 10:00 a.m. and he had already missed the prime hours of the morning
hunt. The Hunter had seen signs of a large deer in the flats on the Salt Fork River but was now reluctant to enter the area in midmorning for fear of alerting the deer and possibly spooking the animal so that
it might change routine and stay within deeper cover. There would be another day and he would not have to deal with a flat at the next dawn. With no more thought or premeditation, the Hunter turned the truck
around to return to the ranch.
As the dirt road wound around the scattered sections of intermittent peanut fields, winter wheat and prairie, the hunter thought about where he might go to enjoy the
remainder of the morning. He needed somewhere that he could indulge in the traditions of scouting, that acquired skill of noticing faint hoof marks on hardened earth, the awareness of dew claws and the distinct
old and new rubs on the scattered trees. It was an art, this detection of the almost imperceptible passage of elusive trophy bucks, yet it was an addiction, a passion that beckoned the Hunter year after
year. At that very moment, he turned the corner of the old section road and saw again the island of trees in the distance.
The vague outline of an old access road provided direction through the
soft sand of the fallow field. The trail ended at the west side of the island of trees. The Hunter entered the tree line and was immediately aware of the thickness and diversity of the trees and
undergrowth. The grove was made up of elm, Bois d' arc, and locust and they seemed to be in all sizes and shapes. He entered deeper into the grove and recognized the outline of an old foundation—the
only trace of a frontier homestead. The foundation was in the last stages of being completely overgrown by the encroaching vegetation. He first noticed a rub on one of the small elm trees by the abandoned
storm cellar. The tree was small and the rub insignificant but it served to heighten the Hunter's awareness that the probability of deer had just taken a quantum leap forward.
The Hunter moved slower,
now noticing the indications of deer passage in the carpet of dry leaves. As he eased toward the eastern side of the thicket more and more trees were torn and shown vividly white where bark had been stripped
from their trunks and limbs. There were four small scrapes on the edge of the tree line and as the Hunter walked closer to examine them he noticed a well worn pathway leading into a large plum thicket and then out
to the old line fence now completely buried by drifted sand.
The buried line fence marked the boundary of this property, so the Hunter traced his steps backward toward the small grove of trees. At
the southern most end of the section, about 250 yards from the tree line, he saw a large cottonwood that would be ideal for a tree stand. From that vantage point he would be able to observe any movement in the
grove and would still be able to see the plum thicket and the trail leading east. By that afternoon the fixed tree stand was in place and shooting zones carefully trimmed through the overhanging branches.
The next morning the Hunter witnessed the dawn from 25 feet above ground in the old cottonwood. As darkness faded into the first glimpse of a slate gray morning sky, he raised his binoculars to detect
any movement in the faint light. From the height of the tree he could even see the far north end of the section. There seemed to be a thin line of trees a quarter of a mile away. With each passing
minute the terrain grew lighter until he could see clearly. For two hours the Hunter scanned the grove and the field for any hint of deer motion. Nothing! It was almost ten when he saw the first movement
on the northern horizon—two does moving unconcerned into the overgrown wheat field that bordered his location. Without permission to hunt beyond the line fence, he merely watched as the does slowly fed as
they moved ever eastward. They had grazed 200 yards into the field when an average-sized eight-point jumped the fence from the north and sauntered towards them. For the next half hour, the Hunter watched
the deer. They were unaware of his scrutiny as they wandered into a ravine and disappeared from sight.
He stayed in the tree until noon and then came down with the intent of walking to the thin line of
trees that marked the northern property line. The CRP field was in the process of reverse evolution. Domestic crops had been abandoned and the section was retuning to its native vegetation. Prairie
grasses, sage and a veritable mass of Texas sandspurs, covered the field. The sandspurs were everywhere—the curse of West Texas—needle sharp and every spine barbed! They seemed to grow on every
inch of ground and soon covered his bootlaces and lower pants. He moved carefully to avoid as many of the obnoxious plants as possible until he at last reached the thin line of trees that he had first seen from
his vantage point in the old cottonwood.
What the Hunter had not been able to determine from a thousand yards away was that the ground sloped downward near the tree line and therefore understated the
depth of the shelterbelt. It now appeared that the shelterbelt was approximately 50 yards wide and ran east to west for a half mile. The trees here were much larger and dominated by elm and locust.
He slowly entered the northeast corner of the line of trees and walked westward. The entire shelterbelt was alive with deer sign. Paths ran everywhere, leaves disturbed by many passing
hooves. There seemed to be no end to the number of trees stripped of their protective bark and contrasted white and wet against the dark and muted surfaces of the surrounding habitat. What was equally
impressive was not just the number, but also the size of the rubbed trees. Many were as thick as a man's thigh and were torn and scarred from knee level to shoulder height. The Hunter, amazed at the
implications, looked with awe at the five large scrapes that he could easily see without having to move a single step deeper into the grove.
He cautiously moved forward trying not to disturb the ground
or the profuse vegetation. He was glad he had worn his rubber boots and had applied a heavy dose of damp earth cover scent. The deer activity was clearly moving east to west in this tree line and he looked
over each new tree to determine if it would provide the location he needed for a tree stand.
Five hundred yards from the eastern most end of the shelterbelt, he found what he had been
seeking—an elm with enough maturity to hold a chain-on stand. He left the line of trees and rapidly returned to the truck. He was aware that the weather had been forecast to change and that rain was due
the next day. The stand would have to be placed that afternoon!
For once, the Texas weatherman had been correct. The following day found a 20 to 30 mile per hour wind driving a cold
intermittent rain. The Hunter knew that this would work in his favor, as it would help erase any scent residue in the grove of trees where he had positioned his stand. He did not hunt the shelterbelt that
day preferring to wait until weather conditions improved and wind direction might work more in his favor.
Overnight the storm passed and clouds gave way to a moonlit star-filled Texas sky. He had
trouble sleeping that evening, anticipation pumping adrenalin through his veins and transforming his night's sleep into a kaleidoscope of dreamscapes dominated by trophy deer. When four a.m. arrived, at last, he
arose quickly and dressed into his descented hush weave camo. He checked his equipment—gun taped for silence, clean scope lenses, bottle of Autumn Blend cover scent, binoculars and grunt call. He arrived
at the field at 4:40 and silently slipped into position with extra care to use his cover scent and to take advantage of the prevailing north to south wind. The Hunter sat motionless and without a sound for at
least half an hour. The morning was still pitch black and the only sounds were from the few windblown leaves not yet fallen in the branches overhead.
He heard it first as a small twig breaking, and
then the telltale crunch…crunch of a deer slowly walking in the dry leaves that now carpeted the shelterbelt. The footsteps were coming closer each moment and would soon pass almost below his very
tree. Darkness destroyed any possibility of vision. Seconds hung like hours as the dry crunching sounds kept coming ever closer and he strained to see. In a sudden flash the Hunter remembered his new
binoculars. That summer he had purchased a set of Steiner 8 x 56 glasses to help with the long range hunting in the Texas Panhandle. It was not the magnification of the glasses that rushed into his mind
but the light gathering capabilities of the 56mm objectives.
The deer must have been almost below him now as the sound of stirring leaves was just to his right. The Hunter raised the binoculars to
his eyes and, yes, there was the deer. The deer was fifteen yards away and, even in the darkness, the Hunter could make out the outline of a huge body and could detect the heavy main beams of a magnificent
buck. He lowered the binoculars and slowly raised the single shot Ruger into firing position.
Without the aid of the binoculars, it was still too dark to see—nothing in the scope but
blackness, nothing but an ebony void. The smaller objectives of the 50mm Leopold could not gather enough light. The Hunter lowered the rifle and replaced the binoculars to his eyes. Yes, there the
deer was again, but in that moment the buck slowly continued his journey to the east. The Hunter watched in awe! This was a deer! The Hunter knew that there would be another day. Perhaps not
tomorrow, or the next, or even this season, but this Ghost of a Deer would be there again. Next time….
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