Feeling Good Was Good Enough In The Old Days

Today was a great day to be alive. The air was pleasant at 7 a.m., and it's that little touch of coolness that brings out strong urges for fall hunting.

The first of the autumn color will start showing up in another few weeks, and the color spectacle ripens like a tomato on the vine until it splashes forth in full glory. And then, as if a silent reminder to one and all, the color glows briefly, the leaves fall, and we are soon left with many months before fall color graces our lives again.

Today is the kind of day when I remove my Winchester 101 over-under from the gun safe, stroke the fine walnut stock, run a Hoppe's No. 9 soaked patch through the barrel a few times even though it doesn't need it. Hoppe's No. 9, with just one whiff of this famous odor, is enough to bring back a half-century of wing-shooting memories.

More game and far fewer hunters in the old days

I remember my first rooster pheasant exploding in my face from a Genesee County cornfield, and it rose, wings cupping the air, and cackling like some poor demented soul, and my shotgun barrel pushed ahead of the bird. I kept the barrels swinging, and down he came.

Close examination of that pheasant's feathers, the bone-white ring around its neck, the glistening red head, and oh, those long barred tail feathers. This was a bird as beautiful as an autumn sunset.

Quick to mind came a memory of Fritz, a German shorthair pointer of mine, that was steady to wing and shot, and came with a snuffling nose that could ferret out pheasant scent like a Hoover vacuum chasing dirt. That dog could hunt for me, for the neighbor kids, and if a rooster existed, he could find it, work it into a corner, where the only possible opportunity for escape was to flush.

He and I were a pretty good team. He'd point them, and I'd shoot, and if he was of a mind to do so, he would retrieve. Most times, he'd lead me to the bird, and work off to find another one. My job, apparently because I shot it, was to pick it up. He was too busy hunting to care.

Back to the forefront of my memory was a dandy 8-point buck I shot on Oct. 2 one year. I was hunting from a pit blind, and it was a day much like today. Two bucks showed up, and there was an 8-point and a 10-point, and they began getting pretty wound up. Heads would drop, and together they would come, antlers clashing as they pushed each other back and forth. They kept at it for 15 minutes, and the smaller buck was as strong as the bigger one, and they raged on.

Me, I was waiting for a good shot at the biggest buck

I had the chance on a dozen occasions to shoot the 8-point but kept holding out for the 10-point. The problem was the larger buck was quartering toward me all the time while his sparring partner was quartering-away. Both were wonderful bucks, and the distance was 12-15 yards. I finally gave in to temptation, and when they separated and both stood 10 feet apart, their chests heaving from the exertion, I drew, aimed and shot the big 8-pointer. He ran 40-50 yards before dropping.

Days like today bring back memories of many days spent hunting ducks. Those days with hard stiff winds, lowering skies, and a breeze with a bite to it. The ducks would come like feathered speed demons, screaming in low over the cattails before flaring up, turning into the wind, and pitching into the decoys.

I can remember the days before the point system began. There were ducks a hunter could shoot, and some w couldn't. We knew how many birds we could take, and we went about our business in a methodical fashion. The shooting was good some days, poor on others, but there were real duck hunters in those potholes. If they worked a bird, and it passed over us, we would let it go and they would do the same for us. Now, it seems that it’s every man for himself and duck hunting is much the poorer for that stupid reasoning.

It doesn’t take much these days to make them good days

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end, but sadly, many of them have. I hunt daily now, not so much to feed my family as I did before, but to experience the glory of the outdoors.

There were fewer anglers and hunters back then, more room to move around in, and sportsmen respected each other. Some of that still exists among the older hunters, but some young hunters need to spend time with an old-timer and learn about peaceful coexistence and mutual respect.

Days like this morning bring a flood of memories. And oddly enough, most of them are absolutely wonderful. It's not all about fish caught or game killed, but it's more about just being there to experience the day.

And frankly, that was good enough for most of us. We knew that if we fished and hunted enough., we’d have our share of good and poor days.  Most of us just felt that being was enough; having some occasional good luck was just frosting on the cake.

Seeing a fish in an ice hole is tempting, but wait for safe ice.

Ice gives ice fishermen two different options to consider. One is to ask questions of bait-shops and local anglers before venturing out onto any ice or they don’t ask. That’s the way it works most years, but certainly not this one.

Let’s face one very important fact. Anyone who has spent much time on the ice over many years has probably seen someone fall through. I’ve gone through three different times. That I sit here on the computer every night writing personal blogs means I survived each incident, but I haven’t forgotten them. It also is a gut-wrenching event, one that smart folks never forget.

Those who have gone through, and lived through the experience, often gaze toward the sky, and murmur a very special thanks.

Preparation for any eventuality on ice is just common sense.

It also means that a person should always be prepared for such an accident. Most people fret about falling out of a tree, so they buy a safety harness of high quality, learn how to use it, and if by chance they do fall, they survive. Ice anglers should always take precautions.

People believe such things only happens to other people. Anyone with some intelligence can see how such ice accidents can and do happen. For many it means a bitterly cold bath but they survive.

Michigan's weather is amazing. Last week's temperatures didn’t make any ice, and the this week anglers are being warned to stay off any half-frozen lakes and streams, if they can find any ice.

Read this and repeat it as if it were a mantra: There is no really safe in the Traverse City area now. Some small bog ponds may be froze but only a fool would venture out on them.

It's well known that ice doesn't freeze uniformly. Lakes that set down in a valley often freeze up first because cold weather settles, but those same lakes often are the first to get covered with water and slush during warmer weather, and then the ice becomes unsafe.

Large lakes are slow to freeze, especially those with deep water. Good examples of such waters are Crystal Lake near Beulah and Higgins Lake near Roscommon. Some of these lake may not go over (have safe ice) until next month, and then waters like Grand Traverse Bay at Traverse City may not freeze at all. If it does freeze early, it's often goes out in mid-February, and the thaw usually comes early. Be extremely cautious at all times. So far, as of yesterday, there is no ice.

As it stands right now, very few lakes in the northern counties have safe ice. Now, very few lakes have any ice following the warm spell and high winds.

What's a person to do? First thing is to check with local bait shops to determine ice safety. The other thing people can do is stay off the ice until they are certain it is safe.

Thin ice kills people every year. Avoid that temptation.

Me, I like at least four inches of hard blue ice under my Ice Man boots. Six inches is even better, and I'm most comfortable with 10 to 12 inches. Some anglers go out on Saginaw Bay, but as prone as that ice mass is to breaking away from shore on a stout west wind, it pays be very cautious.

A few smaller lakes near Traverse City are good for bluegills and sunfish, and Spider Lake can be great. Nearby Platte Lake has very poor ice conditions, and any ice is very unsafe. The same holds true for Long Lake, another popular spot.

I dearly love to fish through the ice. I also like to continue breathing, and you won’t find me out on a lake with a skim of ice. I know many people who put their lives at great risk, as well as others who might try to save them, but it’s senseless to do so this year.

Burt and Mullet lakes in Cheboygan County should be producing walleyes and some perch, but again, conditions are bad. In-flowing and out-flowing streams make safe ice problematic. Warming weather hastens a sudden ice melt, and ice can turn treacherous.

Be patient for safe ice, and if it doesn’t happen, wait for next winter.

Anglers would be smart to hold off for another week or two, and realize right now that there may not be much, if any, safe ice fishing this year. It all depends on whether we get freezing temperatures at night, and allow everything to stiffen up again. A second freezing (after a melt) often doesn't produce great ice so keep that in mind.

Risking one's life on inland lakes and rivers is not worth the effort. The best catch of game fish in the world isn't worth taking chances with your life. The safest and wisest thing to do is to watch and wait for good ice to form

Local bait dealers know when the ice is safe and where the fish are biting. Keep track of conditions with a phone call or two, and don't take chances. Going through the ice is a harrowing experience, if you survive, and a tragedy if you don’t.

The worst case scenario -- death by drowning or exposure -- is the other possibility. Neither option appeals to me or other sane people.

A nice December buck steps out of a thicket to feed.

It is a grand experience, this bow hunting for winter whitetails, but what makes it so special is that every day is different. Every day in the woods is one of pure joy, even on those days of hard east winds.

Not all days are created equal when it comes to bow hunting. There are those special days that come along perhaps two or three days each season where we know something truly special will happen.

The possibilities of what may happen are endless. Perhaps a beet-red sun falls out of the western sky at sunset, and we set and marvel at nature's beauty. Sometimes the wind will switch at just the right time so the hunter catches a break and shoots a buck with large antlers, occasionally more by accident than on purpose.

Each December day offers something special to deer hunters.

Some days are memorable because we see a whitetail buck that we've never seen before, and the animal is large enough to have been around for four or five years but has escaped detection until now.

A hunting day can be spectacular when we watch two large evenly matched bucks fight for dominance. The dust flies, there is the thunder of their hooves stomping the ground, the grunting as they push and shove in an effort to whip the other buck. Some fights end in a tie, but most reach a finale when one buck, clearly outmatched, gives up.

There is always the pleasure and personal pride of exquisite placement of an arrow, and the knowledge that the buck will be dead in two or three seconds. A touch of sadness always comes over us when we realize that we've taken that animal's life for our nourishment.

Just as we feel a bit sad, we also feel a keen sense of accomplishment. The downing of a grand buck is a happening; it is something we'll long remember, and the memory of the buck will live on forever once it has been stored in our personal memory bank.

We take pride in our skills, and we pursue deer with a purpose. Some bucks will be passed up, and some will not. Much of the time we never know we are going to shoot until the trigger finger twitches on the release, and the buck goes down.

Winter hunting is more about winter hunting than just killing deer.

Hunting isn't just about killing nor is it about letting all deer live. There is a mental and physical balance we must maintain within ourselves, and the deer herd, that tells us it's time to stop.

Stopping hunting is out of the question for me. I may stop carrying my bow, but I hunt 12 months out of the year. All of it, in one form or another, is scouting. I remember late-fall deer trails, study where deer bed down in the winter, and learn where big bucks live and why they are found there during the hunting season.

Hunting is a never-ending endeavor to learn and study the deer we hunt. We greet each season with enthusiasm, we scout long and hard to learn the habits of good bucks, and we put forth more than a bit of energy learning our hunting area.

It means laying down plenty of boot leather, checking food sites and deer trails, and watching deer from afar to avoid spooking them. This love affair with deer may well be an addiction but it's not a harmful one.

This is not an easy time to hunt but it can be rewarding.

The more we watch and study deer, both bucks and does, the more we learn. The more we know about why deer do what they do, the better we become as a hunter. When we reach a certain pinnacle of skill and hunting success, we begin making each hunt more challenging.

It is, after all, the challenge between man and deer, that brings both of us together in the fall and early winter. The deer-hunting days are dwindling fast, and I can't speak for you, but I haven't had my fill of deer hunting just yet.

My wife with a nice Wyoming pronghorn. The author with a nice mulie buck

It was more than 20 years ago, and a friend and I were hunting mule deer on a ranch in northeastern Wyoming. There were some good bucks on that land, and I shot a dandy mule deer as did my friend.

A few hunters on the ranch were there only for antelope. One was the sort that let his mouth overload his back-side, and he told everyone that he never missed a shot. Not once, not ever. He was Dead-eye Dick.

Such people irritate me almost as much as those who say they always shoot bigger critters than anyone else. Most are obnoxious louts that many people dislike having in a hunting camp. I occasionally hassle them, if for no other reason than they deserve it.

I dislike being around people who brag about shooting game.

"Is that a fact?" I asked. "I'm frankly in awe of anyone who can shoot game and never miss. Do you mind if I shoot some photos? It would make a good magazine feature, and later tonight I'll do an interview. For now, I just need some photographs of you in action. OK with you?"

“You bet, kid," he said. "I'll show you how it's done. I pull the trigger, and the 'lope hits the dirt. You'll have to be quick to catch me in action."

"I'll try to keep up with you," I said, knowing that he didn't realize someone was jerking his chain. "I'll do the best I can."

We drove around until we spotted several antelope, and the gent said we could get closer on foot. He said the biggest buck would go 15 inches or a bit more, and that is what he wanted. That and good cutters.

The buck was a dandy but bragging put the hunter in a bad spot.

He and I stepped out of the truck, got a roll of ground between us and the antelope, and I dogged his tracks. We covered a quarter-mile, and he cautiously peeked over the ridge. The antelope were 125 yards away, staring off toward the pickup truck.

He sat down, got his shooting sticks situated, and I was right behind him. He eased the rifle fore-end into the sticks, snuggled up tight to the rifle stock, peered through the scope, and whispered "watch this, kid."

I was watching the buck antelope and shooting with a telephoto lens. The buck pronghorn never moved.

"You missed," I whispered to him.

"Nope," he said. "He'll topple over soon."

"Better shoot again. I can see him through the lens, and he doesn't know where the shot came from. You missed him. Shoot again."

He did, and with the same result. Braggarts are a pain, and I needled him a bit. "Hey, partner, you flat-out missed that antelope. Try it again."

Ragging on the guy was easy, but then, he'd set himself up for it.

By now, he's ticked at me, mad at himself for bragging up his ability to shoot, and aimed and fired a third shot. The antelope wheeled, looked our way, and put it in overdrive.

"Missed again, bub," I advised. "They're gone."

"They will pop up on that rise and I'll try again," he said. The rise was 400 yards away, and I knew the antelope would be moving fast by the time it got there.

Up they came, and he shot, and the buck antelope dropped. It was hit in the back end. We jogged over to the animal, and he shot it at close range to mercifully end its misery.

"Must be tough missing those three shots when you've never missed before," I teased. "You had me going there for a bit. You were just putting the shuck on me, weren't you? That last shot ruined most of the steaks, but then, antelope are pretty small critters. Right?"

He wouldn't talk to me, and left camp as soon as we returned. It's what bragging does to people who can't back up their words.

A friend of mine missed two whitetail bucks today. No excuses, he flat missed. But then, I've seen him miss once or twice in the past 25 years, and I've also seen him make some almost unbelievable shots.

A buck came out in front of him at over 200 yards during a drive, and he missed that buck with both shots. It crossed a nearby road, and everyone in his hunting party searched for blood or hair. Both were misses, and he'd made those kinds of shots many times in the past.

On the next drive he spotted another buck, shot once, and missed again. They checked for blood or hair, and it was another clean miss.

"Hey, I just plain missed," he said. "I've got no excuses. For whatever reason, I missed, plain and simple."

I had gone many years without missing a whitetail with a bow, and casually mentioned the fact to a friend. Sure enough, that was the night I missed an easy shot. Bragging is never a good idea.

However, there is a big difference between these two men. One was a loud mouth and braggart, and the other admitted to his misses, just like I did just now. The first one got needled hard because he had bragged himself up, and the other man and I deserved the sympathy we got.

We've all missed deer in the past, and may very well miss again in the future. It's a part of deer hunting, and those who say they never miss have either shot very little game or is a liar ... or, most likely, a combination of the two.

I thumped this bruin with two well-placed rocks. He left us alone.

There's something about storms that light my fire. I'm not certain just why I find them so intriguing, but I suspect it began near Flint when brother George and I were 10 years old.

We were outside playing catch. Even though I had (still have) small hands, I could throw a knuckle-ball. George was the person who could catch it.

He had a little nickel curve ball and I had my wobbling knuckler. It's what we did in the early 1950s. Occasionally one of us would uncork a wild pitch, and one of us would go chasing the ball down the street.

Head for cover when the big winds come blowing in.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, up came a big wind. Mind you: we were skinny little kids, and I doubt either of us weighed over 60 pounds. The wind was so strong we had to push hard against it to get indoors.

What we had felt was the outside winds of a massive tornado that followed an east-west road about seven miles south of our home and in the north end of Flint, and it covered two or three miles before lifting back up into the turbulent clouds and disappeared. It left nothing but death and destruction behind.

Several people were killed, and the big wind would destroy three or four houses in a row, lift up to dodge a house or two, and drop down again for more devastation.

It made a big impact on me, and several years later, Max Donovan of Clio and I were traveling back-roads. He had me drive, and we were in Tuscola County when I saw a twister coming across a field at us.

"Out-run it," Max hollered. He had an old gutless station wagon, and it was no contest. The tornado hit us, lifted the car two or three feet into the air, and then slammed us back down. My foot was still standing on the accelerator, and away we went, no worse for wear.

In 1970, my father and I joined another father-son team from Ontario, for a northern Ontario fly-in trip. We were crossing a large shallow lake that was filled with big pike when a storm popped up. We fought to keep from capsizing for two hours, and finally wallowed ashore on a deserted island. We waited until the storm passed, bailed out our boats, and went fishing, again none the worse for wear.

The Indian guides blamed me for pointing at the unnamed island.

That storm was the edge of a tornado that hammered its way through Sudbury, Ontario, causing massive destruction. We weren't in the actual tornado but caught some of the heavier winds generated by it.

This Arctic grayling was caught on the Northwest Territories Great Bear Lake.

Some years ago, the sky turned that dark greenish-purple color as clouds rolled and tumbled in the southwestern sky with an ominous sound. The direction was a good clue for possible severe weather, and I watched the tops of nearby maple trees bend almost flat as my wife screamed for me to come inside.

No twister for us, but a neighbor a mile away watched a tornado demolish his brand-new garage. Again. no injuries and the neighbor had insurance on his garage. It was a big inconvenience, that's all.

Kay and I got caught in a hellish big storm on Great Bear Lake in Canada's Northwest Territories in the late 1970s. This lake is just slightly smaller than Lake Michigan. The lodge owner came by in a much larger boat, and took Kay with him. My guide and I followed the larger boat for miles, rising 12 feet into the air on the crest of a wave, and then we'd plunge into the trough with water all around us.

Up we'd go, and there would be the larger boat with Kay aboard, and it was pulling slowly away from us. We traveled into the waves within 10 feet of a sheer rock wall six feet away, and one mistake would find the waves pounding us and our boat into bloody tin foil against the rocks.

We made it into a safe haven called Gunbarrel Inlet, and there were several boats milling about with smoke rising from a small wood fire on shore. I asked someone why they were not up near the fire.

A bear had reportedly "chased" them from shore and out into their boats.

"A bear chased us away," came a reply. I told my guide to head for shore. I put more wood on the fire, shucked out of my rain-soaked rain gear, and stood steaming near the roaring blaze. The first head we'd had in hours..

Someone hollered "Bear!" from a boat, and pointed down the shore. Here come a 200-pound black bear, and I picked up a rock and hollered at him. The bruin stopped momentarily, and I took several steps closer, and my old pitching days came through. No knuckle-ball ball this time but a high hard one that thumped his rump. The second rock was a bean-ball, and he ran off. We returned to the warming fire. We were chilled to the bone.

So the snowstorm and it's eight inches of snow a few nights ago really didn't seem to be anything special. We may see lots of snow, some strong winds and moaning sounds from the eaves, but as far as storms go, this one didn't have the making of anything worth writing about.

But what am I writing about. I've already mention tonight's storm, so in some way, it does influence my thoughts. Personally, I'd just as soon seen it get cold and freeze up the slop for two or three days and then go away.

The most recent storm can't even compare with a few of them during the winter when we'd see 15-20 inches of snow. Storms are interesting, but these little guys are nothing but a little bump in the highway of life. Storms that can kill a guy are those worthy of great respect.

Deer moved in with cold temperatures and some snow.

Guess what I did tonight? I sat out in a deer stand in a blustery little snow storm.

No bow, no rifle, no muzzleloader. Just me, the cold winter weather and the deer. I've been preaching cold weather and storms for as long as I can remember as the key ingredient to successful deer hunting.

The philosophy is that a cold snap, combined with a change in weather (a snow storm was moving through) will make deer move. Well, tonight proved what I've known for years. The deer did move because I had them within 20 yards of me.

Mind you, there weren't many deer but I was happy o see a spike, doe and fawn.

OK, I know which question is coming. What was I doing sitting out in a deer stand on a cold winter evening in mid-January, two weeks after the hunting season had ended?

It's said there is no such thing as a silly or stupid question. The quick and easy answer was I was there on purpose. I wanted to prove my theory that cold weather and snow makes deer move.

There was another reason I was there. I practicing seeing in the woods through snow, hoping to spot deer. It was difficult seeing deer toward the end of the 2010 season. and it's still difficult. I see movement fairly well but my vision isn't keen in my right eye, and I have no perceptible vision in my left eye..

There are two major problems. My left eye sees only some shades of light and dark, and my left-eye vision is measured by "finger movement at six inches." That is what I see at that distance. The other problem is the left eye had seven surgeries for glaucoma, and my vision is gone and the doctor and a glaucoma specialist had a meeting with me two months ago.

The bottom line here is deciding whether further surgery on my right eye will perk up my vision or not. So far, I've had 19 eye surgeries since I was found to have glaucoma more than 30 years ago. Each surgery seens to help for awhile, and then my vision decreases.

Another eye surgery is still up in the air.

The gist of a three-way conversation between me and the doctors was this would probably be a tricky surgery with no guarantees. The eye is fragile, and anyone of a number of bad things could happen. It is something much different than that with a person who doesn't have good eyes. All of those surgeries means even more scar tissue to contend with and there are no guarantees it will help.

They will do their best when the surgery date rolls around, and I will do my best to be a good patient, but one always wonders. I've been through so many other eye surgeries, and I've always been optimistic about the outcome. of each one. I refusee to be pessimistic.

I'm optimistic now even though little niggling thoughts pop into my mind on rare occasions. Nice thoughts like "What will you do if the operation doesn't solve the problem?" Such thoughts are negative, and a detriment to a positive thinking person.

Such thoughts are counter-productive. It's easier to believe the surgery, if one does takes place, will be a success again.

Some of you may have seen a slight decrease in my output over the past two months. The reason is simple: it's not that I'm getting lazy, although at 71, I could claim that right quite easily.

The truth is my vision has worsened dramatically over the past two months. Seeing anything clearly with my right eye has been difficult. As a result I've had to cut back on my writing. It's not a case of wanting to but more a matter of having to.

I should know for certain within three week, perhaps less. Bear with me.

Soon they will tell me when, or  if, the surgery will take place. That leads to a periodic spate of unanswerable questions. I refuse to wallow on the pity-pot, and feel sorry for myself. More than anything, I want the surgery over and done with, as soon as possible, and let me get on with my life.

That's where tonight's setting out to watch deer came into play. We visited a friend who owns some land, and he has quite a few deer on his property. The air was cold, the wind from the northwest, and snow was being driven ahead of it.

At 4:45 p.m., eight does and fawns stepped out of the thick brush and moved past me. Two minutes later a small buck, moved past. It was a spike, a young deer with his first tiny antlers.

And as suddenly as the deer movement began, and started to blow the cobwebs from my brain, the deer movement ended. A buddy sat a half-mile away, and experienced similar deer movements and sightings.

The sit gave me a memory I'll never forget, and what will likely occur when they administer the anesthetic before surgery, I'll be dreaming about a windswept night when a small buck and tw0 does treated me to a thrill that will never disappear from my memory.

I shall keep you posted as everything plays out, and it's likely I may be off the computer for a few days as my eye heals. Just remember this one thing: I write these daily blogs for two parties -- you and me.

I need to write it as much as you need to read it.

Deer hunting, like so many other things in life, is always good. It's just that some hunting days are better than others.

And, if you trust nothing else, know this: hunting success can always get worse. Success depends, in large part on wind, weather conditions and hunting pressure. Wherever we hunt, we cannot change the wind or weather conditions.

Anglers have the same problems. Too much rain or snow can affect how fish move or hit. The same happens when the wind swirls, or when lightning and thunder start shaking up the sky.

For many of us, our hunts are planned for a week in advance and the weather doesn't always cooperate. We spit and sputter, gripe and complain, and then we go out and hunt angry.

No one can control the weather. Live with it.

Hunting angry doesn't help. If anything, being mad about something we can't control doesn't do anything except mess up our hunting judgment. As a result we make some dumb mistakes.

We mess up. We get mad, and that makes us feel worse, and we begin to fidget. We move around, make the occasional noise, and any deer that may have come to us are long gone.

Why get mad? I've hunted deer for too long, and over more than 55 years, and have become somewhat philosophical about bad weather. Learn to take the good with the bad, and think happy thoughts rather than thinking how ticked off you are. That line of thinking only make people even madder, and that only increases their problems.

Don't sweat the small stuff. Instead of focusing on the things  we can't control, change your thoughts and think about those things that can be changed.

Take a deep breath, let it out and relax.

Climb a tree, if need be, and set in an elevated coop and do whatever can be done to beat the wind. Or ... do what some hunters do and that is to go home and take a nap. There is always tomorrow.

Taking the good with the bad doesn't always mean that a bad day can't be productive. I've sat out, and had the wind ripping leaves off the trees, and about 30 minutes before shooting time ends, the wind gusts taper off and die. It then becomes whisper quiet, so quiet you are soon wishing for a soft breeze.

If some light rain falls when the wind dies down, there can be some very good deer movements. It seems as if the deer are happy to see the weather change as they move out to feed.

Caution often is more likely when deer move after a strong wind and rain storm. Hunters must learn to keep their cool,

and take what they get even though we seem to be having more bad weather in the early season than ever before.

Last-minute weather changes have paid off for me more times than I can remember. Heading in to the house, and skipping the evening hunt, often means hunters quite possibly will miss the finest 30 minutes of the day as the wind and rain dies.

It's far better to consider the weather, whether good or bad, as part of the deer-hunting experience. Such last-minute weather changes don't happen often enough that we can plan around them, but they can pay off often enough that they should be one more trick in our deer-hunting repertoire.

Sometimes the weather changes before the hunt ends.

It's an awesome feeling when we've rode out the bad weather, and than see the last-minute change that we've hoped for. We no longer are mad at the weather, and things start looking up. When the bad weather suddenly changes, and the good weather moves in and the deer start to move, we feel blessed as we sit in a ground blind or tree stand.

Look up at the sky, nod and  say "thanks," and get ready for a nice buck to step out of heavy cover and be within easy bow range. Just remember: it never pays to hunt angry.