On The Ridge with Joe Judd: The thrill of the hunt

Every year when whitetail deer season approaches, I’m again reminded of a story that was one of my best hunts ever. It culminated in a better understanding of the purest essence of deer hunting, rather than the emotion of any success or failure we might have felt from that day. For me, and many others like me, it’s what makes deer hunting so special. So my hope would be to both hunters and non-hunters alike, that this story might bring a better sense of understanding to this most cherished of traditions. And along the way, for some of you who might intimately understand the words that follow, I hope it makes whitetail deer season a little more special for you.

That year had been a tough one to say the least, with little to show for it, yet the thought of quitting was never an option. Dawn of this day found me moving slowly across the perimeter of another Shelburne ridgeline while following fresh deer tracks that were left after the previous night’s snow accumulation. True, there was only one set of tracks here, but the snow-molded hoofs were huge; the toes splayed outward like the legs of an overloaded armchair, and I was willing to bet the farm that these tracks were made by a buck. I was certain he was not far from where I stood. My guess was that this deer had left these tracks while moving out and through the range shortly before dawn.

On this day, the wind couldn’t have been better, and I was convinced that this deer was bedded down no more than 200-300 yards to the south of where I was standing. My partner that day was my brother-in-law, Doug Churchill, and he was heading toward me from the north. That was the exact direction that these tracks were coming from, so I knew he would be on them very soon. Doug would see that these tracks were heading into the area where I now stood, and he would follow them carefully, not knowing how far ahead of him this buck might be. That said, I was sure that Doug was at least half an hour away, longer perhaps, as his movements would become more deliberate once he was certain where these tracks were heading. He would figure that I had already come upon it and that I’d take a seat and wait for him to show up, which is exactly what I did. Yet as I sat there studying this fresh line of tracks, the urge to get up and slowly move in the direction they were heading became genuinely real. I knew it would serve no purpose though, because Doug was coming, and two heads in this situation would be better than one. Plus, the fresh fallen snow would muffle the sound of anything moving in my direction. So as I sat there, my eyes were burning holes through the forest watching for Doug, and anything else that might be circling toward me.

The snow that lingered from the tail end of the previous night’s accumulation felt good as it softly caressed my cheeks and face, but my thoughts were consistently focused on this whitetail deer, and on the whereabouts of Mr. Churchill. Finally, a red-and-black plaid, orange-vested hunter appeared above me slowly moving on the track that would soon monopolize our conversation. Doug’s first whispered words to me were, “It’s a man!” And I smiled at his joking, knowing precisely what he was referring to.

Our plan was simple. He would circle to the west, and I would stay on the track. With luck, Doug would have the chance as the deer moved from its bed. If it came back on this track, which smart bucks have been known to do, or bolted to the east from sensing Doug’s presence, the chance would be mine. We wished each other good luck and silently drifted apart, both of us hoping for the best. And as I watched him intently moving away, with the snow falling lightly around him, I knew he would need at least 15 minutes to get above me, working his way into the right position that would start this plan in motion. So I went back to where I was sitting and parked myself there, as my hopes began to soar in anticipation of what the next few hours might mean to both of us.

Whatever it is that motivates people to hunt deer must be distilled in moments such as these. And if you deer-hunt, you’ll understand what I’m saying. You go into the woods, and the chess game begins again. But just being there creates an undeniable splash. Like ripples in the water, your being there becomes a wider presence, like the rings those ripples make. But after a while, they fade away, and it all becomes silent again, and you’re either forgotten or accepted – you’re never quite sure which – as you only know that you’ve become a part of something bigger. Even success or failure becomes almost secondary now, as the moment absorbs us, the ripples start to fade, and you begin to sense the awareness of another presence close by. When this happens, you’ve already won! The magic has appeared again. And you’re at peace, just knowing that you’ve become a part of it all, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments.

Joe Judd is a lifelong hunter and sportsman. He is an outdoor writer, seminar speaker, member of the New England Outdoor Writers Association, and a 2019 inductee into the N.E. Turkey Hunting Hall of Fame. Joe is also on the Quaker Boy Game Calls and Bass Pro Shops/Cabela’s Pro-Staff. He can be reached at jjontheridge@comcast.net