Stealth was abandoned. Completely.
The obvious game trail had betrayed me and disintegrated into the sloppily woven patchwork of salmonberry and blueberry bushes mixed with young cedar and spruce. I hoisted my legs over mossy blowdown or logging remnants. I couldn’t quite tell which because my glasses had begun to fog.
I thought of my dad and some of the more intense moments growing up when his frustration, or intensity of work, manifested itself in fogged glasses. Chopping firewood in the rain, setting mink and marten traps, fixing burst pipes under the house.
All I had to do was go straight and I would hit the edge of the muskeg. Just go straight. I took a moment to track my progress on my phone. My struggle was at a 45-degree angle to the muskeg and I was now moving away from it.
More fog on the glasses.
I adjusted my course and eventually settled under a cedar tree in a small clearing before the main muskeg that looked like the period at the bottom of an exclamation point. I unzipped my rain jacket to vent heat. It was a Grundens raingear type day, not one for “breathable” technology. There is a meaningful difference between wet from sweat and wet from rain. Heat wet will evaporate and there’s a chance of staying warm. Soaked from rain means you’re on borrowed time.
The rain stopped but the dripping off the branches continued. The day was otherwise still. After 15 minutes I moved forward to a tree that looked perfect for a game camera. I set down my pack, rifle and set the camera. I turned toward the muskeg that was thirty yards beyond me. I could see it clearly through the trees and brush that tapered in intensity. Perfect deer habitat.
I gave a soft call sequence meant to travel throughout the edge but not much further. I paused and listened.
I heard a rustling in the salal. I’ve been fooled before — squirrels, birds, my imagination. But this continued, these were steps. I reached for my camera and pointed it in the direction of the commotion.
From the thickest section of the transition between me and the muskeg emerged a buck. I stayed with the camera and shot. The handsome forked-horn buck with a single eye guard paused behind the limited protection of a final cluster of brush. Curiosity drove the buck further and into the small clearing.
It stared at me, nose in the air trying to figure out what it encountered compared to what it expected. It stomped the ground without a grunt then turned to walk away. I called softly again. It swung around and stood looking in my direction, hoping for answers.
I continued with the camera.
I am certainly not the type of person who is so proficient at hunting that I can afford to pass on bucks. Nor do I think I have achieved some sort of insight or moral high ground. I just didn’t reach for the rifle. It was in season and this was a buck worth tagging, I just didn’t. It may have had something to do with the fact we have deer in the freezer, but I like to think I was more motivated by the moment.
Eventually the buck evaporated into the timber and I was left with the consequences.
“Are you going to regret that?” I asked myself as I moved closer to the muskeg.
I called, waited and watched, saw tracks, rubs, beds but nothing materialized. By early afternoon I was back on the beach with my buddy loading up the skiff for the cold ride home.
No regrets.
• Jeff Lund is a freelance writer based in Ketchikan. His book, “A Miserable Paradise: Life in Southeast Alaska,” is available in local bookstores and at Amazon.com. “I Went to the Woods” appears twice per month in the Sports & Outdoors section of the Juneau Empire.
