BWCA deer hunt: Beginner's luck

ELY, MINN. -- Though it was below freezing and snow blanketed the woods, I was snuggled warm and dry in my sleeping bag, sound asleep beneath a yellow nylon tarp strung between two trees.

It was 3:30 a.m. and dark as sin when I felt a nudge.

"Hey, it's snowing on me -- move over," friend Steve Piragis said.

Fluffy flakes were falling, and Piragis wasn't quite far enough under our makeshift shelter. So we slid our bags over a few inches and, protected from the snow, fell back asleep.

The two of us had paddled a canoe down a small, partially frozen river on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, set up camp and planned to hunt deer on the wooded ridges nearby.

Yes, we knew there aren't a lot of deer in the BWCA. The forest generally is too mature to support large numbers of whitetails.

But there also aren't any hunters -- or anyone else.

"I wanted to go deer hunting, but get away from other hunters and have a wilderness experience at the same time," said Piragis, 55, of Ely, a longtime friend.

"Deer or no deer, it's just fun being out here when no one else is here," he said the next morning while frying bacon and eggs over a campfire.

First-time deer hunt

I'm a bird hunter.

Have been for decades. For me, the joy of hunting involves a canine companion. Especially your own.

I hunt pheasants, waterfowl and ruffed grouse as often as I can. Ringnecks are my favorite. Watching a dog excitedly trail a rooster, flush it and then -- with luck -- retrieve it, is the pinnacle of the hunting experience for me.

So though I write about deer and deer hunting, know a fair amount about it, have been to several deer camps, have photographed deer from stands and have encountered them frequently in the wild, I'd never hunted deer.

Until last week.

I decided to give the dog a break and join the half million Minnesota whitetail hunters in the woods. A wilderness deer hunt was especially appealing.

A cold, silent landscape

Piragis and I split up the next morning and, rifles in hand, hiked over a large snow-covered peninsula with a high ridge, looking for deer.

It was a winter wonderland, starkly different from summer, when most visit the BWCA. There were no loons calling, no mosquitoes buzzing, no voices of other campers -- or hunters.

Just haunting silence.

But we found plenty of evidence of deer. I encountered several deer rubs -- small trees where bucks had rubbed their antlers. And many deer tracks.

I worked my way through thick woods of birch and balsam up to a granite ridge dotted with pines -- wide-open country that would offer a clear shot. It was punctuated with deer tracks. I found a rock ledge, 30 feet high -- a natural deer stand -- and sat atop it, waiting, watching and listening.

Piragis covered more ground, working along the edge of a creek. He, too, found plenty of deer tracks. But by late afternoon, when we returned to camp, neither of us had seen a deer.

"There are deer out here -- but not a lot," Piragis said.

If you can't beat 'em ...

We cooked ham and beans in the dark, sipped hot chocolate and spent another quiet night under our tarp. Saturday morning, we broke camp, paddled back to our truck and went to Plan B.

Snow was falling when we headed north on the Echo Trail, a gravel road that slices through the wilderness. Hunters clad in blaze-orange were everywhere. Vehicles were parked at virtually every side road and old logging trail. Several groups were camped in RVs. We found a clearing that had been logged several years ago, next to an aspen forest. Deer signs were everywhere.

Nearly three hours later, as dusk was falling, I stood on a rocky point between two ravines, a brisk wind blowing in my face. Suddenly I noticed movement 100 yards away. A doe. Then two others. They quickly disappeared. A few minutes later, the larger one reappeared about 45 yards away, in a small clearing, directly in front of me.

Kneeling, my gun braced on a fallen tree, I put the deer in the cross hairs and squeezed the trigger.

And began contemplating next year's deer hunt.

Doug Smith • dsmith@startribune.com