Bill Marchel: Hunt reaps a surprise harvest

BRAINERD — Spend an October late afternoon perched on deer stand, bow and arrow in hand, and you never know what miracles of nature might amble your way.

I did just that last week. Mother Nature did not disappoint.

Actually the entertainment began while en route to my deer stand. As I walked a narrow trail, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, a ruffed grouse flushed from the path's edge, dry leaves flying as the bird left the ground in a whir of wings. I noted the grouse was a red-phased individual and most likely a male because its spread tail was broad and long. A moment later three more grouse sped away. The retreating birds offered classic opportunities, had I been carrying a shotgun. They arched up and over the leafless 4-year-old aspen that lined the trail, wings pumping hard, before leveling off in a gliding straightaway flight.

Further along the path I noted a fresh buck scrape. As usual, the pawed earth was positioned below an overhanging tree limb, in this case a bur oak. What is it about deer "sign" that so delights the hunter?

Is it simply the mystery? The fact we so rarely actually witness buck rutting behavior but yet we read the sign and know it occurs? For sure buck sign -- rubs and scrapes -- provide us with a portal into the secret lives of whitetails we otherwise could not appreciate. We deer hunters search for rut sign like a child hunts for an Easter basket. Each is laid out usually at night, the Easter basket and deer sign, and each appears magically the next morning to searching eyes.

Ten minutes later I was aboard my tree stand, 12 feet high in a balsam fir. The temperature was seasonable, in the mid-50s. The sky was mostly cloudy. A brisk breeze blew from the northwest. I like this deer stand. My camouflage form is dissected by covering branches allowing me to seamlessly blend into nature.

Once settled in, I scanned my surroundings with binoculars. To the north across a weedy meadow, I spotted a buck rub on a small ash sapling. It appeared to be the work of a young buck. Even small buck rubs stir my blood, but I long to find those thigh-sized trees with bark torn to shreds, the work of an amorous adult buck the likes of which are extremely rare in this heavily hunted section of the state.

Behind me to the east was a pond. Wild rice stems now yellowed and barren of seed lie dormant, waiting for winter. Sometimes wood ducks provide a colorful diversion, but on this day the pond was full of red-winged blackbirds, perhaps 300 or more.

The flock was noisy, almost deafening. Perhaps the birds were assessing the north wind, debating among them whether to ride it southward.

Suddenly the flock was quiet. I knew what was about to happen. A Cooper's hawk appeared flying low and hard across the pond toward the flock. As the raptor took aim at its potential prey, the entire mass of blackbirds rose in unison with a roar of wings. The flock banked into the wind, formed a tight ball of feathered bodies, and quickly scrambled for altitude.

The ploy worked. The hawk attempted to duplicate the blackbirds' maneuver but, in what seemed to me to be a weak attempt, finally broke off and glided out of sight into heavy alders across the pond.

After circling several times, the blackbirds landed in the trees immediately around me. For a few moments they were quiet before their interrupted discussion continued, now louder than ever.

At a half-hour after sunset, I climbed down from my deer stand. I had seen eight deer, all does and fawns.

The air was still as I walked along, following the pond's edge, stopping now and then to look and listen. I heard a group of coyotes howl in the distance. Under a waxing moon about three-quarters full, I stood alone and listened to the coyote chorus.

My hunt had ended. Theirs was just beginning.