Jul 26, 2022 9 min read

A hazy snow was falling on the hill. In the dim half-light of the early morning, visibility was reduced to a few yards. A few trees behind me were starting to have their branches covered in the new snowfall, but in front of my deer stand a handful of tan left-behind cornstalks could be seen. They seemed forelorn as they faded off to a gentle white.

Beyond that, no sky, no ground. It was like being inside one of those glass Christmas snowglobes, all shook up.

It was the second morning of buck season, but the new day would be coming late for my dad and me, up on our customary stands on the old Thom farm. My deer stand was probably the most productive spot – being the kid, the old man had always stationed me here, and it carried over into adulthood.

My mom, Eileen, preferred the orchard, ahead and to my left, with it’s host of now forgotten and neglected apple trees. But, she wasn’t out today, having beaten us both to the punch; she bagged her buck early on opening day. She is the most patient hunter of we three, and also the most cold-resistant. While George and I both eventually succumb to cold feet and have to walk to warm up, mom could actually hold her spot for half a day without complaint. Something about her natural love of the outdoors, her appreciation for plants, trees, wildlife of all sorts also tended to keep her from getting bored.

But today, she was still toasty and asleep. Dad and I both knew that this meant hot cornbread along with the customary crockpot of chili after the hunt. Not a bad thing.

As the day brightened, I could just make out the gentle hollow that bisected the field ahead of me, some 200 yards out. It connected mom’s orchard on my left with the Doc’s woods on my right. The Doc was actually a dentist, and he had bought this large, productive deer woods to build a house. He was not only a dentist, but also a hardcore, skilled hunter, and he posted his property heavily.

My stand, or The Hill as we called it, was one of the higher points on the farm. Behind me sat a square piece of woods that was part of the Munce farm (owned by my wife’s relatives), and ahead, some 375 yards across my good-sized field, sat the Thorn Thicket. It was the densest, nastiest area to walk through on the farm. Of course, the deer loved it. It was protected from wind, and almost impossible to push properly if you were hunting. The original Thom house foundations were in there, and the heavy growth over the years provided perfect cover for deer.

My dad was posted behind me and to my left, on the edge of same piece of woods I was standing in, but he faced The Brick House Field – a long cornfield, now bare, that stretches up even higher than my own stand, running roughly parallel to my field. He was out of sight, in the bottom, with the wood safely between us. He had a huge expansive view of this big field. I could see the top third or so of it over my left shoulder, once the mist finally lifted. It was a long poke to the far treeline, maybe 450 yards.

The Brick House Field was so named because of the crumbling remnants of a second Thom homestead located at the edge, where dad’s field and the Orchard met. One of the real keys to being a successful hunter is in knowing the lay of the land, where the deer tend to bed and the paths they use. The only way to accomplish this is to walk those woods in different seasons, and spend a lot of time observing. People tend to think some hunters are “lucky” when they regularly bag deer, but the truth is that luck only comes into play occasionally when one stumbles into a big buck, or you see an extra-large number of deer on a particular day. The people who consistently are successful are the ones who put the time into getting to know the lay of the land, and who spend enough time in the woods to get a feel for how nature operates, as it were. A love of the outdoors helps a lot.

In any case, by 8:30 a.m. the snow had slowed to a pleasant occasional flake. It feels like a prosperous day for the hunt. A little snow on the ground aids the hunter. You can see deer much more easily, and our clumsy footsteps fall a little softer. It’s cold, but not so bad to freeze even softies like me.

A single shot reverberates suddenly from ahead of me and slightly to my left. It’s off in the direction of Route 136 and on some distant farm, but it immediately puts me on alert for action. I’m sitting on a convenient plastic seat, which is also a carrying box for the various odds and ends every hunter lugs around. A few extra cartridges for my Winchester model 70. A bag lunch, thermos. A length of drag rope, and a twist tie to attach a deer tag. A plastic poncho. My rifle sports a 2-8 power Leupold optic and we each have a vital Harris bipod for these longish farm fields.

I pick up my rifle from it’s spot leaning against a tree. I have another tree handy to lean against for a stable quick off-hand shot, but will hit the ground for anything I have the luxury of time for. A bipod is really, really handy.

My dad, George, is a wizard at fast shots. His reflexes and ability for super-quick scope acquisition puts me to shame, and his ability to quickly throw a second accurate shot after the first is equally amazing. Lacking his reaction time and his excellent eyesight, I try to at least keep observant as possible when I’m out. Even though the shot was a good distance off, deer are speedy, and can cover a lot of ground when spooked.

No buck prances across my field. Time passes and I relax a bit and set the rifle back in its spot. The moment I do, out step two deer from the right, dentist-side of the field. It’s this year’s fawn and mother. The doe glances back into the woods, and they casually cross. I wait, watching behind them. Nothing.

It’s nearing 11 a.m., and I break out a sandwich and the thermos. Keeping one eye on the field, I munch the baloney with mustard. The coffee is still hot. I see my mom has supplied mini-chocolate bars in my bag.

Blam!

A loud, close shot rings out over my left shoulder. Rifle goes up, as the baloney sandwich remnant hits the ground. Three deer are running all-out near the top treeline area of the Brick House field, from left to right. The middle one is large – I see horns and have just enough time to click off the safety and hear dad’s .270 again.

Crack!

Down goes the deer in a heap.

I grin. The man is quick, and not too many people would make that second running shot. I click the safety back on and shoulder the firearm. As I start down towards the tractor-opening between our two fields, I see George’s red hat through the bare trees bobbing up the hill toward the downed buck. It’s an exhilarating moment.

On the way I reflect on dad’s recent articles for The Pennsylvania Game News. He’s turned what was once his hobby into a sort of fun retirement job. His great love of talking to people on the subjects of hunting and fishing have made him a celebrity of sorts in Southwestern Pa. Well, I think, this just adds to the legend.

He beats me to his downed deer. It is a nice eight-point – very typical for our area – with an even, tall rack. He is already dressing the deer, and I congratulate him on killing it in a spot where it’s a mostly downhill drag to the car. We recall that my uncle, Jack Daniels, shot a deer a year past in almost the same spot from a fencepost by the Brick House. Uncle Jack is married to my mom’s sister, Polly, and is an avid outdoorsman and one of the world’s great fisherman. He served in the Marines during WWII. We both expect he will show up at the house tonight, to see how we have done. It’s all part of our buck season tradition. It would not be the same without Uncle Jack.

As I drag, dad waxes poetically about how, when he was a young man there were almost no whitetail deer at all to be found in Washington County. One had to travel to the mountains to deer hunt. Things have changed a lot since then. We get the buck into the trunk of the car and I head back to stand for the last couple of hours before dark, while he drives back home to hang his deer.

It’s a quiet afternoon on the hill. I hear a few distant shots, but see no more animals. About an hour before dark, dad walks up to sit with me, and we quietly watch until near dark without further action, eating the last of those little bars of chocolate with now lukewarm coffee. Just as we get up to leave, a deer snorts, seemingly indignant at our intrusion into his field. It’s really too dark to tell if it’s a buck or doe.

We head back to our house on Christy Road. Uncle Jack is already there appraising dad’s big buck, and offers admiration for dad’s pair of well-placed shots. He has a few tales to tell of his own adventures afield. Now with two bucks hanging in the yard we head into the house and Jack happily complements “Eilie’s” cooking and my sister, Kathy, joins us as we dig into the chili, hot cornbread and coffee.

My mom passed a few years back.

Uncle Jack left us years before that.

So too, now, my dad.

In memory of George H. Block III: 1934-2022