A Morning to Remember

It was late September, one of my favorite times of year to hunt. I was in a familiar set, a large oak tree standing tall over a good set of hardwoods. My spirits were high as the clear sky's sun broke the horizon to the east and illuminated the multi-colored forest I overlooked. With bow in hand, I was hunting my northern Minnesota property and was set up between some clover food plots and a pretty good bedding area. The morning was the first cool one since opening day, and I hoped that one of the several bucks I had recorded on my trail camera would leave the food sources a little later than usual. It had been a tough September so far. My food plots were being ravaged but due to the warm weather, deer movement had been mostly at night.

 

The hardwood stand I sat above served as a good transition area between feeding and bedding areas and also provided a light but tasty snack of acorns for the deer during their travels. I knew of one or two "shooter bucks" in the area and hoped I might finally get an up-close and personal look at one of them.

 

An hour after daylight I was startled out of my daydream by the sound of movement. Eighty yards in front of me and to my left I saw the body of a deer protruding from behind an oak tree. The deer was large and my heart skipped a beat as I realized that this was no doe. The deer's head was obstructed as it slowly fed through the brush and I watched as it munched its way toward my twenty-five foot high perch. The buck soon fed into an opening. That's when I took my first in-person look at one of the two good bucks my trail-cam had photographed the month before. The three and a half year old buck sported a ten-point rack which stood high and fairly wide, with good mass and tine length. I estimated him to score 125 to 130 points but his body was the real marvel.The buck's neck was thick and grew thicker as it made its way down to his broad chest and shoulders. The trophy's belly was round and obviously full of clover as it married up with large hind quarters.

 

As the buck fed toward me, it slowly veered to my left and it became clear that I wasn't going to be fortunate enough to get a point blank, no-brainer, shot. I picked an opening in the foliage for a shot and estimated it to be thirty yards. As the deer methodically browsed by, it finally stepped into the opening. I drew my bow, settled the pin just behind his left shoulder, and touched the release. The arrow flew true, however I had overestimated the yardage. This, coupled with the deer slightly "jumping the string," caused my white crested arrow to connect with the spine instead of the coveted "sweet spot" behind the shoulder. Regardless, the buck dropped in its tracks.

 

I patiently waited for five or ten minutes to compose myself. By then, he'd expired. I excitedly climbed down and walked the twenty-five yards to where my prize awaited. I held the ten-pointer in my hands and savored the moment for a long while. I realized just how big of a body this buck had. He would later weigh in, field dressed, at 207 pounds, and the ten-point frame rough scored 124 4/8. As the sun rose high in the sky, the festivities commenced with a photo session and finally an ATV ride back to the truck And of course, I had to show him off a little to family and friends.

Submitted by our good friend Greg Lease.

www.AAASportsMemorabilia.com

Chicken Hill

Storm clouds were forming, and the threat of rain was very real. "What do I care," I thought, "I'm not made of sugar." I broke the speed limit as I drove to my hunting area for the start of Minnesota's bear season. I couldn't wait to get up in the tree and thought nothing could dilute my excitement.

Forty-five minutes later, while in the stand, I realized the one thing that could steal my excitement was rain, hard rain. In fact, it looked and sounded like Armageddon as thunder, lightning and wind nearly shook me from my tree. The horizontal rain quickly soaked me to the bone and turned my bait-pit into a small pond. I was determined to stay on stand until dark, hoping the rain would stop. As it turned out, the rain slowed from what seemed like a tidal wave to a mere monsoon. I sloshed away from my stand that night a little disappointed, but knowing I had tomorrow to try my luck again.

One month earlier while scouting the edge of a ten-year old clear-cut, my buddy, Mark, and I found what looked to be a very good spot for a bear bait. An ash swale intersected the edge of the clear-cut forming a natural bear travel route. While searching for the exact bait location, we jumped a large covey of immature grouse causing Mark to nearly mess his pants. As Mark picked himself up off the ground, I managed to stop laughing long enough to congratulate him on his courage while assuming his fighting stance just prior to tripping and falling over. As could be expected, Mark didn't see the humor quite like I did and he let me know it by throwing some unmentionable expletives my way. Regardless, the grouse had been flushed from a knoll which formed a natural rise on the edge of the cut. This high ground would help disperse the sweet aroma of a bear bait. Because Mark and I always name our pits, I coined this spot Chicken Hill. We left the woods that day with Mark thinking I named my pit after those grouse.

Day two brought clear skies and renewed hope as I again approached Chicken Hill. My pit had been getting hit regularly but I was shocked to find this time it had been blown up sometime during the night. The logs were spread around as if someone had dropped a grenade. Some logs were ten feet from the hole. The pit was licked clean. After dumping my bait and resetting the logs I made the twenty foot climb to my stand in three steps. I quickly settled down for the evening, daydreaming of what was to come.

One hour before dark I thought I saw a shadow move about sixty yards directly in front of me. I blinked several times and after refocusing realized that, sure enough, there was a bear, and a good one at that. The dark colored ghost slowly floated in my direction. I watched with my binoculars as the bruin took one or two small steps and then would stop for minutes at a time. It was obvious the bear was nervous. My stomach tied itself into knots as it seemed the bear would spook at any moment. After what seemed an eternity, the bear momentarily stood up on its hind legs, sniffed the air, and then slowly sauntered off, never to return before dark.

Day three was bitter sweet. Yes, I was blessed to be hunting and my pit was cleaned out again but that darn bear had made me gun shy. My worst fear was that it had winded me the previous day and had turned into a "night bear." I was also pretty sure it was the only bear hitting Chicken Hill which added to my stress. I could move to another pit but what fun would that be? I had to try my luck again.

Just as the day before, the bear appeared sixty yards in front of me, an hour before dark. The routine was repeated and again it cautiously moved off into the brush. Thinking it was all over but the crying, I resigned myself to the fact I may have to give up on this one and move to greener pastures. I soon realized though it was not all over when I saw that familiar shadow moving toward the bait only twelve yards in front of me. The underbrush barely moved as the bear silently and cautiously snuck toward the pit. After ten minutes, the bear had only moved five yards and was now almost nose to nose with an unfortunate little marshmallow which lay at the edge of my pit. The bad news was the bear had strategically used every scrap of cover to get to that point, and I simply had no shot. Just then, and in one fell swoop, the bear sucked up the marshmallow, wheeled around, and headed for the hills. I couldn't believe it. I had finally gotten to within twelve yards of a shooter bear and had been out-foxed. As I sat there I was teased with an occasional snapping twig as the bear meandered about at a safe distance until dark. But I had a plan...

I arrived on day four with a glimmer in my eye. It was obvious this bear was a bear of habit, which was a weakness I intended on cashing in on. Before re-baiting, I took a closer look at the little point of underbrush the bear had used to outsmart me. I was elated to find all of the twigs and grass very matted down. I knew it was the bear's driveway to this fast food joint, and he ate out often. With clippers in hand, I nipped away a small hole in the underbrush just big enough to shoot through if given the chance again.

As predicted, the familiar bear arrived on the trail directly in front of me an hour before dark. After turning into the woods at the same point it had each time before, I stood and readied myself for what was to come. The bear soon appeared at the base of the little point and ever so slowly, crept toward the bait. As it neared the edge of cover, the bear stopped to munch on a small pile of grease-soaked dog food and meat scraps I had strategically placed. The bear laid down to eat, and I was pumped to see its lungs perfectly framed by the hole I had clipped in the foliage. As its right front leg reached out toward the food, I drew, let out half my breath, settled my twenty yard pin, and released. The shot was perfect as my arrow drove through both sides of the bear’s rib cage. With a startled growl, the bear took off through the woods, and soon my ears were rewarded with the sweet sounds of three death bawls.

My pit had been getting hit regularly but I was shocked to find this time it had been blown up sometime during the night.

After a short blood trail, I found the large sow on her entry trail. She sported a prime cape which later made for a beautiful shoulder mount on my cabin wall. She was obviously a mature and smart bear who helped create one of my most memorable hunts. I feel honored to have played the proverbial chess match with her on Chicken Hill.

The shot was perfect as my arrow drove through both sides of the bear's rib cage. The sow's prime cape made for a beautiful shoulder mount.

Submitted by our good friend Greg Lease.

www.AAASportsMemorabilia.com

The Bear Creek Road Bear

Mid-August in Minnesota means one thing to me - bear baiting. There's nothing like kicking the season off by loading molasses, dog food and grease on to waiting ATV racks and heading out for the bear woods. Every year you can bet I'll be running the ever familiar bait route while always keeping an eye out for new areas to establish another successful bear pit.

The 2006 baiting season found my four-year old daughter, Layne, and me rumbling down the backwoods trails traveling from bait site to bait site laying down food that only a bear, and the occasional coon, could love. We checked our pits one by one as we dumped food, threw molasses and cleared shooting lanes from the stand trees. Layne helped out by dutifully performing the all-important bear baiting job of assaulting small trees with sticks at every pit we tended.

A week and a half later Layne and I were thrilled to find all five pits were being hit regularly. One of the bait sites, which I nicknamed the Bear Creek Road Pit sported a pretty nice front pad track in the fresh dirt. I was thrilled with the four inch track because, this being a new pit, I had no idea if the area was conducive to decent sized bears. The track hadn't been left by a Boone and Crockett class bear, that's for sure, but it definitely could belong to a good sized sow.

September 1st was bitter sweet. Two days earlier, while driving to bear camp, my bear hunting buddies Al and Chris and I stopped for some last minute supplies at an area sporting goods store. The folks there gave the bad news that many of the local bear hunters reported their pits going cold over the last couple of days. We finished the last several miles of our journey crossing our fingers that our pits had not suffered the same fate. Wrong!

Later that day we sadly discovered that two pits had gone cold all together, two had sporadic hits in which we obtained some trail camera pictures of a couple decent bears. We also learned the reason for the slow down - acorns, and lots of them. Curses I thought. One pit though, the Bear Creek Road Pit, continued being slammed. All the work, travel time, expensive gasoline bills, and time away from family had seemed worth it when each of the pits looked promising. But now, spirits were a little low in the Lease bear camp and the reality of a tough 2006 season set in. Oh well, you know what they say - a bad day hunting is ALWAYS better than a good day working. The good news, besides the trail camera pictures we'd gotten at the other pits, was we also retrieved over 60 great pictures of the bear whose track I'd seen a week and a half earlier at the Bear Creek Road Pit. Although not overly long or tall, this gorgeous bear looked like a 55 gallon drum with legs, which is usually a good indication of a mature sow. Al and Chris had already committed to other pits which meant only one thing - the Bear Creek Road Pit was all mine.

At 3:00 on opening afternoon I was high in a basswood tree 12 yards from the pit. It was a beautiful, slightly overcast and cool day which seemed like the perfect conditions for Ms. Bear to make her appearance. It was also perfect for filming and I hoped to get good daylight footage with my video equipment for the boys at Bloodbro.com. Because many of the trail camera pictures tipped me off that the bear was making numerous fast food visits as early as 4:00 p.m., I was hopeful of getting my first up close and personal look of the year at a Minnesota bruin in broad daylight.

At 4:25 I happened to look to my left and was lucky enough to catch a millisecond-long glance at the rear end of a bear as it walked through an opening in the early September foliage only 30 yards away. A minute later I caught movement to my right as the bear apparently looped around the backside of the pit while contemplating its next move. Again I lost sight of the ghostly bruin as it changed positions for a second time. A moment later, after seeing an extra shadow right next to the bait opening, I knew it was time for the bear's grand entrance.

With videotape rolling, the bear slowly emerged from the shadows and sauntered onto the scene, sucking up marshmallows and candy peanuts that were scattered around the ground. Because I didn't have a cameraman, I let my bow hang as I tracked the bear with the camera until the pit and the bear were centered in my viewfinder. After making sure the zoom and focus were correct, I left the camera in the care of my trusty camera tree arm and slowly reached for my bow. Only a minute passed when the bear presented the perfect shot. I set the arrow free and watched it disappear just behind the shoulder. In a flash the bear was gone. I listened as the bear loudly bolted through the thick brush until everything went quiet. Did it pile up? Did it run out of earshot? I didn't know. That familiar little tinge of doubt penetrated my thoughts as it usually does after a shot. This time however, it appeared my worries may be valid as I realized the shot could have been a tad low.

While giving the bear ample time, I watched the shot several times on video. After what seemed like 1000 reviews, I felt better and was sure I had accomplished the famous heart shot. My renewed hope was validated when I climbed down and found ample blood all over the bait logs.

A short track job past the blood-soaked pit and I was rewarded with my 2006 Minnesota bear. The mature sow proved to be one that anyone would be proud of, especially when I realized she had a tint of chocolate coloration to her full and flawless coat.

A short track job past the blood-soaked pit and I was rewarded with my 2006 Minnesota bear

The Bear Creek Road pit was added to the ranks of special bait sites creating lasting memories I hope to share with Layne one day. You can bet that next year I'll be watching the Bear Creek Road pit closely with the hopes of capturing another successful hunt on video.

Submitted by our good friend Greg Lease.

www.AAASportsMemorabilia.com