Pennsylvania Game News - March 2010 - 58

county in which I shot it; the farm where it was killed, which used to be leased by a friend of the family named Betsy; and the tool I used. All of my plaques bear that information. Betsy’s farm was one of the first pieces of private property I secured permission to hunt on my own. I could go there whenever I wanted and was welcome to hunt to my heart’s content, which I did. Most bowhunters start out tagging along with a buddy or relative. It’s natural to learn the ropes from an experienced tutor before setting out on your own. Betsy’s farm was where I stretched my wings and took my first solo flight. The farm spanned both sides of a road in northcentral Chester County, between Exton and Eagle. The Pennsylvania Turnpike marked its western border, and I learned to hunt there with the ever-present whooshing of tires over pavement. Like the majority of Pennsylvania dairy farmers, Betsy’s family grew corn and hay to feed their modest herd of Holsteins. The tilled fields were separated by several woodlots that I came to know every square inch of. I hunted the property for five years before Betsy’s family moved, but I pity whoever hunted it after me. I had trails of reflective tacks scattered throughout every section of woods on the farm. One time I sent my brother-in-law toward a tree I liked to hunt from with instructions to “follow the tack trail that starts in the back corner of the field.” Jeff later told me he found the beginning of the trail, but when he got a few yards into the woods, his headlight lit up tacks all over the place. I’d forgotten I had multiple trails crisscrossing in there. I got permission from Betsy to hunt her family’s farm after talking about hunting with one of my cousins. I had known Betsy since I was a little kid, but I didn’t know she and her family were now living on, and working, a dairy farm. “If you want a place to hunt, you should go ask Betsy,” my cousin said. “She has a farm up off Route 113.” Turns out, I knew exactly where Betsy’s farm was and had drooled over it many times while driving on the turnpike. I just didn’t know it was being rented by an old family friend. A knock on the door later and I had secured permission to ShangriLa. I was like a kid at Christmas every time I went scouting there in late July and August. The archery season couldn’t come soon enough. I don’t remember much about the early part of the 1993 archery season. What I do remember is seeing enough deer activity in the corner of the cornfield along the turnpike to know I wanted to locate a stand in the adjacent woodlot. On the afternoon of Oct. 22, I lugged my Loggy Bayou climbing treestand into that woodlot with the intention of finding a tree near the field edge to hunt from. I followed a well-worn deer trail into the woods from the field for 40 yards, before coming to a fork. I took the spur that headed left toward the field edge and away from a thick, 10-acre patch of briers, saplings and multiflora rose that was virtually impenetrable. I figured that’s where the deer holed up for the day and hoped a buck would emerge later that evening and head down the trail I was now on. The woodlot was full of tall, stout tulip poplars, perfectly suited for a climbing stand. I found one about five feet off the deer trail and shinnied up it. I positioned the stand so the thicket was in front of me and the field was behind me and to my right. The meat of the woodlot was to my left. After hauling up my bow and arrows, I settled in for the hunt. I had been hunting for only three seasons at that point, and had shot only one buck — with a shotgun — so my knowledge of deer behavior was limited. I fully expected any deer that might show up to appear toward dark and from the thicket. In my mind, no other scenario could transpire. So you can imagine my surprise when, GAME NEWS

Pennsylvania Game News - March 2010

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