After two fruitless days of hunting in the seemingly never-ending rain, Saturday at last promised some relief from the wet. Despite our stand’s proven location, during the Pennsylvania senior rifle season we’d only seen two off-limits bucks, a 4-point and a very large 8-point, though it was impossible to count points clearly through the rain, fog and gathering darkness.

There could have been more. Its widespread antlers appeared black and the wide nose and chunky body showed it was definitely an older deer. The does, it appeared, were all staying on the ridge tops where the acorns lay thickly on the ground, cleverly avoiding our shooting lanes.

Saturday dawned on a new location, the temperature hovering in the low 40s, the growing daylight revealing an eerie landscape of swirling mists, indistinct trees and dripping moisture. A witch’s cackling laugh, a wolf howl or a mummy’s groan would not have seemed out of place.

What would the day bring? We’re always optimistic — you can’t bag a deer in the house.  After two days of frustration it was a bit of a shock when we spotted movement in front of us. Good grief, three deer!

It always amazes me how quickly things happen. There’s no warning, deer just suddenly appear and there’s only seconds to react before they’re gone. Often it’s hours of boredom, then, unexpectedly, seconds of panic.

I slipped the safety off and through the scope could see they were indeed antlerless, but the two in the clear overlapped each other, one’s rump hiding the vitals of the other. They were staring right at us and edgy. My rest wasn’t solid at all, the crosshairs were wavering around, but they remained on a deer’s vitals.

Both took a couple nervous steps and a clear shot appeared. The rifle roared and the deer bolted over a steep edge into the creek bottom.

“You hit her!” Scott declared. “Thought you were trying for a neck shot?”

“No, I wasn’t solid enough. Why?”

He looked at me sorrowfully. “That creek bottom is a jungle of brush, thorns, beaver dams and mud. You have no idea how thick it is.”

That didn’t sound promising. We walked up to the area the deer had stood, couldn’t find tracks, hair or blood. Even worse, the bank beside the shooting lane was almost vertical and covered in blackberry bushes.

This wasn’t going to be fun at all.

Sure my shot had been good and the upcoming search painful, the rifle was left behind. I’d need both hands free to fight through the thickets, Scott assured me. Finally, finding a couple saplings to hold onto made it possible to descend the bank where I immediately found myself in thick bushes over my head interspersed with goldenrod and multiflora rose with its hooked thorns. Worse, the area flooded during heavy rains and lower lying areas were thick with mud into which I sank some 6 inches.

Nice. This was worse than Scott’s description. For 30 minutes we struggled and floundered through this maze with no success. Finally, fighting to the far side of this morass the cover opened up and it became possible to see up to 40 yards. Moving ahead I suddenly caught movement in front of me. A deer stood staring then spun and ran. Ah, a good sign. That deer was waiting for the one I’d shot, which had fallen behind me or possibly fallen close by its location. Searching this area also proved fruitless.

Scott called off the search; we were wasting time and needed to continue hunting during this early morning period before deer movement ceased. Regretfully, I agreed and after recrossing the thickets continued hunting.

It was after 10 when we resumed the search. The sun was high and the temperature was rising. Shedding our coats we once again plunged into the swampy mess. Crossing to the more open side I thoroughly crisscrossed the area I’d seen the deer waiting, wading through goldenrod, peering into brush and cursing the thornapple trees with their long, sharp thorns and the cruel multiflora rose.

After 30 minutes I moved upstream for some distance looking into every patch of cover, then moved downstream. Earlier, Scott had shouted he’d found where the deer skidded down the bank and returning to that general area and starting 100 yards downstream, I advanced into the brush where you could only see short distances. Picking apart the thickets I’d back out, move up 10 yards and repeat the process.

Just below where I’d seen the deer standing I once again advanced, stopped and peered into the brush, goldenrod and thorn trees. Was that a speck of white at the limit of my vision? I struggled ahead, stopped and looked again. Yes, it was! Could it be? With mounting excitement, surging ahead and drawing within 15 feet my deer appeared.

What a relief! Shouting, I called to Scott, who struggled over to me. After tagging the deer we had to cut a single lane trail out and drag the big doe to a road. It wasn’t fun at all. When the deer was finally hung and skinned, I was exhausted.

“Well, Scott, want me to join you tonight so you won’t have to look both directions from the blind.”

He looked upward, considered and replied, “No, I’ve had more than enough fun for one day!”