Ten Yards
This was the day.
I could feel it when I woke up. It was going to be a warm, drizzly day. Upper 30's, maybe into the 40's. And I could feel in my bones that today would be the day I shot at a squirrel.
I dropped the kids off at school and reflected on the night before. I had been catching up on transcribing my journal onto the computer. On January 4th, I had been part way up a steep hill and heard chittering that I thought might be a chipmunk. Last night, on the 6th, I had done some more research and found that it was actually a squirrel.
So that day, all of those critters I had heard were squirrels.
Lots of 'em.
And I knew where they were.
So today HAD to be the day. HAD to be.
I drove up to that same spot and decided to climb all the way to the top of that big, steep hill and glass the trees for the squirrels.
My pack seemed particularly heavy on this day. I got a two liter water pouch with a bite straw so I could drink while walking and had that filled up. I had received a 32 oz. thermos from Dad for Christmas that I had filled with Shaffer Mix Hot Chocolate. It was warm enough that I didn't want to wear my super warm USMC surplus coat with liner, so that was strapped to the pack. Hat, gloves, extra hat, extra gloves, case of bullets, turkey stool, and various other hiking trinkets.
I'd carried this load before. But this was the first time I had done terrain this steep and brushy. On the 4th, I had just hiked in with my rifle and coat.
It started off alright, and by the time I had followed the path up the steep incline to about mid hill, I was feeling pretty good. Especially since I was hearing that chittering sound again from up the hill, down the hill into the valley, across the valley on the next hill. There are lots of squirrels here!
I found the spot where I had left the trail on the 4th, and headed up the hill to 'my' stump, where I had perched and listened to the chatter a few days before. It was a steep and thorny hundred yards closer to the top, but still a good distance away from the peak. I was winded by the extra weight of the pack, and was considering that I should maybe drop some extra weight on my front to make carrying extra weight on my back a little easier.
I heard chittering far down the hill and far to my left and right. I stared up into the gray sky.
C'mon Universe. You've been working me up to this for almost a dozen outings. Slowly and step by step, and I'll admit to some frustration. But I'm not going to quit, so you may as well give me a break here and get me into an animal or two, huh? It didn't take too much longer sitting still to hear the same two critters I had heard before. Thanks God.
I started up toward the one that I thought might be closer by up the hill. I was still breathing heavy from the earlier climb, and my glasses were fogging up a bit, but I headed straight up the hill towards my prey.
Twenty feet later I stopped to listen.
A minute passed. Then five. Then ten.
And the squirrel chittered again. I was on the right path.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty feet uphill through the raspberry vines and buckthorn and I stopped again. I told myself it was to listen and remain silent. But it was also partly to catch my breath. This was a steep hill. Steep enough that when I slipped - which I seemed to do a lot on the wet, leafy mud - I could just lean forward onto my knee and catch myself. Three minutes. Five.
Chittering again. Closer this time.
I took a few deep breaths and worked on ahead. Using saplings and trees to pull myself forward and up, and fallen trees that lay perpendicular to the slope as footholds.
Twenty more feet and damn this pack is heavy. This slope was easily as steep as a staircase, only with far less predictable treads.
Back at the car,I had dumped 16 oz of water out of the 64 oz water bag. I thought the slightly lighter 48 oz would be doable. I took a big hit off the straw and leaned/sat against the slope. I had my little turkey seat strapped to the pack, but this terrain was far too steep to think about using that.
Chittering again. Really close by! Why couldn't I see it? I mean, other than the heat coming off my body was steaming up my glasses...
I pulled myself farther up the hill, still breathing heavily, and leaned against a tree. I pulled my lens cleaning cloth out of my pocket and started wiping off my glasses.
Chittering again. It seemed like I was right on top of it. Where was it?
Then I heard something I've only heard weakly on you tube videos. The quick crunching/scraping sound of a squirrel gnoshing on a nut.
I put my glasses on and started going tree by tree very slowly. Why on earth was it so dang hard to see?
I was about to move forward again when I saw it.
Sitting atop a fifteen foot tall rotted tree stump about ten yards up the hill. nibbling noisily on a walnut. Perfectly broadside.
Also the exact color of everything around it. If he hadn't flicked his tail, I would have glanced right by.
OK. Here it was. I knew this would be the day. I raised the rifle and braced it against the tree I had been leaning on.
I peered through the scope.
Everything was blurry and foggy. What the heck?
Yeah. My glasses had fogged over again. Maybe it wasn't too bad, I thought, and sighted in again.
Blur. Gray blur. Brownish blur. Foggy gray blur.
Yeah. No. I'm not shooting at something I can't identify.
So I grabbed the lens wipe thing and cleaned my glasses.
Rifle back up. Why was everything still blurred?
So, my new scope is adjustable. from 3x to 9x. After shooting the other day, it was still on 9x. The squirrel - a whopping ten or so yards away - was too close to be in focus.
So I backed it down to 5x. That looked pretty good. But then I realized that I was still breathing quite heavily and the crosshairs were bobbing and weaving around on the squirrel and off.
I lowered the rifle, leaned down against the tree, and worked on getting my breathing under control. Just how long would this squirrel sit still and wait for me?
A minute passed. Then two. He just sat there, chittering occasionally and munching away.
A bunch of years ago, I developed a little case of vertigo. From time to time it rears its head, often without warning. This is hilarious to me when I get out of bed, walk a few steps, and drop back onto the bed like I had just done a Dizzy Izzy. But as I stood back up straight from leaning against the tree, I felt the familiar spinning begin. The pack suddenly felt like it weighed a ton, and my left leg that had been supporting the brunt of my weight this whole time got a wee bit shaky.
I leaned against the tree again and shed the pack. It thunked to the ground heavily, and I winced as I peeked back up at the squirrel, certain that he would finally bolt.
But nope. He was still just sitting there. Perfectly broadside. Perfectly content.
I remembered back to the buffalo hunt and something my Ciye Will had said. Often, when the spirit of the hunt is right, an animal will present itself to the hunter. As if to say "Here you go. Feed your family."
That was exactly what this squirrel seemed to be doing. It sat patiently through my fumbling and wheezing. I stood up sans pack, breathing was better, knees seemed stable. Ok. Time to shoot.
I lined up the crosshairs. It wandered a bit still from my breathing and I thought,
"Geeze. I don't want to blow this shot. Maybe I should zoom the scope up to 9x to make certain I hit."
So I did, and it was a blurry picture. I was convinced I could make out the head, body, tail. I mean, the squirrel filled the entire circle of the scope. The wander wasn't bad.
I took the shot.
The squirrel flew from the top of the tree and I looked up in time to see it land on the ground.
And stand up.
And look around as if to say "What the hell was that?"
And hop calmly up the hill and up a much taller tree.
I stood, stunned.
How did I miss that shot? I could have thrown the rifle and hit that squirrel. How on earth did I miss?
I climbed up to the spot I saw him land. No fur or blood anywhere. A mound of chewed on nuts littered the base of the tree. This was a preferred snack spot for this guy.
How did I miss?
I climbed over and spent a little over a half hour watching the tree it had climbed, but didn't see a sign of him.
How did I miss??
I drank some hot chocolate and contemplated some more.
How. Did. I. Miss???
I replayed it a few dozen times in my head. Crosshairs had been on the head pretty steadily. I wasn't "Oh Boy I Get To Shoot Something!" excited. In fact, had been focused on being a good predator. Aim small, miss small. Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it. I really thought I had got it.
The Marine in me was fuming. I had relied too much on the scope. Should have left it at 5x. Should have waited until my breathing was solid. I rushed the shot.
Welp. I don't know how I did it. But I did. Any hunter, or shooter for that matter, who says they've never flubbed what should have been an easy shot are lying. I know it happens. I was just hoping it wouldn't happen today. It was such a perfectly set up shot.
I was recovered enough to make a try for the top of the hill. It seemed like I should at least accomplish that today. So I hiked on up the last couple hundred yards.
As I approached the top, I noticed that there was a nice trail very similar to the one that led up the hill at the start. It angled gently down the slope away from the peak, and was probably the end of the trail that I had started on, switching back farther down the valley. At least the walk down would be a snap!
It was a beautiful view from the top, and I found a delightful outcropping that I could sit down, lean back, and let nature happen.
After about fifteen minutes, I could hear the squirrels chattering again all up and down the valley I'd just been in, as well as the valley on the other side of the hill.
Yeah. There are plenty of squirrels out here.
I stayed up there for a little bit longer than I had planned, because I had found the sweet, easy trail back down. Soon enough it was near time to head back to the car. I stopped frequently on the way down, listening for chittering for a minute or so each stop, not really expecting to hear anything. But a couple hundred yards down the path, I heard a squirrel pretty close up the steep hill.
I froze for a moment, checked the clock, and figured I had enough time for a short stalk. I dropped the pack and just took Peach with me up the hill. What a difference climbing through the brush without a pack made! I was able to achieve a modicum of stealth, as I didn't have the back weight knocking me off balance, and it was very reminiscent of sneaking through the woods of Wisconsin back in my USMC days. I hunkered down next to fallen trees and behind big oaks as I snuck to where I was hearing the chittering.
Maybe I'd get a chance to redeem myself! Bring home supper after all! From the experience earlier in the day, I knew I had to be close. I'd left my binoculars back with the pack, so did some searching with my scope and naked eye. But after a half hour, I just wasn't seeing it, and it had stopped talking. It did, however, leave its chewed walnut calling card in a nearby tree.
I had stalked a big circle and ended up remarkably close to my pack. So I heaved it back on, and headed down the trail. Now thoroughly tired, and feeling only slightly pressed for time. A half hour down to the car, and I'd have no problem getting to the school on time to pick up my girl.
It was as I was reveling in the easy walk, that I noticed the end of the road. Literally. Deep back in the valley, and a few hundred feet below the crest of the hill. It just stopped. Ended in an inglorious drop down the hill. It didn't even come close to the original trail, which was nowhere in sight down the hill to the base of the valley.
My heart sunk. I now had two choices. Go back up the trail to nearly the top where I could retrace my footprints on the steep slope. Or make my own trail across the slope, descending gently until I either found the original trail again or got to the bottom of the valley, which I could just follow out.
Up seemed like a bit of torture. I was exhausted and was truly tired of fighting gravity.. But down meant wading through buckthorn (quite thorny) and raspberry thickets (also scratchy) and other various pokey and proddy things. But - if I went up, I'd have a crap ton of brush to go through on my way back down my initial climbing track. And going down now meant that gravity would at least a little bit be on my side.
I headed off through the brush and adopted a style that I now call "Moosing".
Moose never seem to carefully pick their way through brush. They just lumber forward and go through whatever is in their way. I kept my head down to make sure of my footing, and just plowed on through as much as I could.
Of course, I am nowhere near as nimble as a moose, and the falls and slips were frequent. But, as time was of the essence, I just picked myself up and plowed on ahead.
After what seemed an eternity, I stumbled - literally - upon 'my' stump. Holy poop was I worn. I briefly considered sitting down for a break, but feared that once I sat comfortably I'd be hard pressed to get up again.
I knew where I was now, and knew that I couldn't stop if I wanted to get to school on time. Mercifully, I reached the car and piled the gear and myself in.
On the drive back to town, I did some reflecting on the day. I flubbed the perfect shot. Learned how to Moose through brush. Picked up some nice scrapes and scratches. Was furious, frustrated, wet, muddy and exhausted. And also content, pleased, more relaxed, and happy.
I've known for a while now that there is learning in failure. Even more so than in success sometimes. Today had both, and I learned a great deal.
I could feel it when I woke up. It was going to be a warm, drizzly day. Upper 30's, maybe into the 40's. And I could feel in my bones that today would be the day I shot at a squirrel.
I dropped the kids off at school and reflected on the night before. I had been catching up on transcribing my journal onto the computer. On January 4th, I had been part way up a steep hill and heard chittering that I thought might be a chipmunk. Last night, on the 6th, I had done some more research and found that it was actually a squirrel.
So that day, all of those critters I had heard were squirrels.
Lots of 'em.
And I knew where they were.
So today HAD to be the day. HAD to be.
I drove up to that same spot and decided to climb all the way to the top of that big, steep hill and glass the trees for the squirrels.
Imma gonna climb that hill. It doesn't look that steep from here!
I'd carried this load before. But this was the first time I had done terrain this steep and brushy. On the 4th, I had just hiked in with my rifle and coat.
It started off alright, and by the time I had followed the path up the steep incline to about mid hill, I was feeling pretty good. Especially since I was hearing that chittering sound again from up the hill, down the hill into the valley, across the valley on the next hill. There are lots of squirrels here!
I found the spot where I had left the trail on the 4th, and headed up the hill to 'my' stump, where I had perched and listened to the chatter a few days before. It was a steep and thorny hundred yards closer to the top, but still a good distance away from the peak. I was winded by the extra weight of the pack, and was considering that I should maybe drop some extra weight on my front to make carrying extra weight on my back a little easier.
I heard chittering far down the hill and far to my left and right. I stared up into the gray sky.
C'mon Universe. You've been working me up to this for almost a dozen outings. Slowly and step by step, and I'll admit to some frustration. But I'm not going to quit, so you may as well give me a break here and get me into an animal or two, huh? It didn't take too much longer sitting still to hear the same two critters I had heard before. Thanks God.
I started up toward the one that I thought might be closer by up the hill. I was still breathing heavy from the earlier climb, and my glasses were fogging up a bit, but I headed straight up the hill towards my prey.
Twenty feet later I stopped to listen.
A minute passed. Then five. Then ten.
And the squirrel chittered again. I was on the right path.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty feet uphill through the raspberry vines and buckthorn and I stopped again. I told myself it was to listen and remain silent. But it was also partly to catch my breath. This was a steep hill. Steep enough that when I slipped - which I seemed to do a lot on the wet, leafy mud - I could just lean forward onto my knee and catch myself. Three minutes. Five.
Chittering again. Closer this time.
I took a few deep breaths and worked on ahead. Using saplings and trees to pull myself forward and up, and fallen trees that lay perpendicular to the slope as footholds.
Twenty more feet and damn this pack is heavy. This slope was easily as steep as a staircase, only with far less predictable treads.
Back at the car,I had dumped 16 oz of water out of the 64 oz water bag. I thought the slightly lighter 48 oz would be doable. I took a big hit off the straw and leaned/sat against the slope. I had my little turkey seat strapped to the pack, but this terrain was far too steep to think about using that.
Chittering again. Really close by! Why couldn't I see it? I mean, other than the heat coming off my body was steaming up my glasses...
I pulled myself farther up the hill, still breathing heavily, and leaned against a tree. I pulled my lens cleaning cloth out of my pocket and started wiping off my glasses.
Chittering again. It seemed like I was right on top of it. Where was it?
Then I heard something I've only heard weakly on you tube videos. The quick crunching/scraping sound of a squirrel gnoshing on a nut.
I put my glasses on and started going tree by tree very slowly. Why on earth was it so dang hard to see?
I was about to move forward again when I saw it.
Sitting atop a fifteen foot tall rotted tree stump about ten yards up the hill. nibbling noisily on a walnut. Perfectly broadside.
Also the exact color of everything around it. If he hadn't flicked his tail, I would have glanced right by.
OK. Here it was. I knew this would be the day. I raised the rifle and braced it against the tree I had been leaning on.
I peered through the scope.
Everything was blurry and foggy. What the heck?
Yeah. My glasses had fogged over again. Maybe it wasn't too bad, I thought, and sighted in again.
Blur. Gray blur. Brownish blur. Foggy gray blur.
Yeah. No. I'm not shooting at something I can't identify.
So I grabbed the lens wipe thing and cleaned my glasses.
Rifle back up. Why was everything still blurred?
So, my new scope is adjustable. from 3x to 9x. After shooting the other day, it was still on 9x. The squirrel - a whopping ten or so yards away - was too close to be in focus.
So I backed it down to 5x. That looked pretty good. But then I realized that I was still breathing quite heavily and the crosshairs were bobbing and weaving around on the squirrel and off.
I lowered the rifle, leaned down against the tree, and worked on getting my breathing under control. Just how long would this squirrel sit still and wait for me?
A minute passed. Then two. He just sat there, chittering occasionally and munching away.
A bunch of years ago, I developed a little case of vertigo. From time to time it rears its head, often without warning. This is hilarious to me when I get out of bed, walk a few steps, and drop back onto the bed like I had just done a Dizzy Izzy. But as I stood back up straight from leaning against the tree, I felt the familiar spinning begin. The pack suddenly felt like it weighed a ton, and my left leg that had been supporting the brunt of my weight this whole time got a wee bit shaky.
I leaned against the tree again and shed the pack. It thunked to the ground heavily, and I winced as I peeked back up at the squirrel, certain that he would finally bolt.
But nope. He was still just sitting there. Perfectly broadside. Perfectly content.
I remembered back to the buffalo hunt and something my Ciye Will had said. Often, when the spirit of the hunt is right, an animal will present itself to the hunter. As if to say "Here you go. Feed your family."
That was exactly what this squirrel seemed to be doing. It sat patiently through my fumbling and wheezing. I stood up sans pack, breathing was better, knees seemed stable. Ok. Time to shoot.
I lined up the crosshairs. It wandered a bit still from my breathing and I thought,
"Geeze. I don't want to blow this shot. Maybe I should zoom the scope up to 9x to make certain I hit."
So I did, and it was a blurry picture. I was convinced I could make out the head, body, tail. I mean, the squirrel filled the entire circle of the scope. The wander wasn't bad.
I took the shot.
The squirrel flew from the top of the tree and I looked up in time to see it land on the ground.
And stand up.
And look around as if to say "What the hell was that?"
And hop calmly up the hill and up a much taller tree.
I stood, stunned.
How did I miss that shot? I could have thrown the rifle and hit that squirrel. How on earth did I miss?
I climbed up to the spot I saw him land. No fur or blood anywhere. A mound of chewed on nuts littered the base of the tree. This was a preferred snack spot for this guy.
How did I miss?
I climbed over and spent a little over a half hour watching the tree it had climbed, but didn't see a sign of him.
How did I miss??
I drank some hot chocolate and contemplated some more.
How. Did. I. Miss???
He was right...there...
I replayed it a few dozen times in my head. Crosshairs had been on the head pretty steadily. I wasn't "Oh Boy I Get To Shoot Something!" excited. In fact, had been focused on being a good predator. Aim small, miss small. Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it. I really thought I had got it.
The Marine in me was fuming. I had relied too much on the scope. Should have left it at 5x. Should have waited until my breathing was solid. I rushed the shot.
Welp. I don't know how I did it. But I did. Any hunter, or shooter for that matter, who says they've never flubbed what should have been an easy shot are lying. I know it happens. I was just hoping it wouldn't happen today. It was such a perfectly set up shot.
I was recovered enough to make a try for the top of the hill. It seemed like I should at least accomplish that today. So I hiked on up the last couple hundred yards.
As I approached the top, I noticed that there was a nice trail very similar to the one that led up the hill at the start. It angled gently down the slope away from the peak, and was probably the end of the trail that I had started on, switching back farther down the valley. At least the walk down would be a snap!
It was a beautiful view from the top, and I found a delightful outcropping that I could sit down, lean back, and let nature happen.
I'm on top of the world!
Recliner rock.
After about fifteen minutes, I could hear the squirrels chattering again all up and down the valley I'd just been in, as well as the valley on the other side of the hill.
Yeah. There are plenty of squirrels out here.
I stayed up there for a little bit longer than I had planned, because I had found the sweet, easy trail back down. Soon enough it was near time to head back to the car. I stopped frequently on the way down, listening for chittering for a minute or so each stop, not really expecting to hear anything. But a couple hundred yards down the path, I heard a squirrel pretty close up the steep hill.
I froze for a moment, checked the clock, and figured I had enough time for a short stalk. I dropped the pack and just took Peach with me up the hill. What a difference climbing through the brush without a pack made! I was able to achieve a modicum of stealth, as I didn't have the back weight knocking me off balance, and it was very reminiscent of sneaking through the woods of Wisconsin back in my USMC days. I hunkered down next to fallen trees and behind big oaks as I snuck to where I was hearing the chittering.
Maybe I'd get a chance to redeem myself! Bring home supper after all! From the experience earlier in the day, I knew I had to be close. I'd left my binoculars back with the pack, so did some searching with my scope and naked eye. But after a half hour, I just wasn't seeing it, and it had stopped talking. It did, however, leave its chewed walnut calling card in a nearby tree.
Pretty sure they're just mocking me now.
I had stalked a big circle and ended up remarkably close to my pack. So I heaved it back on, and headed down the trail. Now thoroughly tired, and feeling only slightly pressed for time. A half hour down to the car, and I'd have no problem getting to the school on time to pick up my girl.
It was as I was reveling in the easy walk, that I noticed the end of the road. Literally. Deep back in the valley, and a few hundred feet below the crest of the hill. It just stopped. Ended in an inglorious drop down the hill. It didn't even come close to the original trail, which was nowhere in sight down the hill to the base of the valley.
Where'd the road go?
My heart sunk. I now had two choices. Go back up the trail to nearly the top where I could retrace my footprints on the steep slope. Or make my own trail across the slope, descending gently until I either found the original trail again or got to the bottom of the valley, which I could just follow out.
Up seemed like a bit of torture. I was exhausted and was truly tired of fighting gravity.. But down meant wading through buckthorn (quite thorny) and raspberry thickets (also scratchy) and other various pokey and proddy things. But - if I went up, I'd have a crap ton of brush to go through on my way back down my initial climbing track. And going down now meant that gravity would at least a little bit be on my side.
I headed off through the brush and adopted a style that I now call "Moosing".
Moose never seem to carefully pick their way through brush. They just lumber forward and go through whatever is in their way. I kept my head down to make sure of my footing, and just plowed on through as much as I could.
Of course, I am nowhere near as nimble as a moose, and the falls and slips were frequent. But, as time was of the essence, I just picked myself up and plowed on ahead.
After what seemed an eternity, I stumbled - literally - upon 'my' stump. Holy poop was I worn. I briefly considered sitting down for a break, but feared that once I sat comfortably I'd be hard pressed to get up again.
I knew where I was now, and knew that I couldn't stop if I wanted to get to school on time. Mercifully, I reached the car and piled the gear and myself in.
On the drive back to town, I did some reflecting on the day. I flubbed the perfect shot. Learned how to Moose through brush. Picked up some nice scrapes and scratches. Was furious, frustrated, wet, muddy and exhausted. And also content, pleased, more relaxed, and happy.
I've known for a while now that there is learning in failure. Even more so than in success sometimes. Today had both, and I learned a great deal.
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