Fall Fiction: The Trembling Part Three

“Mark, what on earth are you talking about? It can’t be gone. There’s no one way back in here but us,” Glen said, half asleep crawling out of the tent to take a look for himself.

Mark looked on as Glen began to frantically scan left to right for any sign of the missing canoe with obvious confusion on his face.

Worry came over the pair of hunters as they stood in the swamp’s silence staring into the blackwater.

“What do you think happened? I know we had it almost completely out of the water last night,” Mark said.

“We must have left it too far in, wind probably picked up some, and it floated off. Can’t be too far. We got to find it fast though. Almost all of our food and gear was in there.”

The pair spent the next hour wading through the canal’s shallow waters, desperately searching for the missing canoe.

“Glen! I’ve found it,” Mark shouted and pointed 20 yards ahead of where Glen stood.

Glen sloshed through the waste-deep water hurrying in the direction to where Mark stood.

“See, what did I tell you, wind must of have got it last night,” Glen said as he got closer.

“Yeah buddy… I’m not thinking it was the wind,” Mark said with a concerned voice staring in the direction of the canoe.

The pair of hunters eased toward the bank where their canoe was positioned sitting halfway up the bank and out of the water. Peering inside, the hunters could see their gear and food scattered from one end of the boat to the other covered in black mud and moss.

“I’m no detective, but I’d definitely say we can rule the wind out as a suspect,” Mark said.

Glen looked around the bank, obviously trying to come up with a rational theory to explain the situation. After a very long half a minute, he began to speak.

“Bear, probably a big one. Must have smelled our food and come for it in the middle of the night. Probably pushed it off the bank and it floated around here,” Glen said as he stood visibly confident in his explanation.

“And then when the bear got it down here, he politely pulled it up and of the water for us?” Mark fired back.

“No, no. Probably trying to get into the food and pushed it up here on this bank. With all the grass, you can’t make out his tracks, but I’d bet you we are dealing with a big old boar bear.” Glen said.

“One that takes out all of our stuff, goes through our clothes and gear and then doesn’t eat any of our food?” 

Mark obviously doubted the theory.

“Who knows? Maybe he changed his mind when he got a whiff of our dirty clothes,” Glen said laughing, obviously trying to hide his concern with humor.

“One thing is for sure, we’ve got to get all this stuff put back up and get paddled back to camp. We’ve already lost nearly a half day of scouting thanks to this bear. Let’s get a move on,” Glen said, climbing into the canoe.

Mark spent the entire 10-minute paddle back to camp in total silence. More than a little concerned about the entire situation, and more and more convinced that E.R. might be right about what he had seen in the swamp.

Meanwhile on the other side of Perch Island, the wise old buck knew something wasn’t quite right. As the humid summer breeze drifted into his nostrils, immediately he knew danger was nearby. Carefully scanning his surroundings, he quietly slipped deeper into the thick cover. After a half hour or so, the scent of danger was no longer present, and the buck stretched its legs for a midday snack.

• • • • • • •

The hunters spent the next several days on Perch Island exploring as much of it as they could, mapping and making notes of the terrain and sign they located.

 On the last night of camp, before they had to make the grueling paddle back to the refuge entrance, the hunters sat around the fire talking as the flames flickered. 

“I’m pumped about this place, Mark. I’ve spent my life chasing deer on public land, and this is the hunt I’ve waited for,” Glen said as the glow of the fire bounced on his face.

“With all the sign back here, we shouldn’t have any problem filling our tags. Now the paddle in and back out, well that’s another story,” Mark said with a laugh.

• • • • • • •

The next day the hunters pushed off in darkness and began their long voyage back through the refuge. After a full day of paddling in the hot Georgia sun, the pair made it back to the refuge headquarters sunburned and beat around 6 p.m.

“Hey it was rough but we made it. It’s a pile of work, but it’s gonna be worth it,” said Glen.

Mark agreed, and the pair hurried to load up the rest of their gear they had left at base camp, anxiously ready for a long ride home in the air conditioning of the pick-up truck.

• • • • • • •

The next few weeks flew by, and a slight breeze in the air the morning of the first hunt had both hunters excited as they checked in at the entrance to the refuge.

“This will make a day of paddling a pile more fun,” Glen said.

“We should be able to make it in time to set up in time for a late afternoon hunt.”

The pair of hunters got checked in, loaded their gear and launched their canoe. By 2:00 in the afternoon, they had made it to within a mile of Perch Island.

Coming around a bend in the tiny canal, both hunters were shocked by the obstacle in front of them. 

Logs and limbs were piled across the canal for a stretch of nearly 15 yards. Both hunters looked on in disbelief at the hurdle they faced.

“Daggum beavers.” Glen was the first to speak.

“Glen, I ain’t never seen a beaver den that stretched 15 yards across. They would have to be 50 of them to build something like this. Besides some of these trees weigh hundreds of pounds,” Mark replied. 

Glen didn’t answer as he began pulling at limbs in an effort to clear a path through. After an hour of tirelessly working, the pair finally made it through. Paddling in silence the last half of a mile, Mark was convinced something or someone didn’t want them on Perch Island.

Once they set up camp, the hunters made the decision to spend the afternoon hunting the east side of the island where they had located plenty of deer and hog sign during their previous trip scouting.

“We got to get the freezers full this trip. I’m out of burger and down to my last two packs of sausage,” said Glen.

“Me, too, it’s time to go to God’s grocery store,” Mark said with a smile.

The hunters settled into their stands, both situated about 50 yards away from the canal and roughly 200 yards apart. Overlooking a mature persimmon tree, Mark caught a glimpse of movement heading his way with roughly an hour of daylight left. 

He slowly stood in his Summit Viper climbing stand, grabbing his bow quietly from the hook it was hanging on. 

After another minute, antlers began to shine through the rattling palmetto bushes. As soon as the buck’s head went behind a cypress tree, Mark smoothly drew back his bow. Standing at full draw, Mark patiently waited for the large 8-point to ease closer to the persimmon tree that stood only 14 yards away. 

When the buck made it to the tree, he paused and looked around, putting his nose in the air.

Mark knew the angle he had on the buck was bad, so patiently he waited with sweat dripping down his face as he struggled to hold steady at full draw.

After what seemed like an eternity, the buck took two quick steps, turning nearly broadside in the process. 

Mark gently squeezed his release, watching his arrow pass through the buck. The 8-pointer mule-kicked, spun around and disappeared into the thick swamp brush.

Mark stood trembling, listened to the buck run off. After hearing what he believed to be the buck crashing 50 or so yards away, he felt confident the animal was down.

Mark knocked another arrow, sat back in his climber and hoped the next 45 minutes of light would bring another opportunity.

A few hundred yards away, Glen could hear movement behind him. Still as a statue Glen watched a mature doe pass almost directly under his tree. Every few steps the large doe would pause and look behind her into the bushes.

Glen watched the doe for nearly 15 minutes, until she suddenly bounced out of sight. Glen slowly stood, bow in hand as he peered into the bushes ready to get a shot at whatever had spooked the doe.

The buck cautiously and unknowingly eased closer toward Glen’s stand, hot on the trail of the doe he’d been trailing for the past few hours. 

Suddenly the wind shifted and a gust of humid air blew into the buck’s nostrils. Frozen with fear, the buck stood motionless in the dense palmettos.

Glen slowly moved his head, trying to get a better look at what was standing in the bushes. 

Glen’s movement caught the buck’s eye, and immediately the deer exploded, leaping into the air above the palmettos, fully exposing his massive rack. Two seconds later the buck had vanished.

Glen stood, knees quivering and hands trembling, in total disbelief of what he had just witnessed. He knew without any doubt that the buck was a swamp monster, and he’d blown his shot at the giant animal. After a few minutes, he sat down, feeling defeated by the entire situation.

• • • • • • •

Meanwhile Mark’s luck was going a little differently. Though the woods were quickly becoming dark, another deer was quickly closing in toward the persimmon tree. 

As it quartered to within 20 yards, Mark could see it was a mature doe. As the doe bent down to grab a mouthful of persimmons, Mark drew back his bow, lined up his sight and let his arrow fly. Immediately his Lumenok disappeared into the doe’s shoulder, causing the deer to go down instantly on its front legs. 

“A little too far forward, but at least it worked out,” Mark thought to himself as he watched the deer get up, struggling to run about 30 yards before crashing into the bushes.

A short while later darkness fell, and both hunters headed to their meet-up spot. Though he was frustrated with how his hunt had unfolded, Glen couldn’t help but smile as Mark came walking up displaying a thumbs up with one hand and a number two with the other.

“You got two of ’em?” Glen asked.

“Yeah, a doe and a pretty solid buck,” Mark said. “Might be my best bow buck yet. What about you?”

“We’ll talk about that later. It’s a short story with an even shorter ending. Let’s go find those deer,” Glen said.

• • • • • • •

The pair drug the doe out to the canoe first and then went back in to trail the buck.

“Look at that blood trail,” Glen whispered pointing at the blood sprayed a couple of feet in each direction.

“Yes-sir. That Magnus Stinger broadhead doesn’t play,” Mark replied as he quickly followed the trail toward the buck.

A few minutes later, Mark and Glen got a glimpse of antlers sticking up on the other side of a downed oak tree.

“There he is, what a buck you got here, Mark!” 

Looking down at the 115-inch buck, Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. For a bow buck in the deep swamp, this was a real trophy. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you Glen, I wasn’t sure if there were bucks of this caliber to be had in the refuge,” Mark said.

“Looking at the body size alone, it looks more like a deer from the Midwest than an old south Georgia swamp buck,” Glen replied.

Mark nodded and the hunters drug the buck out to the canoe and paddled back to camp.

• • • • • • •

After deboning the deer and caping out the buck, Mark and Glen sat next to the fire watching fresh backstrap sizzle in a splatter of butter in Glen’s trusty cast iron skillet. 

“So how did your hunt go? Anything worth talking about?” Mark asked as he bit into a piece of medium-rare meat.

“Biggest buck I’ve ever seen from the stand. Had to be a solid 130 or even better. I knew he was coming in behind the doe I watched. I just didn’t know he was watching me. Second I moved, he busted me and took off.”

“Wow, 130! This place is turning into a real surprise,” Mark said.

“In all my years I’ve hunted swamps in the South, I’ve never seen anything like the caliber of deer way back here on Perch Island. There has to be some special genetics in this herd no doubt about it. When we get home, I know just who to ask to find out,” Glen said confidently.

“Who would know something like that?” Mark replied.

“Blackwater Bill,” Glen answered.

Mark had never met Blackwater Bill, but he had a feeling he would soon enough.

• • • • • • •

The next day the hunters sat in their stands from 4 a.m. until darkness finally fell. Both saw several deer, none of which ever presented a good shot.

On Sunday morning a slight coolness in the air gave both hunters hope that they might be able to put a little more meat in the coolers before making the long paddle out of the refuge.

Shortly after daylight, Glen caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his right eye. Motionless, he watched the large sow work her way out in front of his stand to a distance of about 22 yards.

While the hog rooted around in the bushes, Glen slowly stood, smoothly drawing his bow.

After settling his pin on the animal, he clicked the release.

Smack! 

The arrow connected, and the hog did a full 360-degree turn, squealing as it disappeared in the direction that Mark was hunting.

Immediately after the shot, Mark knew Glen must have connected with the pig. He could tell the hog was coming in his direction by the sound of the squealing.

Standing at full draw, Mark was prepared for an opportunity to take down the hog if it passed by, but finally after another minute, he heard it crash 50 yards to his right. 

Smiling, he sat back down in his stand. What an opening weekend it had been in the refuge. 

• • • • • • •

A couple hours later, after deboning the large black sow, the hunters made the long voyage back to the refuge entrance and managed to make it to the check station at the gate with two hours to spare. 

“Evening boys, any luck this weekend?” the park ranger asked as he chewed on a cigar. 

“We did pretty good, got a good buck, a doe and a big old sow,” Glen said with a smile.

“I’d say so! Lordy what a buck. Where in the world did you find one like that?” the ranger asked, examining the antlers and cape of Mark’s deer.

“Way back in the middle of nowhere, 20  miles deep in the swamp,” Glen replied.

“You boys are good to go. Congratulations on your deer, but hey..do me a favor, though, and be careful back there. The swamp can be a dangerous place when you’re all alone.”

Between the seriousness in the ranger’s voice, and the eerie look on his face in the glow of his flashlight, the ranger’s words didn’t sit too well at all with Mark. He didn’t know what was with them on Perch Island, but he was certain they weren’t alone.

Part 4 of “The Trembling”