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By Craig Fields
I'M TIRED of all those articles which begin something like, "going afield to chase bushytails can help you pattern that big buck for later, and offer a surprising amount of sport in the process."
Malarkey! It's time for those of us who look forward to the first non-wingshooting season of fall to stand up and state proudly that ours is a sport at least as worthy as any "gentlemanly" pursuit of tiny mosquito-like birds what can't even produce a decent drumstick.
Many of us cut our sporting teeth on cheap .22's and ubiquitous gray squirrels. While no one would disagree that such is a fine way to introduce a youngster to the joys of hunting, some people feel cheapened if they hunt squirrel without a higher purpose, such as scouting for deer, offering a plausible excuse.
Why don't you just relax and admit that you've never lost your love of stalking the hickories for chattering tree rats.
In the part of Virginia where I live, squirrel season generally coincides with the early bow season for deer. Which means that my bow is constantly configured for carp shooting, because I'm not about to give up a minute of the hickory-cutting season to sit in some tree stand-- watching squirrels that I should be shooting-- for a low-percentage chance at harvesting the first deer of the year. Bowhunting is hard. Been there, done that. My problem is that once the fishing tackle is put away and the woods erupt in a riot of color, I have too much pent-up energy. The brisk October air mirrors the brisk surge of lifeblood within me, and I need to walk. Sure, I can step slowly along the inside of a curving logging road, moving less than a quarter mile an hour while listening for the tell-tale plip-plip of discarded hickory hulls, but I can't remain motionless in a treestand for eight hours watching a trail at this time of year. That will come later, when winter slows even the mighty rivers and I count on the rush of seeing the frozen breath of a buck to jump-start my heart. For now, I need to feel the seasons change around me as I sneak through the woods, watching for a glimpse of what may well be my favorite prey.
One Thanksgiving Day, I shot a 10-point eastern whitetail at 50 paces. There is no doubt that the trophy on my wall serves as a reminder of a great experience in the outdoors. But the memory I pull up most often from that season was imprinted on my cortex during squirrel season.
I was hunting area 16G of the Quantico Marine Corps Base in northern Virginia. My job at the time allowed me to start work at 5:30 AM, meaning that I could easily put in a full day and still have plenty of time to check in at the base and hunt the late afternoon movement period. All of the parking areas closest to the several hickory stands I had discovered years ago contained vehicles, probably belonging to bow hunters who had been there since dawn. Not one to put down bowhunting the way some put down my chosen pursuit, I drove around the area until I found an empty access point in order to leave the bowhunters undisturbed. Good thing, too. The hickories had all been cut during the previous week-- any hard-core squirrel hunter can tell you that nothing beats hickories in the early season, but once they're gone, they're gone-- and so are the squirrels.
I eased into the woods and started hunting. In less than ten minutes I spotted a lone hickory, devoid of nuts, and a huge white oak, bursting with flavor.
One squirrel from that monstrous stalwart of the eastern hardwood forest was all it took. I happily eased up a nearby ridge that was literally covered with white oaks. The afternoon movement period began and bushytails were everywhere. I like to field dress my squirrels as soon as possible, so I'm willing to forgo the convention of shooting one squirrel and waiting awhile to see if another appears. That normally makes it harder to bag a limit, but on this day I saw a squirrel every time I walked to pick up the one before. The action was so incredible, I couldn't even field dress the downed squirrels. More than that-- I couldn't even retrieve each squirrel before another shot presented itself. In 40 minutes I collected my limit and headed for the car.
Now, some might point to this as an example of how "babyish" squirrel hunting can be-- I got a limit with very little effort. But that doesn't tell the story. You see, the white oak ridge I walked was the only one to be found. Beech, sumac, black oak, and stands of jackpine characterized most of the area. There were plenty of hickory ridges a mile or so away, but the squirrels had abandoned them. The black oak acorns weren't ripe yet, and squirrels (like deer) prefer the sweeter white oak acorns anyway. Another squirrel hunter could have been in shouting range and gotten skunked.
Even though I was in a portion of the hunting area new to me, a single used-up hickory near a laden white oak told me all I needed to know. In fact, once I had my limit, I cut across a draw and another ridge rather than backtrack the entire ridge I had been hunting. The draw was beech, the ridge was scrub, red, and black oak: I didn't see a single squirrel.
Still too easy? A natural funnel of three ridgelines next to a cornfield is equally "easy", but I never hear deer hunters yearning for something harder once they find such a gold mine.
As with any hunting sport, it boils down to understanding the habits of the target species and being in the right place at the right time. The success above notwithstanding, even veteran squirrel hunters can find it difficult to pattern movements. There are plenty of trips where the lone bushytail in the bag is testament more to frustration than accomplishment. And that just makes the day when everything works special in the memories of an old tree rat fanatic.
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