Let me ask you a question.
What does a chipmunk have in common with a marching band on Main Street?
They make about the same amount of noise.
At least that’s what it seems like when you’re hunting in your tree stand on a sunny afternoon.
I decided to go bowhunting Wednesday afternoon. I took my portable climber and headed to one of my favorite spots on my hill. The wind was perfect and blowing in the right direction, so I quietly made my way up a tall, straight, hard maple and waited.
Right now is the perfect time to hunt. The rut is on heavy and the bucks are running hard in search of a receptive doe. In fact, I drove to Milford last Sunday morning and had two bucks cross the highway in front me in broad daylight. On Tuesday, I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting another one near Stamford. I knew the time was right.
I hadn’t been in my stand five minutes when I heard an animal approaching in the dry leaves. Yeah, it was a chipmunk. He scurried a little through the leaves and stopped. Then with what must be oversized feet, he got closer. Finally, the pesky, little devil ran down an old, rotting log and disappeared.
A few minutes later, I heard a deep, nasally “Eean.” I kept hearing it every two or three seconds, getting closer and closer. “Eean ... eean ... eean.” I immediately knew it was a whitetail buck coming up the small, brushy depression below me.
I waited with my bow ready. He soon appeared, following a trail off to my left with his nose ever close to the ground about 40 yards away. It was a small four-pointer out on a lusty search. I stood there in my stand and told him: “There’s a big eight-pointer working this area that would kick your butt if you aren’t careful.” I doubt he listened.