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- Category Hunting Stories
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- Prostaff Member Trout Whisperer
The stuff under my snow shoes is commonly referred to as snow, it's just that this time of year, it's like the frost in my freezer, white, brittle, and hard, so as I shoe over the stuff, wow, you cant help but notice how noisy it is.
Another noise I’m trying to pinpoint is up head, under a swirling flock of cawing crows, some are even perched as random black dots from the low in the snowscape to the tree tops. Im almost positive they have a winter killed carcass their breakfasting on and I wasn't headed anywhere special, so I’ll just mosey over and check it out.
Early morning shoeing is all that's left now. By this afternoon this would be a snowshoe slush fest. The white stuff would weigh too much in its melted morass of warm afternoons, so to go, I go early.
On the way to the crow raucous I cross the remnant tracks of deer prints slurred in melted, froze, and then melted again snow. Squirrels have scampered and rabbits romped. The old tracks are everywhere. Busted cattails have erupted and the seed pods look like brown fluffed explosions.
Chickadees are fee bee’ing just a few balsam branches away and everybody whoever studied the birds and the bees knows what that's all about. The sun today feels warm on my back but the air coming over the snow is still plenty crisp and I bet it doesn't cool the little bird's spring fever one bit.
Those black crows know I’m getting close and they don't want to leave the white winter buffet table. A sentinel guard bird high in a birch tree caws three times in alarm, wing beats it out of there and the chicken ones fly up and off the fed bed quickly. The hungry or brazen cock their heads at me, take a bite, and finally fly off.
The sky is full of cawing. It looks like I tossed a handful of ground pepper in the air. Flapping and floating they helter skelter out of here. Chickadees flit in to feed.
The deer was a buck. His antlers were shed, but the bald spots remain. What got him, looks like wolves. They don't make yot’e tracks that big where I’m from. Around the furry carcass are a few fox tracks and fifty five or so million crow tracks. Seven, by my count, Chickadees, could care less if I’m standing here. They flit in, grab a morsel, and zip off to a branch tip.
Just as I turn to leave a crow roosts way above my head. The morning wind wiggles him up there and he lowers his head into the wind and clinches tighter. The fee bee, fee bee, is getting quieter the further away I get. I leave everyone wing’d, quietly alone now to finish there breakfast as I finish my noisy hike.