In the Marshes

The land was unlike any of the mountainous terrain where I spent the majority of my first hunting season. Here, on the southeastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, it is flat. Very flat. The pine stands and large patches of phragmites, an invasive tall grass, cover most of the land. The thickness of the vegetation makes it quite challenging to find the small Japanese elk, or Sika Deer, I was hunting. The deer established a population in these marshes after they were introduced in the early twentieth century. 

Luckily, I wasn’t exploring these waterlogged forests blindly. Before I ventured out on my own, I received excellent written instruction from an experienced wildlife biologist, particularly regarding food sources. With the splish-splash of my watery footsteps, I set out to find the clumps of holly and myrtle I learned might attract some of the flighty little deer.  

Sika stag in marsh grasses.

The first thing that I noticed was the water. I knew these were marshes but the amount of water and its omnipresence surprised me. An initial exploration revealed a few places where these plants were growing, and there was plenty of deer sign too. Chewed leaves, hoof prints and droppings. I was cheerfully optimistic on day one. I climbed a loblolly pine near a particularly enticing holly grove and waited for what I was sure would be some deer sighting.

I waited and waited. The marsh was calm and beautiful. I have never seen so many birds in one place. Robins coming and going in the holly. Eagles soaring overhead. Cardinals, finches and even a curious owl landed on a nearby branch. But the deer never came. Only my constant hoping that the wind rustling in the phragmites was one approaching. I watched and listened eagerly, until the outlines of the pines began to fade into darkness. 

The next morning I made my way back into the marshes under the cover of darkness, unpacked my treestand and settled into my perch as the sky was beginning to lighten with the coming dawn. Unlike the breezy evening prior, the air was completely still. The birds began to chirp as the vegetation around me came alive. The sun’s rays warmed my face as they crept through the pines. Then, so faintly I could barely hear it, the unmistakable sound of an animal moving through the watery grasses drifted toward me. 

She was about fifty yards away when she emerged from the thick cover of the phragmites. Unexpectedly small, almost like a little goat. I watched motionless as this hind slowly made her way out of the water towards the drier ground full of holly and myrtle. My heart pounded. I had to act quickly before she disappeared again into thicker cover. I reached slowly for my bow, but was premature. The wind was blowing in my face, so she must have seen my movement from the corner of her eye. As quickly as she had appeared, she turned and vanished again into the phragmites. 

I remained in my elevated vantage for the rest of the day with only the excitement of a distant stag’s bizarre call to punctuate the numerous bird songs. I packed up my gear in the evening darkness. The hoots of an excited owl and the crunch of the pine needles beneath my feet kept me company as I retreated to my truck. 

The days in the marshes passed in this fashion. Constant avian activity interrupted by an occasional deer sighting either out of bow range or gone before I had the chance to prepare for a good shot. I felt defeated. I needed some more help.

Happily, the next day I had the opportunity to hunt with Steve, the seasoned wildlife biologist who had been kind enough to provide me with his wisdom on how to get started. His attention to the land was granular. He pointed out small changes in vegetation, patterns of water movement, and aspects of the habitat around us that I had not detected. He suggested that we move along a line delineating a minor change in habitat that he had identified from a satellite image. We got our gear on and headed down a waterlogged logging trail.

The cold night before froze a thin layer of ice over most of the water in the marsh. Our boots broke through it with a loud crunch before landing in the mud below. Our progress was tedious, but time passed quickly for me as I peppered him with questions. What are you looking for here? How are you determining that? I was engrossed in our conversation. Then I caught a brown shape off the path to our right. 

The watery woodland of the Chesapeake’s southeastern shore.

I froze, gave him a quick tap on the arm, and pointed to the young hind feeding about sixty yards from us through the pines. We stood and observed her through our binoculars. With the wind in our favor, she hadn’t noticed us yet. Our voices in a whisper, we planned an approach. Steve would move up the trail quietly in the direction she appeared to be moving and let out a few soft calls. I would cross the watery ditch that lined the logging trail and move in the cover of a dirt mound and some low vegetation to try to close some distance. 

The problem with our plan: the water I had to cross was covered with crunchy ice. We tried to time our movement, waiting for a noisy gust of wind that might cover my steps through the ice, but it was futile. No matter how gentle and slow my steps were, they were loud. By the time I had crossed to drier land the hind was gone. I made my way back to join Steve on the logging trail.

We continued our walk exchanging stories as the excitement of our curtailed stalk dwindled. Before long, we came to the area he had picked out from the satellite image and turned off the path. We spread out about fifty yards from each other and began to slowly move through the woods. The ground was not as wet and there was an abundance of holly trees. To our left was a small trickle of water. It almost felt like a certainty that deer were hiding nearby. 

Moments later, two stags bolted through the woods ahead of us. Their bodies were much darker than the hind’s. They didn’t give us any chance for a hunt, and even as Steve let out a few calls mimicking a hind, the stags knew we were bad news and vanished into the woods. It was thrilling nonetheless and the two of us joined one another again to move along together and share the enjoyment. 

We continued to tread along gradually bemoaning litter and trash in the woods, sharing stories of the wonderful outdoors, and discussing tips and techniques for making sausage. Soon we were out of the thicker vegetation and back on a mucky logging trail heading for our trucks. The rest of our walk passed without event, save for the beauty of the marshes and the chirping birds celebrating the warming of the morning air. Our hunt was drawing to a close and I was grateful that I had been able to see the land through his eyes. It felt like he viewed it in a more cohesive fashion than I had before. Everything moving together with a purpose. All of the small details together signifying something greater. It was as though he spoke a language that I was desperately trying to learn. 

My focus and attention to what he was doing and saying had made me quite aware of how much more there was to discover. And after we said our goodbyes I drove away from the marsh practically counting the days until I could return next year to attempt to implement the skills and attention one observes spending a morning in the woods with a wildlife biologist.