Gut Instincts Govern My Wilderness Travels

A lifetime spent fishing and hunting has put me in some rather perilous outdoor situations. Some have been caused by my personal stupidity, and some were by events well beyond my control.

That said, it follows that certain circumstances have been somewhat dangerous. All these years, my gut instincts have served me well.

It was opening day of the firearm deer season 35 years ago, and I was hunting in Kalkaska County. I hunted back in a clear-cut with an elevated knob in the middle and fallen tree tops lay in all directions.

My set-up was perfect.

I sensed that 150-yards in all directions was enough for me to cover the entire clear-cut with my pre-1964 .264 Winchester Magnum. I had a little seat on the ground, my back to a tree stump at the top of the knob, and by turning slowly to right or left, I could cover all 360 degrees.

It was late morning, and the first deer I saw was an 8-point buck. I had a solid rest, and the buck came out of the brush and started following the clear-cut edge. It stopped, I aimed, shot and the buck fell but got up and ran into the surrounding brush.

Several minutes were needed to find where the deer was hit, and I began tracking the blood trail. I found the deer with a guy bent over as he started field dressing my buck.

I had an inkling of impending trouble.

I had a funny feeling about this, a thought that niggled at the back of my brain telling me this could be serious. "Hey, partner, I appreciate you field dressing my buck."

"What are you talking about," he said. "I shot it 10 minutes ago."

"Sorry, friend, but only one shot has been fired in this area all morning, and it was fired by me 10 minutes ago when I shot this buck."

One of his buddies stepped out of the brush, casually pointed his rifle midway between me knees and belly button, and muttered: "You got a problem here?"

"My problem is I shot that deer, and your friend is gutting it out, and you are pointing a rifle at a tender part of my anatomy. What's up?"

"You come around here, trying to cause trouble, and you'll find it. My buddy shot that buck, and you're not going to take it away from him. Get out of here or you'll have more trouble than you can handle."

So I lost my buck. Fighting or getting shot over a buck is not something I'm interested in doing. I hope they choked on a rib bone. It also points out that little gut instincts told me this would be a bad deal and it was.

A gentle nudge from somewhere.

Once, also many years ago, some friends and I were hunting those big European hares in southern Ontario. The beagles were on a hot track but the wind was blowing up a gale as I leaned against a dead elm tree.

I kept listening, and occasionally there would come a bawl from a hound, but the jackrabbit detoured around me. The wind continued to howl, and I was considering a move when a gut instinct told me to move ... fast. It was as if God put his hand on my shoulder and urged me from that dead tree.

I found another spot about 20 yards away, and with a loud crack, the crown and 20 feet of tree trunk gave way and crashed down where I'd been standing. Divine intervention? I'd love to think so, but it could have been my gut instincts kicking in. Whichever, it had been a dangerous and scary situation.

Another time, while bow hunting elk in Colorado, we were crossing the spine of the Rockies late at nigh in strong moonlight after a 10-mile hike at a high altitude. There were sheer drop-offs on either side but the game trail seemed well traveled, well worn and safe.

We reached a spot where we had to cross a shale outcropping that pitched off with a 2,000-foot free-fall. We had to cross 20 yards of shale to reach the "shortcut" my guide said came out near his truck. My neck hairs were standing on end. This didn't look or sound like much fun.

We had to cross or spend more time hiking.

"Stay upright, keep your balance and keep moving," he said. "I'll go first, and once I'm across, you come directly toward me. Got it?

I had it but didn't like it. He crossed easily enough and it was my turn. One slip, and a 2,000-foot plunge would ruin my day. I started across, and halfway to the guide, the shale slipped under one foot. I lurched a bit to get straightened up, and managed to keep my feet moving.

The trip across that shale was scary but I made it to the other side, and the guide was reaching out for me when I got close. It was a shortcut, and saved us another two or three miles of mountain hiking in the dark.

I've learned to trust my instincts in outdoor situations, and they have done well by me. Getting tuned in to nature, and knowing your personal capabilities, has kept me going. However, if my instincts scream at me "Don't do i!", I turn around and find another route.

Two rules have always governed my wilderness travels: Don't mess with Mother Nature, and never second-guess your gut instincts.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors