CHASING A GHOST
The prairie grass bristled as an angry wind whistled through it. In the darkness I could barely make out the hill I was climbing. It wasn’t particularly steep, but the icy incline offered no firm footing. At its peak, a ground blind was perched overlooking the ravine below, ratcheted with cables to ensure it remained anchored in the gale-force winds.
It was my first morning hunt in Oklahoma, and it was inhospitably cold and dreadfully nasty. A 100-year storm had transformed the landscape into a fragile crystal, enshrining it in ice. With a flashlight clenched in my teeth and thickly gloved hands, I chipped away at the accumulation on the blind’s door with my pocketknife. Once it was freed, I shuffled inside, leaning my muzzleloader against the far wall.
Settling into my chair—with the wind howling through the blind’s seams—I fired up the tiny space heater. It burped to life with a hiss, casting a muted crimson glow. These were some of the most miserable conditions I had ever hunted in, yet sitting there I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. I’d finally made it to Oklahoma, a deer mecca overshadowed by more publicized whitetail venues.
After a lifetime spent bowhunting whitetails, I had yet to punch a tag with a rifle or muzzleloader. I hoped to change that during this trip. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a protracted Okie adventure I won’t soon forget.
CAMP PROPER
My hunt
