“What’s that they say is the definition of insanity?” my brother Chuck pondered. “You keep on trying the same thing and hoping for different results?”
He had a good point.
We were sitting on the old station wagon’s tailgate eating a noontime sandwich on a gravel road in good deer country that on this hunt happened to be in Wisconsin. The terrain consisted of rolling farmland with thick woodlots, tangled creek bottoms, crop fields and pastureland, some of which was coming back to brush.
As you can imagine, there was no shortage of deer there. And we wanted one on our meatpole.
But it was late muzzleloader season now. The whitetails had been pressured pretty hard — some archery hunting, plenty of regular firearms season pursuit, and now the hardy smokepolers.
So deer weren’t moving much. Dawn and dusk sits were unproductive
