Roadhunting

By Sean Michael Collins

Why would anyone want to roadhunt? Some folks might ask. A number of you reading this book
already know why you would. A number of those who ask this question with shock and dismay
will be landowners who ironically will have posted large chunks of property to keep everyone
but themselves, their friends and family out; then sadly shake their head at the state of aff airs
wherein roadhunting exists. The fact is that if there were decent access for all roadhunting
would not exist to the extent that it does. But often times the people that bitch and complain
the most about roadhunting are those that are primarily responsible for it. For some folks
roadhunting is nothing more than a means to extend their hunting time while driving to and
from their hunting area and/or something to do on days where there is inclement weather.
For others, especially those who live where there is little to no public hunting land; roadhunting
may be the only practical way to put game in the freezer. Landowners (contrary to what many
of them would have you believe) do not own the deer or other game. Wild animals are owned
(so to speak, if anyone really can own them) by the public; and you my friend are a member of
the public. Many landowners feel that they de facto own wild game because it lives on their
property, so if you must temporarily access someone elses private property to get what is
yours, then so be it.

I would freely admit that roadhunting is hardly the highest form of hunting out there;
unfortunately a lot of us have neither the time nor money either to aff ord their own property
or travel to top notch hunting locations. There is nothing that says roadhunting and fi eld
hunting have to be mutually exclusive; that you have to do either one or the other. The author
spends three hundred plus hours a year deer hunting in the fi eld or woods and some years are
certainly better than others. Therefore when a gift deer comes along and presents itself by the
road, Im not going to feel bad about taking it. I fail to see how anyone can be hurt by knowing
how to roadhunt; whether you practice it or not is up to you, but you may fi nd the knowledge
helpful some day when times get tough. Also nothing says you cant use what you learn from
this book just to help enhance your deer viewing activities. Once you learn roadhunting its like
riding a bicycle or shooting a rifl e; you never really forget how. And even if you dont care for
the instructional portions of this book, hopefully you will fi nd the stories entertaining.

A majority of this book has to do with roadhunting whitetail deer (with a chapter thrown in about
small game) in Michigan. However the author would point out that he has spotted whitetail
in eight other states and two Canadian Provinces. Also I have at diff erent times spotted mule
deer, elk, and antelope. Being who I am, I couldnt help but notice that on numerous of these
occasions I honestly believe I could have pulled off a successful roadhunt had I so desired.
Although the hands on tactics, so to speak, laid out in this book are based on experiences that
happened in Michigan, I fi rmly believe that they can be used almost anywhere.

Some of the tactics and information contained in this book are legal in some places and not
others; and some are illegal everywhere. Therefore this book should be read for educational
and entertainment purposes only. Neither the author nor publisher accepts any responsibility
or liability for the use or misuse of information contained in this book.

With that said; good luck and good hunting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503598669

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Sean Michael Collins.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015913261

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-9868-3

                Softcover        978-1-5035-9867-6

                eBook             978-1-5035-9866-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/27/2015

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1 Gotta’ Know The Territory

Chapter 2 Hard Times

Chapter 3 Can’t See The Forest For The Trees

Chapter4 Gott’a Have a Gun

Chapter 5 Gott’a Have a Ride

Chapter 6 Retrieval and Transport

Chapter 7 Baiting

Chapter 8 Small Game

Chapter 9 Shining

Chapter 10 Plausible Deniability

Chapter 11 In Season/Out of Season

Chapter 12 Private Land/Public Land

Epilogue

Foreword

Why would anyone want to roadhunt? Some people might ask. A number of you reading this book already know why you would. A number of those who ask this question with shock and dismay will be landowners who ironically will have posted large chunks of property to keep everyone but themselves, their friends and family out; then sadly shake their head at the state of affairs wherein roadhunting exists. The fact is that if there were decent access for all roadhunting would not exist to the extent that it does. But often times the people that bitch and complain the most about roadhunting are those that are primarily responsible for it. For some folks roadhunting is nothing more than a means to extend their hunting time while driving to and from their hunting area and/or something to do on days where there is inclement weather. For others, especially those who live where there is little to no public hunting land; roadhunting may be the only practical way to put game in the freezer. Landowners (contrary to what many of them would have you believe) do not own the deer or other game. Wild animals are owned (so to speak, if anyone really can own them) by the public; and you my friend are a member of the public. Many landowners feel that they de facto own wild game because it lives on their property, so if you must temporarily access someone else’s private property to get what is yours, then so be it.

I would freely admit that roadhunting is hardly the highest form of hunting out there; unfortunately a lot of us have neither the time nor money either to afford their own property or travel to top notch hunting locations. There is nothing that says roadhunting and field hunting have to be mutually exclusive; that you have to do either one or the other. The author spends three hundred plus hours a year deer hunting in the field or woods and some years are certainly better than others. Therefore when a gift deer comes along and presents itself by the road, I’m not going to feel bad about taking it. I fail to see how anyone can be hurt by knowing how to roadhunt; whether you practice it or not is up to you, but you may find the knowledge helpful some day when times get tough. Also nothing says you can’t use what you learn from this book just to help enhance your deer viewing activities. Once you learn roadhunting it’s like riding a bicycle or shooting a rifle; you never really forget how. And even if you don’t care for the instructional portions of this book, hopefully you will find the stories entertaining.

A majority of this book has to do with roadhunting whitetail deer (with a chapter thrown in about small game) in Michigan. However the author would point out that he has spotted whitetail in eight other states and two Canadian Provinces. Also I have at different times spotted mule deer, elk, and antelope. Being who I am, I couldn’t help but notice that on numerous of these occasions I honestly believe I could have pulled off a successful roadhunt had I so desired. Although the hands on tactics, so to speak, laid out in this book are based on experiences that happened in Michigan, I firmly believe that they can be used almost anywhere.

Don't look on a map for the towns named in this book, I made them up. There may be towns by these names somewhere but it would just be a coincidence. Also, I have used two terms in this book that readers may not be familiar with. These are the terms I grew up with and am familiar with and therefore as used them in the book. The first is C.O. which came for Conservation Officers or Game Warden. The second is Violator, Violating, etc. which means Poacher, Poaching, etc. I like the term Violating better because Poaching sounds like something you would do to an egg.

Some of the tactics and information contained in this book are legal in some places and not others; and some are illegal everywhere. Therefore this book should be read for educational and entertainment purposes only. Neither the author nor publisher accepts any responsibility or liability for the use or misuse of information contained in this book.

With that said; good luck and good hunting.

Prologue

September 14, 1898……………..

The lightning bolt had looked like it was a mile long when it shot down from the heavens and struck the base of the ancient Norway pine. Slowly but steadily the seventy foot monarch descended toward him, he tried to run but his feet were like lead and he seemed to be running in slow motion. He wasn’t nearly fast enough; the giant five foot diameter pine struck him just before it hit its final resting place on the forest floor, bounced once and was still. He was pinned for sure and for certain, but there was no pain?…………he was more annoyed than he was scared. Oh hell this was just great now he would be late and the boys would all have a good laugh at his expense. He looked to the left at his pasty faced companion who stood eyeing him quizzically. Finally his companion gave an exasperated little sigh and said if you’re just going to rest under that tree I’m going to have my lunch. At that point he pulled an enormous picnic basket from behind a stump, tucked a napkin in the front of his shirt, where upon the small man fell upon the food, wolfing it down with both hands. Disgusted by him companion’s actions he returned to contemplating his predicament; he could probably dig himself out. The lousy little bastard with him wouldn’t be of any help. He had just started scooping out the sandy topsoil with his bare hands when he looked up and saw the bear. And not just any bear, but the huge old boar that he had gut shot…….ten…….twelve years ago? The bear remembered him and the bear was pissed, popping his teeth and shaking his head as he walked deliberately toward him. The bruin was probably over six hundred pounds and the oozing gut wound seemed to have not put him in a very good mood. Now he really was scared. His rifle appeared, also to his left……….and just out of his reach. He stretched out as mightily as he could but it remained just out of his reach. He looked desperately to his companion who was still eating with gluttonous abandon, his own rifle leaning on a tree beside him. Shoot dammit shoot can’t you see that bear. His companion stopped in the middle of taking a bite of chicken leg, swallowed the food already in his mouth, turned to him and said Puleezee, can’t you see I’m having my lunch. The hell with your lunch you lousy little bastard…………shoot! Oh Orvee he can’t still be mad at you after all this time, besides he’s probably long dead. Does he look like he isn’t mad?………does he look like he’s long dead?……….shoot damn you. Oh Orvee you are such a hoot. He looked back and the bear was nearly on him, his little pig eyes glaring at him from his huge head. His cavernous mouth opened showing his rows of long sharp teeth the foul breath overwhelming him………………

Orville Collin’s eyes opened up. He threw back the bed covers and his feet hit the cold hardwood floor at 4:30 am just as they did almost every morning of his life. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments contemplating his dream (nightmare), just like the lousy little bastard to stuff his face while I’m getting killed. After a moment’s contemplation Orville had his customary stretch and scratched his belly and his groin before he pulled his overalls on over his long johns and slipped on his worn work boots. After lacing up his boots up tight Orville (or Orv as he was called by those that knew him) sat a moment longer on the bed and surveyed the room with a scowl and reflected for a few moments on the twists and turns in his life, the events and decisions that had brought him to where he was today: on a hard scrabble Michigan farm, eking out a meager living, and working his ass off to do it. By now his dream had faded and would soon be nearly forgotten altogether, but his bad mood did not fade with it. As he also did every morning (today more so than usual) he wondered what manner of misery today would bring………….although an early riser Orv was not exactly what you would call a morning person. Before exiting the bedroom he looked down at his dear wife Mary who lay sleeping quietly in the large feather bed and his normally dour expression softened momentarily, she was the reason he did what he did every day, she was the one who made it all worthwhile. He leaned over the bed and kissed her sleeping cheek briefly before turning and heading for the bedroom door.

As he did every morning Orv hobbled down the upstairs hallway starting to work out his morning limp. At forty eight Orville was painfully aware that he was no longer a young man, over the years the broken bones, numerous sprains, hard work and untreated illnesses had taken their toll and now Orv stiffened up every night and had a distinct limp every morning. After 10 or 15 minutes the stiffness would work its self out and his gait would return to normal, but it was one of life’s little miseries that Orv had to look forward to every morning. As he moved down the hallway first he passed the girls room where his two daughters lay sleeping and then the boys room where his six sons (who as far as he was concerned should be up and around when he was but due to Mary’s instance that they should be able to sleep as late as the girls) lay abed. As he reached the top of the stairs Orv glared at the last door, the one to the guest bedroom behind which lay the laziest, the dumbest, the sorriest most useless human being that god ever created. Orv’s powerful six foot raw boned frame tightened and his right hand gripped the banister tight enough to make his knuckles turn white as he glared at the closed door and among other very unchristian thoughts imagined that his right hand was holding the scrawny neck of the occupant instead of the banister. Finally Orv gave a disgusted shake of his head and proceeded down the stairs through the dining room and out the back door to the big cottonwood just past the edge of the yard where he took his morning leak.

Back in the kitchen Orville pumped a basin full of cold water, grabbed the bar of lye soap and washed his hands and face then combed his thinning hair, next he pumped a cup of water added some baking soda then washed his remaining teeth. With his morning grooming out of the way Orville pitched the wash water out the back door, rinsed out the basin and moved onto his next chore of building the cook stove fire. From long practice Orville soon had the fire built up and coffee boiling.

Most mornings after two cups of scalding hot black coffee then a trip to the outhouse for his daily shit Orv’s mood generally picked up considerably so much so that by the time Mary and the kids came down at about 5:30 he was almost (by his standards) cheerful, but not this morning. This morning Orv sat at the kitchen table and brooded. Heaven knew that he loved his wife Mary, that without her he would probably be a washed out drunk mucking out horse barns or cleaning up saloons…….. or a lumber camp foreman or running a trap line further up north which when he thought about it didn’t really seem so bad sometimes………hmmm. But no! He was a farmer, a family man with responsibilities to Mary and the children. He took a moment to feel ashamed of himself for even considering a life without Mary and the children. It was Mary who had seen the good in him when few others did, it was Mary who had turned him from his wicked debauched ways, and it was Mary who had stayed with him all these years sharing their hard life together. It was Mary who had shown him the way to the church and the Lords forgiveness. Mary had borne his eight children, she had worked and scrimped and saved until they could buy the farm. She had worked with him in the fields, helped tend the livestock, took care of the children, not to mention the cooking, cleaning, mending and countless other household chores and most importantly (at least as far as the children were concerned) she held the ongoing responsibility of helping him keep his temper in check (it should probably be mentioned at this point the Orv was considered by the community to be an upstanding, honest, moral, god fearing church goer however being a Baptist Orv knew that in actuality he was wallowing in sin and try as he might he could not stop the evil thoughts and vulgar language from popping unbidden into his head, even though he very rarely ever acted on his evil thoughts or let the vulgar language come out his mouth). As a younger man Orv had worked in the lumber camps and had cheerfully embraced the rough and rowdy lifestyle. Hard work, hard drinking, and hard fighting had been his life I those days. But that was before he had met Mary at a social and fallen head over heels. After that the woods had seemed lonely, the bunkhouses smelly, and the riotous living empty. That had been his last season in the woods, he couldn’t stand being parted from her all winter. He had taken a town job and courted her relentlessly until she had finally agreed to marry him. Nope, all in all wedding Miss Mary Chandler was the best thing that ever happened to Orville Collins, thoughts to the contrary be damned.

However it is the way of the world that with the good must come some bad and he Orville had married Mary for better or worse and the worse lay abed in the guest bedroom in the form of one Horace Chandler, Mary’s younger brother, and (mores the pity) his brother in law……..lousy little bastard that he was. Horace had arrived by train from Chicago for a two week visit back in early July to celebrate Independence Day with his family and had been mooching off of them ever sense. Orv steadfastly believed that his contempt for Horace was well justified, for starters Horace was a lazy bastard through and through. Even though the rest of the family arose at 5:30 am Horace would lay abed as late as eight thirty sometimes nine o’clock at which point Mary felt obliged to cook him breakfast, after she had already cooked for the rest of the family. Theirs was a, farm family, and as such there was always plenty of work for everyone, Horace the lazy son of a bitch never so much as offered to lend a hand……….Horace was in delicate health and not suited to farm work or so claimed Mary………..and so it was Orv oft had occasion to look up from his labors to see Horace sitting on his lazy ass on the back porch under the shaded veranda sipping iced tea while he and the boys sweated in the fields and the girls busied themselves in the house.

Besides being as lazy bastard Horace was also a lying bastard. Over dinner every night and in the parlor afterwards Orv was subjected to Horace’s never ending prattle. Horace continually held forth about all the big business deals he had cooking and their imminent windfall that was about to make him rich. When he wasn’t chattering about his business deals he would go on and on about how well traveled he was, to hear Horace tell it he had visited every major city in the country as well as Europe, been on every continent at least once, and further claimed to have been in places that Orv doubted that even existed outside of Horace’s imagination. Worst of all Horace affected to portray himself as a Sportsman a brave and astute woodsman who had hunted and fished all over the continent camping out on rocky mountaintops and deep woods for weeks on end, dispatching ferocious charging bears with one shot from his trusty rifle, and putting his share of big racks on the wall (all of which were of course were conveniently back in Chicago). To Orv who had more than a dozen bear to his credit and had killed more deer in his life than he could remember Horace’s hunting lies in particular made him want to throw up. The business deals, the travel, the famous people that was one thing, but the hunting lies that was something else again that was an insult to Orv’s intelligence. When Horace started down that path Orv generally had to leave the room. For such a chronic liar Horace was not a good liar. He apparently had a poor memory and contradicted himself from one story to the next but through it all Mary would still nod and smile indulgently at her little brother and affect that she did not notice the numerous contradictions.

Then there were the financial issues………just where the hell was Horace getting his money while he was here? When Orv first was courting Mary Horace was a teenager living under his parent’s roof and had wheedled his money from them. As an adult Orv could not remember a time that Horace was not temporarily financially embarrassed, what with his finances being tied up in his investments and business deals don’t you know. Orv didn’t know or want to know how he got along in Chicago and Horace had long since given up on trying to borrow money from him. Yet Horace always seemed to come up with money for his toiletries and sundries. Horace used tobacco for smoking and dipped snuff as well. And heaven knew that Horace was not a temperate man, he had a taste for brandies and wines that he could little afford. But Orv didn’t really wonder where Horace got his money. He kept quiet to keep peace in the family but he saw Mary’s tracks here also, using her hard earned butter and egg money to feed the lousy little bastards bad habits.

And besides all that Horace was just flat out strange. With his pointed nose, pasty face and oversized ears Horace was plain post ugly. With his superior all knowing demeanor Horace was not likeable (to himself or many other people, except of course Mary). At five foot six inches and probably barely one hundred forty pounds Horace was of slight build and to Orv’s way of thinking it was just plain unnatural that a man could eat like Horace (Horace ate like a hog), sit on his ass doing nothing all day long and yet still never gain any weight. Further Orv didn’t like the way Horace sometimes looked at the girls or the live stock either for that matter…………. wouldn’t put it past the asshole to have his way with the pigs…………and to top it all off Horace was incredibly stupid and obtuse in that he honestly and truly did not seem to realize that Orv despised him at all let alone to what extent, in that Horace was inclined to tell people "Orv can be taciturn and a little cross sometimes but I’m like a little brother to him and we are actually very good friends"………where the hell could he have possibly got the idea that they were friends let alone that he Orv thought of him as his little brother?

Orv was roused from his brooding reverie by the sound of Mary and the girls on the stairs. Agnes his eldest daughter and Celia the younger each stepped forward and gave him his morning kiss on the cheek, good morning papa, good morning papa. Mary shot him a puzzled look as she hurried to the stove to remove the coffee that was boiling over, Orv had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed. Next down the stairs was his eldest son Orville Jr., a good boy, hard working and respectful, not the sharpest tack in the box but a good boy just the same. Morning Pa said Jr. who then headed out the door to start his chores. Right behind Orv Jr. came Matthew the youngest, even in the midst of his dark mood Orv had to smile. Four years young and full of piss and vinegar every day was a new adventure for young Matt who ran to Orv climbed up on his lap and he to planted a big wet kiss on Orv’s cheek. Good morning papa, what are we going to do today? are you going to go to town? can I go with you? is mama gonna make flapjacks? Can I drive the team?…………… down (of course) was Orv’s middle son Jacob. Born to hang that one. Twelve years old going on thirty with a smart mouth and an irreverent attitude Orv had near worn out his razor strap on this one with no noticeable improvement. Jake gave him a quick nod and a one word acknowledgement, Pa, and then he too headed out the door. Then came the