Friend or Foe: Impact of Weather on Deer Hunting

Poison ivy crawled up the oak like a serpent, its hairy vine tethered to the trunk as it spiraled skyward. Doing my best to avoid the ivy’s ominous arms, I followed suit, securing my lineman’s belt as I ascended the tree before resting against the oak’s sturdy trunk. Now high above the forest floor, beads of sweat rolled down my cheek as I peered into the hardwoods, where autumn colors contrasted against a gunmetal sky. Through red, orange and yellow hues, I could see a thicket before me, a tangle of multiflora rose, honeysuckle and fallen limbs. Clusters of trees leaned against each other like dominoes refusing to fall, a sign that was now commonplace across eastern Iowa timbers — or what was left of them.

Three years prior, on Aug. 10, 2020, the tail end of summer’s dog days, a hurricane-like storm had pummeled the heartland. This windstorm, known as a derecho, moved across the Hawkeye State with ferocity, doling out its fiercest blows in the east-central town of Cedar Rapids. Along with homes and agricultural fields, 7.2 million trees were destroyed in Iowa by the 140-mph, straight-line winds. When it was over, the derecho had traveled 770 miles across eight Midwestern states and lasted for 14 hours. Mature hardwoods that had stood for centuries were wiped out in minutes, and despite the blood, sweat and tears of community cleanup efforts in the ensuing months, these forests will take generations to rebuild.

Yet, when it came to the local wildlife, all was not lost. The silver lining was found in the countless trees strewn throughout the hardwoods. Cover is king in the whitetail world, and over the next few years, forests that were once open expanses became impenetrable jungles, and the whitetail deer thrived. Although not aesthetically pleasing, the toppled trees provided immediate cover and browse for the wildlife, while the barren canopy and open sky allowed sunlight to reach the forest floor, spawning the growth of saplings, briars, brambles and forbs.

Finding the Sweet Spot

During the summer of 2023, I gained access to a new farm just outside Cedar Rapids. I had little knowledge of the acreage, save for the derecho’s destruction three years prior. I spent July and August scouting the farm and seeing the devastation firsthand. While adequate cover and deer sign were evident throughout the property, getting across it was another story. On more than one occasion, I felt like I was in a labyrinth, unable to escape the tangled jungle despite turning around time and again.

As summer progressed and my scouting intensified, I was drawn to an area that looked promising. It was a natural funnel where multiple habitats converged, with soft edges and an entry route that would minimize my intrusion. In the heart of this funnel was a lone white oak, one that had survived the storm and was rooted on the edge of a hardwood ridge. It was on that ridge where this story began, with me climbing that lonely oak as I prepared to hang my stand on Oct. 18.

Peering down from the oak that autumn day, I could see numerous rubs scattered along the ridgeline. A large scrape stood out like a black cauldron, its dark earth and licking branch freshly worked and worn. Trails crisscrossed the ridge and then strayed into the thickets, where they were engulfed by a graveyard of deadfalls and debris. Long gone were the warm days and short nights of summer. Now the evenings were cool and the daylight diminished, the whitetails trading in their reddish capes and velvet antlers for thick coats and sharp tines as the rut drew near. After securing my stand to the oak’s steel-gray trunk, severing the poison ivy vine and clearing my shooting lanes, I descended the tree and departed with plans to return in late October when the wind and weather were right.

On the morning of Oct. 26, I slipped down a gravel road in the pre-dawn darkness before veering into the forest and up the ridge. My footfalls were whisper quiet as I crept through the timber, courtesy of the rainfall the night before. The forecast was calling for severe storms that morning, with colder temperatures and a full moon in the coming days. The cloud cover had cast a dark hue through the timber, as if the hardwoods were lathered with an ink-stained brush. In time, my gaze found a quartet of ash trees, storm casualties whose bent and broken remains now served as landmarks for my approach. The sight of their disfigured trunks against the charcoal sky ensured that I had time to spare, knowing my stand was just ahead. Within minutes I was at the base of the oak tree, where I fastened my bow to the pull rope, secured my safety belt and made my ascent.

An Approaching Storm

Once situated, I hoisted my bow skyward, nocked an arrow and placed my bow on the hanger. The forest floor was no more, a dark abyss void of life, like an ebony ocean swirling below my stand. As the oak danced in the wind before dawn, I rested my head against its trunk, feeling the southwest breeze against my face. Soon the eastern horizon gave way to daylight, and my eyes caught movement along the ridge. I could see dark shapes drifting through the hardwoods, their pace slow but steady, moving toward my position in the graying light. In time the silhouettes took form, proving to be four whitetails getting their feet wet in the ways of the rut. I could see the ivory antlers of a young buck zigzagging toward a doe before she and her fawns scampered away from his advances. Just before sunrise the buck lost interest and drifted away, and after scrounging for what was left of the acorn crop, the doe and her fawns did too.

Time passed and the sky darkened. What once had been a timbered ridge bathed in sunlight was again cast in darkness as the promised storm rolled across the heartland. A light rain filtered through the woods and the oak swayed in the gale, the storm gearing up for the main event. I was zipping up my vest when I glanced down to see a doe trotting toward me with a young buck on her tail. Dodging and darting around my stand, the two played out a timeless ritual beneath leaves that fell like confetti, as if autumn was celebrating their courtship in the blustery conditions. With an antlerless tag in my pocket, I picked my bow off the hanger and hooked my release to the string, realizing it was the perfect opportunity to fill my freezer. Now at 15 yards and closing, the doe turned and quartered away from my position. Feeling the tension build in my forearm as I began to draw my bow, I noticed the doe’s head turn in my direction, her ears splayed and eyes wide. Rather than staring skyward toward my stand, her attention was on the thicket behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I stared in disbelief as a heavy rack and long beams emerged from the hardwoods.

Now focused on the monarch cresting the ridge, my heart and breathing quickened their pace. If the buck walked down the trail beneath me, I wouldn’t have to stand, reducing any movement he might notice on his approach. On the other hand, he might take the more discreet path behind me, and as most mature bucks would, he chose the latter.

Turning on a dime and walking along the faint trail behind me, the brute bristled at the young buck and circled toward him. Without a second thought, I quickly stood and played Twister around the oak, turning sharply to my right, now facing a small opening behind my stand as I came to full draw. With long strides he moved from my right to left, along the edge of the thicket and through the opening at 25 yards, where my fluorescent pin matched his stride, danced for a moment and then settled behind his shoulder. I uttered a deep grunt with my mouth — then another — resulting in the buck stopping dead in his tracks. Then my arrow was gone, its pink fletching arcing across the hardwoods and fallen leaves, through the faint drizzle and blustery winds, before disappearing into the buck’s chest.

Upon impact, the giant burst through the hardwoods, its antlers crashing through the brush and brambles, before disappearing into the thicket. I collected my thoughts as the rain continued to fall, marking a toppled red oak that the buck had rushed past during its escape. The doe and young buck remained stone-faced and focused but soon drifted into the timber, their tan hides soaked and turning gray in the falling rain. I lowered my bow and body to the ground before moving toward the impact site.

With the rain now a steady downpour, I was encouraged to see splashes of crimson upon the leaves as I was looking for my arrow. After kneeling to pick up an oak leaf, its veins ruby red and streaked with blood, I took another step and saw the arrow. Although the length of the shaft was coated, its dark coloration supported a wound farther back — perhaps liver and not lungs — and I had a decision to make.

I scanned the timber as I followed the trail for another 10 yards, the rain falling harder now, helping the sign vanish like a skiff of snow on a spring day. I pulled my cellphone from my vest and looked at the radar, which resembled the foliage around me — shades of red, orange and yellow moving across the screen at a rapid rate.

I realized heavy rain was approaching, and that if I didn’t pursue the trail immediately, it was unlikely there would be one to follow. On the other hand, having scouted the farm throughout the summer, I knew the area well and the impenetrable fortress created by the derecho was where the deer was headed. With agricultural fields to the south and west, and a monsoon on its way, there was no reason he would leave his sanctuary, nor should predators be a factor with the inclement weather. However, if I followed the blood trail immediately and came upon the buck before he expired, his departure could lead to a needle-in-a-haystack approach. It was one of the toughest decisions I have made in the field, but I knew it was the right one. I marked the last blood with my arrow, considered my choice one last time and headed back to my truck.

Waiting Things Out

Late that afternoon, my friend Mitch and I parked on the gravel road and worked our way up the ridge. It had been 10 hours and rained more than an inch since I’d left that morning. It was an unrelenting downpour, with more rain in one day than Iowa had seen in weeks. Still, we were optimistic as we ascended the ridge and located my arrow, its shaft clean and glistening following the storm. We crept in the direction the buck had run, moving slowly and looking for sign among the leaves and limbs, but as expected finding none. Walking past the fallen oak and into thicker cover, Mitch looked ahead and shouted, “There he is!”

The Iowa bruiser was lying in its first bed, not 100 yards from where I had dropped the string. My gamble had paid off. As we approached the fallen giant, I could see cedar shavings coating gnarled antler bases, while a muscled neck supported an impressive rack with 10 polished tines. I took a knee and tipped my hat skyward, admiring the beast in the fading light, reflecting on the hard work and sacrifice it took to get here. The arrow had severed the liver and one lung, and my decision to wait had been warranted. I never take these moments for granted, and thanks to generous landowners, good friends and a healthy dose of patience, I was blessed to experience this one.

Weather can be a bowhunter’s best friend or worst enemy. It can affect game movement and feeding patterns, confound blood trails and make us question our sanity when the mercury plummets and the winds blow. But whether we deem the elements as friend or foe matters not, because they are beyond our influence. However, if we as bowhunters focus on the things we can control — scouting and stand placement, improving accuracy, deciphering blood trails and putting forth our best effort and attitude when things don’t go as planned — opportunities will arise and success will follow. Adversity comes to us all, but if we weather the storms and maintain a positive attitude, the odds in bowhunting and life will always be in our favor.

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