Bob Donaldson, Post-Gazette Leland Brown has bagged 10 deer, including an eight-point buck, in the 12 years he's come to the Laurel Mountains since moving back north from Florida. Click photo for larger image

By Chico Harlan, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Some lessons on deer hunting, from the first day of Pennsylvania deer season:

Part I: The Rules

White-tailed deer, plentiful in our state, survive with their noses. Hunters, even more plentiful in our state, have found some tricks to combat this.

Leland Brown, for instance, awoke at 4:40 a.m. yesterday -- the end of a rotten sleep, on account of opening day jitters -- and pulled on layers of noiseless, scentless clothing. He followed his flashlight beam to a 15-foot high tree stand somewhere inside the 55,000 acres of Forbes State Forest in the Laurel Highlands and waited to bag the first big buck that never sniffed its bagger.

	Bob Donaldson, Post-Gazette During a pre-hunt scouting session, Leland Brown masks the odor of his presence in the area by spitting tobacco chew into a container. The plastic bottle will also hold his urine on the opening day of deer season. Click photo for larger image.

He hadn't showered the night before. (Better for a natural scent.) While camped on his stand, he urinated into a cup. (Better to mask his odors.) Unlike his friends, though, he'd neglected in weeks before the hunt to either A) hang his camouflage outside, or B) store it in a carbon case or, C) bury it underground.

Mr. Brown's 54 years of hunting experience suggested that his stainless steel companion, a customized .308 rifle, might effectively erase such an olfactory disadvantage. For this day -- a de facto holiday, the first in Pennsylvania's two-week deer session -- he played by clear ground rules, starting with the most fundamental: "I hunt," he said, "for as long as it takes me to kill deer."

He brought with him seven Remington cartridges, a pouch of Red Man chew, a clean pair of Wolverine hiking boots, pocket-sized Pentax binoculars, anti-scent spray, an orange hat with earmuffs, a vest, several cinnamon nut rolls, a bottle of water, a compass, first-aid supplies, raisins, peanuts, a Powerbar and a spool of drag rope, used for hauling a dead deer.

Because opening day sends a pulse of havoc rippling through the ecosystem, Mr. Brown, 68, of Point Breeze, struggled to predict his chances before sunrise. In the area, hundreds of hunters, either shooting from tree stands or sneaking through the forest, would alter the deer's daily patterns. Officials from the Pennsylvania Game Commission estimated 900,000 hunters headed to state forests yesterday. Because of the onslaught, Mr. Brown guessed, a few deer would funnel down the Laurel Mountain, perhaps toward a bedding area, or perhaps toward a food source, and arrive somewhere within the view of his 20/30 vision. The lesson being, if Mr. Brown found himself a clear shot, his wife would soon be cooking venison tacos.

Part II: The Hunter

The day before his hunt, Mr. Brown packed belongings, including his double-locked gun case, into his Denali and slammed the truck door, thus creating a brief union of deer's two greatest predators, the firearm and the SUV. Some 50 minutes later, in the gravel roads near his hunting camp, he paused several times to point out the locations of previous deer kills. ("Right here I killed a 175-pound doe last year," he said.)

	Bob Donaldson, Post-Gazette Leland Brown, as viewed from his tree stand in the Laurel Highlands. Click photo for larger image.

In the 12 years he's come to the Laurel Mountains since moving back north from Florida, he's bagged 10 deer, including an eight-point buck. He can remember every animal sighting, often recalling vivid details -- the shots he's fired, or the blood trails he's followed. He's hunted wild turkeys, ruffed grouse, bears and deer. And yes, some of Mr. Brown's characteristics fit well within the American Gunman archetype. He reads the Bible every morning; he belongs to the National Rifle Association; he runs a business that manufactures, among other things, buffing compounds and gun cleaning oil.

Before Mr. Brown allowed a guest with a notebook, he mentioned most of those things. (He also handed the guest two hunting magazines, a newsletter, a DVD, a vial of gun cleaning oil and an inch-thick "Basics" guide and said, simply, "Your homework.")

But shared time in nature has a way of highlighting the complexities. You look for things that stick out -- the horizontal line of a deer's back within the vertical zoo of trees and weeds -- and soon, you see incongruities everywhere. You learn that this American Gunman loves classical music, abstains from alcohol, grew up as an Eagle Scout, earned a master diver's certificate with 2,200 hours underwater and played a bit part in the 1977 film "The Deep."

So, when on the subject of hunting, Mr. Brown follows few channels. His thoughts bleed everywhere. He talks about companionship and heritage and nature and sounds and relaxation and lessons learned. His eyes glow, and his voice rises, preacher-style. "I don't call hunting a sport," he said at one point. "To me, it's something inside of you. You have it inside of you right now! You might have mentally decided not to be a hunter, but you are! Genetically, you have survived -- you are here -- because of hunting."

The lesson being, we lived to hunt yesterday morning because many men on many earlier mornings hunted first.

Part III: The Wait

Yesterday morning, Mr. Brown left his hunting lodge and drove down the road to the house of a friend, Rick Kanuch, who cooked omelets, fried bacon and boiled potatoes. Most hunters' opening day rituals fit into one of two categories: Old Traditions, or New Traditions That Can Become Old, Provided They Bring Proper Luck. Mr. Kanuch's boiled potatoes were an old thing; his dad used to cook them. The pre-dawn breakfast, with Mr. Kanuch's two teenage daughters joining in, was a new thing.

Bob Donaldson, Post-Gazette While Leland Brown was experiencing a slow day at his stand, Rob Wilkinson, of Monroeville, brought an eight-point buck to Golden's Deer Processing on Pa. Route 711 just north of Ligonier on the opening day of deer season. Wilkinson said he shot the deer just outside State Gamelands 42 in northeast Westmoreland County. He said he plans to have the head mounted as a trophy. Golden's had 25 deer waiting for processing by 11 a.m. Click photo for larger image.

At 6 a.m., Mr. Brown and Mr. Kanuch parted ways, each heading off to separate tree stands, and each promising to call the other if he shot a deer.

When Mr. Brown reached a main road through the Laurel Mountains, he headed up a quarter-mile. A Kennywood line of pick-ups and SUVs roared through the darkness, heading to even higher spots. When the first rays of sun lit the forest, the scentless hunters of Pennsylvania already sat, suspended and hidden, in thousands of rickety booths strapped to trees. They hunted by waiting.

Within earshot of Mr. Brown's area, 35 shots ricocheted off the mountains in the first two hours of the morning. Mr. Brown, though, still needed a break of luck. (His box score at 8:30 a.m.: six or seven squirrel sightings, one woodpecker, two blue jays, numerous spiders, but no deer.)

"Hours and hours of nothingness," he whispered. "Hours and hours of waiting."

Gun locked in safety mode resting on his knee, Mr. Brown took a meditative inventory of the world. In some respects, tree stand hunting felt a little like playing right field: you would handle whatever came to you -- be it something spectacular, something routine or nothing at all. You also had plenty of time to stare at the greenbriars and tune to every sound.

A dog barked. A car hummed by on an unseen road. A squirrel's feet cracked the dry foliage. Every flash perked a moment of attention -- Deer! Deer? After all, Pennsylvania hunters killed an estimated 354,000 last season. But by mid-morning, as the temperature rose toward 60, the hands and toes warmed, the senses dulled, and a hypnotic boredom blunted the readiness for rapid fire.

At one point, Mr. Brown even nodded off for a few minutes, his long hound-dog face falling until it hung, relaxed, by his chest.

The lesson being, hunting itself can provide the exact thing that the anticipation of hunting prevents -- sleep.

Part IV: The Decision

At 12:05 p.m., several bites through his ham-and-salami sandwich -- New Tradition -- Mr. Brown spotted a doe, maybe 75 yards away on his left. The man, it should be noted, is a fearfully accurate shooter. Before this opening day excursion, he'd taken 13 practice shots, aiming at a target 100 yards away. Every shot struck within a five-inch square. In this case, a bullet could kill a deer by striking its heart or lungs; Mr. Brown felt confident about his accuracy from at least 200 yards away.

The deer within his sight ambled 20 yards to the right and stopped. "A perfect shot," Mr. Brown said, hushed.

But he never pulled the trigger.

The doe, he said, was too small. Perhaps too young.

Seconds later, the animal bee-lined into the distance, and Mr. Brown didn't see another one for the remainder of the day.

At 1 p.m., Mr. Brown relinquished his perch on the tree stand and trekked back to his parked car. He met a man on his way who stood roadside, securing a buck and a doe to a platform behind his SUV. The hunter had bagged both animals on a tree stand to Mr. Brown's left. It had all come down to luck, the hunter said, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr. Brown, who promised to return to his stand the following morning, agreed, but nonetheless extended his hand. "Congratulations," he told his fellow hunter.

The lesson being, the hunter who bags a deer has enjoyed a good day. And the hunter who fails to bag a deer deserves a good tomorrow.