Ghost of Cebola

The Ghost of Cebola
We began our hunting adventure by pulling into a parking lot way back into wildlife; when we pulled in there was only one other truck present making us the second hunters to arrive. Eager to get our boots on the terrain my brother and I began hiking off into a small horseshoe bowl aiming for the ridge. We made the mistake of hiking straight up it's inhospitable slope trekking along dry creek beds full of slick moss covered rocks that didn't approve to kindly to outsiders.
After multiple stops we made it to our last stretch of about 150 yards of steep slope, we thought what we had been hiking was steep but it was child's play compared to what lie ahead of us. Resting before our ascent and looking towards our goal we could not actually see the ridge we wanted to be on because a ring of Rhododendron trees blocked any view we could have had of the top. All we could see were the tops of the barren trees in this fall landscape barely peeling above the Rhodie's. It appeared as if the mountain and lost its hair on top and all the remained was this final ring of Rhodie that clung on to the last fringes of sun and warmth before the snow stripped the mountain completely bare. We slowly trudged through the twisted maze constantly having to change direction left and right to find a path through the gnarled branches at times hiking on our knees because of clearance and the intensified grade. Yet at last we summited and stood upon the ridge that was our goal to achieve; quickly after summiting something inside my chest sank as I realized this mountain was just as steep on the other side and would prove improbable to produce us any of the quarry we sought after. After brazing the map furiously trying to pick out mountains in the distance to gain our bearings we both came to the realization that this ridge facing the beautiful lake below was simply too steep to hunt on either side. With the sinking feeling in my chest becoming greater we trekked or better yet slide back down the mountain to the truck to regroup and reassess where to hunt in these vast North Carolina mountains.
After our grueling slide back down False Hope mountain we regrouped at the truck and Brett made camp in the parking lot while I poured over maps. My legs already aching I noted the steepness of the grade we just hiked down on the topography map and made it a point to avoid any terrain that looked similar within a twenty mile radius of where we currently where. As we both took a look at the map and the potential places we could drive out to and hunt the following day a lone hunter came down the abandoned forest service road that was the mouth to the treacherous game land. He was a man somewhere in his forties and weighed about 210lbs, he had just come off the ridge adjacent to the one we had just hiked. His name was Michael and he shared with us what at the time seemed to be some valuable information about the ridge he was hiking. He told ghost stories about a Boone and Crocket size buck with an antler circumference the size of four fingers in width. He told us about the numerous rubs he had found on top of the ridge and the few rubs he had seen on the south side of the ridge probably done by a smaller buck. He raved about how the woods just over the ridge he came from were good deer hunting woods and it was rolling hills down to the next valley sparsely dotted with trees. His information however came with a warning and looking back now I almost wished we would have heeded. He warned us that if we can get up there we would have great hunting land but the last push was "dirt stacked as steep as you can get it." Words out of Michaels own mouth to credit him some respect and we would soon learn his description did it justice. After our farewells and exchanging the pleasantries of luck for hunting which is common among hunters we poured back over the map as his truck crawled back down the gravel road out of the thick country. After small debate we came to the conclusion that with this being our first camp and hunt and the limited knowledge we had you couldn't get better any better information than the local knowledge. We resolved to stick it out in this small corner of game land and the next day hike to the ridge Michael came from in search of this Ghost buck roaming these lands. With our minds made up we settled into camp made a fire and chewed on some dehydrated meals which we had come to call BP's abbreviating the name of the brand Backpacker Pantry. After hanging out bear bag we sat and conversed over the coals of the fire driving off any predators with our voices and went to sleep in high spirits hoping to catch this Ghost.
We awoke the next morning well after sunrise and housed a few granola bars as we collected the rifles and handguns together. Brett was refreshed from his night of sleep while my insomnia continued to plague as it had for the past year, even in the beauty found in the seclusive wilderness around me I was only able to capture a glimpse of the quarry I had been pursuing this past year. With only a mere hour or two of sleep we set off and entered the entrance to the game land hiking along the abandoned forest service road. We stuck to the road as long as we could and in my attempt to fight off fatigue and restlessness I began to make up and attach my own names to the terrain we traversed. We reached a spot along this road where a creek ran underneath through a culvert and created a mud patch atop in the ground we hiked causing brush to grow over our heads and consistently try to snag our eyes. After little thought I came up with the name Slog road and Brett without objection agreed to the title seeing it fitting. We continued along this road further up into the mountains until we came to a gulley that ran up the face of the mountain taking us to the ridge we wished to hike to the south while the road continued west around the bend in the mountain. Not knowing how far the road continued west before it would turn back or if it would turn back east taking us back to this ridge we decided to hike up the gulley. It was the most difficult part of the hike so far, we came to know this pass as Mossy Oak gulley because of the moss covered logs that littered it all the way up causing for missteps to become much easier than hiking the road. We took a break about halfway up Mossy Oak gulley and could see it flattened out a bit just above us. After a quick altitude exhaustion break we trekked up to this flat spot and discovered what we supposed to be the continuation of the previous forest service road. Now being higher up we were able to cut back east and hike closer to our ridge. The road lead us east to a small side ridge coming off of our goal ridge and we continued to follow it as it cut up taking us closer and higher to where we wanted to be. I call this section of the hike Sentential Path for along the interior of the whole road young oaks were beginning to grow guarding the way to our ridge the oldest of which maybe being fifteen years old they over time would slowly encroach upon this path until they deemed it no longer passable for hunters to reach the home range of this Ghost. It was almost as if they were set as a warning of what was to come if you continued on and keeping a watchful eye on those who would pass through to track down Ghost. Continuing along the road and assessing which way to go after encountering a few forks with runoff paths on either side we made it to the base of our final ascent to the ridge. Suddenly all the words flooded back to my mind of how Michael had described this final push to the top and his words were an understatement when he claimed "dirt stacked as steep as you can get it." This last 200 yard section seemed steeper than you could possibly stack dirt but having already hiked in by about two miles and gaining an elevation of about 500ft putting us somewhere in the 3,350ft range we were determined to ascend spurred on by the legend of Ghost. With many breaks and after a grueling hour of hiking left and right up the side of the mountain we made our summit to the ridge. The old oaks atop the mountain were backdropped against the surrounding valley on either side of us and after what we had endured it was a beautiful sight to behold. Scouting the ridge it seemed our effort was paying off as the land on the south side of the ridge were the rolling hills sparsely spotted with trees as Michael had summed up in his description of "good deer woods". About every fifty yards are so there would be a gulley cutting down the south side of the mountain and it was clearly evident there were numerous trails along the top where any deer could hike this game trail and then cut down a gulley. On top of finding the trail we managed to spot a fresh rub from a buck and a scrap over a doe track that was a few days old. I came up with the name Cebola for the ridge; Cebola was the name the Aztecs used to refer to the City of Gold in the South American legends of Cortez, a Spanish explorer finding this city and returning later to never find it again. Compared to the neglect of sign we saw the day before Cebola was a fitting name because this land seemed to be a gold mine for deer activity and this Boone and Crockett buck, Ghost, added to the mysterious legend of the ridge.
We setup our blind in the second of four gulley's tucked back in the Rhodie's that split each one and after brushing in the blind headed back down to Sentential Path on our way back to the parking lot to collect up camp and hike it up to the base of the ridge. After our descent I had a name chosen for the final ascent to Cebola. In my own words, "I think we should call this slope Mountain Goat ridge cause you gotta be a fuckin' mountain goat to get to the ridge." We traversed back down Sentential Path, through Mossy Oak gap and out Slog road quickly packed up camp and walked it all back up over again this time with thirty pound packs that proved more difficult than we theorized. Reaching the base of Mountain Goat ridge at about 3:00pm we quickly setup camp and made another ascent to Cebola reinvigorated with the hope of seeing Ghost. After scenting down and putting out some doe estrous on the trees out in front of us we settled in for the evening hunt and began playing with the new range finder Brett had just bought finding the distance on every tree we could see. From where we sat in our blind we had wide shooting lanes to everything out in front of us. Out of the right corner I had a potential shot at any bucks coming down the trail on top of the ridge given they dropped enough into gulley to not be sky-lined, it was a forty yard shot. Everything out in front of us out of the large triangular window was fair game for either me or Brett and shooting clear across the gulley was only a thirty yard shot. It was close and looking back now maybe close enough for us to be spotted pretty easily but as a hunter you are always learning and that was one of the many lessons that got tacked onto the to-learn list that was steadily growing. Out of the small window in the left corner Brett had a shot at anything coming from the south valley entering the gulley just in front of the Rhodie's that capped off the gulley was at most a thirty yard shot. It was a tight little gulley but we made it work with the limited experience we had.
Once settled in and yardage's set in our minds a raven circled around the mountain, we never saw him only heard and this was the second time today we had heard him. He circled the mountains calling the same way as we hiked Sentential Path with our camp. Looking back on the encounter it was like he was calling down to us with his wisdom, warning us to question the Ghost of Cebola that we had put all of our effort and time into. We heeded not his warning just as we had heeded not the warning Michael gave us about Mountain Goat ridge. We were determined and resolved in the decision we had made. Most would call us stubborn, I see it as a practice to be men of integrity in that when commit to something and we say that we will follow through on our words we do so resiliently despite the obstacles placed before us.
We saw nothing our entire first evening in the blind and decided to head out early before shooting light was gone so that we could hike down in whatever light was left, I considered it a dire call but Brett assured me of the time we would get in the blind all day tomorrow. With the matter resolved we sealed up the blind for the night and with Cebola to our backs descended Mountain Goat ridge for the last time today. When we reached about the halfway point down the slope we stopped at a large rotten tree and watched the perfect view we had of the moon rising over the mountains way beyond on the other side of the valley. As a full yellow moon came out glistening her light into the valley below I became aware of the wear and tear I had put my body through over the years. Already having bad knees and working a landscaping job on a 26 acre property mainly by myself I could feel my knees give way the whole descent down to camp. Having already done a 15 mile day over less than ideal terrain and gaining a total of about 3,000ft cumulatively, my knees were shot. After half walking, half sliding down the rest of the mountain I collapsed against an Oak tree in camp with my legs splayed out in front of me each knee joint expressing their unique pain. Brett collected up the food out of the bear bag and stove to begin cooking and objected against my offer to cook tonight, maybe due to the fact of my current fatigued appearance being lazily propped against the tree.
We quickly retreated to the tent as we had already decided to forego a fire for the night to minimize scent, once inside in our sleeping bags we devoured another BP, also realizing our suspicions were confirmed in that we had brought very little food for these four days in the woods. Given that there was no fire and we had done far more activity today than the day before we hit the sack early our fatigued bodies struggling to keep awake. We discovered the hard way this night how we were to rushed to get in the blind to adequately clear the ground the tent rested on. There were many rocks that pressed through our foam sleeping pads and judging by all the tossing and turning it seemed we both chose wisely where those rocks applied pressure throughout the night. Brett per usual was well rested and invigorated to get in the blind early that morning. My insomnia kept my body from sleep till nearly sunrise and Brett granted the small amount of delay knowing well my sleep situation. I up got around sunrise to which I was grateful for. About thirty minutes after sunrise I was handed a cup of coffee and slowly prepared myself for the hunt. We collected guns and empty packs with field dressing utilities quickly and ascended again to Cebola by way of Mountain Goat ridge. My knees did far better this morning however the steepness of the slope seemed to grow overnight or our bodies were imagining it to be so as an indicating reminder that we can't do this kind of activity for very long. After our hour hike time we made it to Cebola once again and on this sunny morning we were once again hopeful to see Ghost given we had the time to wait him out. The entire morning passed uneventfully, we passed the time by playing with rangefinder or looking down our sights at nothing. There were many times we would stand up or get out of our tripod chairs and retreat to the ground to stretch our weary legs. At one point I laid down with my head at the back of the blind and my feet touching the front, this three person blind seemed to have just enough room to house my stretched out body. Sleep never came however the woods continued to play tricks on my ears and my mind would drift and wonder if Ghost was making noise coming through the gulley though I knew it wasn't so. With whitetail, if you didn't have a confirmed visual then there definitely wasn't any deer present; you wouldn't hear the animal until you saw it which is normal for this specific type of game. They were to silent through the woods for many hunters to know when one was coming into their shooting lane until it actually entered their field of vision. My brief break on the ground was refreshing but my eyes wanted to see everything around me, resuming my former post upon my tripod chair I kept glancing left or right. Every time imagining a set of tines poking above the ridge or above the brush on our left and right giving us some glimpse of this elusive buck. At about noon seeing nothing more than chipmunks we got stir crazy enough to get out the blind and explore a bit. We hiked back to the ridge and headed west, further along the top of the mountain aiming for the highest point to see the view, which the map claimed stood at 3,750ft. We passed the other two gulley's on our left and found the north side of the mountain that would lead toward camp just as steep. We came to the border of the game land property clearly marked by signs and a cornerstone post stuck into the ground. The two tree signs said Bearing Tree on them and gave a series of different numbers pertaining to different categories which were foreign to us but I'm sure the Forest Service knew. One sign was marked with the date October, 1988 and the other was from the year 2013 and were about the only distinguishable marks on it to us. The post in the ground marked the corner of the public land and was marked with the date 1970. It was a very unique thing to find and to sit and wonder what these woods looked like back in 1970. We managed to find some black walnuts that were fallen and given our growling innards eagerly cracked them open to find the nuts already gone with decay. After the brief break lying on the mountain slope looking down into the final gulley on this mountain and on the edge of what was game land we hiked to the very top just to the north of us and claimed the mountain of 3,750ft conquered by the McClelland brothers. Around 1:00 in the afternoon we begrudgingly resolved to descend from our perches on the dead logs at the tallest peak in the valley and substitute it for our perches from within the hunting blind. The afternoon was just as uneventful as the morning in the blind we passed the time now by me sharing as much hunting knowledge that I had to give with Brett. It was a mixture of silence mingled with conversation along with us relaying the list of things to learn for next time to each other adding things in our own ways. One of them being we regretted not scouting ahead of time but also not scouting more when we reached the ridge and settling for what seemed like the best gulley when the reality was the gulley at the far end was much wider and overall seemed to be a better hunting location. During the afternoon Brett took his turn splayed out in the blind the only difference was he began to fall asleep where sleep had eluded me.
As afternoon gradually slipped into evening the alarm system of the woods as I call them or more commonly known as squirrels came out to forage. I took the time to explain how one squirrel who spots you hunting will sit and chirp away at your location alerting everything else in the woods to your presence. Watching the playful critters bounding in and out of sight in the distance one squirrel bounded right out of cover and straight for the blind. He came right up to where my left boot was just on the inside of the wall and nudged the blind with his nose in curiosity. Then proceeded to climb a tree that sat just outside the blind window and stared at us. This was the fattest squirrel I had ever seen his middle section bulging out almost making it the widest part of his body. I later came to call this squirrel Chester for no particular reason except that it seemed fitting. Chester stared at us a moment trying to figure out what he was looking out then suddenly bounded away chirping to the next tree back. We sat motionless, as did Chester now far enough up his new tree so as to be out of view. We sat still for so long Brett leaned forward to check and see if the squirrel was still there. As if Chester heard the movement he chirped once and then listened, Brett stiffened back upright and after a few short moments the squirrel went on his merry way without another noise. It was the most exhilarating thing we had experienced the entire day and it was disheartening for that to be the most excitement we received. As soon as Chester was gone and the woods silence returned I conveyed all my frustration in an exasperated whisper, "that's why I'm a bowhunter, cause I could have popped him, had meat, and still not have left here empty handed." Though the statement wasn't really true it eased my frustration to a degree that we still hadn't seen any visual indication of one single deer since we stepped foot into this valley.
As light slowly faded into its deeper dusk we conversed about whether Brett could have popped Chester with my handgun thus solving our food situation and easing our empty hand syndrome. We decided that if any squirrel even remotely came back and close enough we would shoot it with a handgun and pack out to feast on some meat and try to ease some fatigue from hiking in hunger. Not shockingly the rest of the evening we never saw anything, no squirrels, no deer, and no Ghost. We waited till shooting light ended just in case and then left the blind to trek back down to camp another day defeated and with only one more morning to hunt our hopes were beginning to dwindle away.
This night our bones were to cold for us to so easily cast the notion of a fire aside, as Brett began to build a fire ring I got started on cooking. When Brett had completed his architectural masterpiece of stacking rocks to funnel the heat into the tent and had his kindling and sticks in place it began to rain. In a mad dash we quickly grabbed any and all gear throwing it all into the tent; Brett lit the fire despite the drizzling rain North Carolina is known for. The flames roared for a brief moment before they became extinguished again in the process getting water all over one the sleeping bags. The sacrifice didn't seem worth it to me; a fire for five minutes exchanged for a damp sleeping bag for half a night. Nevertheless it happened all in a moment and there wasn't anything we could do to change it just like some circumstances of life. He graciously traded bags with me for the night the one that got wet being the one I slept in and vigorously dried it with a spare shirt. We housed another BP our stomachs grateful for the meal but our bodies still deprived at best of nutrients because of our lack of food consumption. We called it another early night not needing any reason to stay up as the temperature dropped and our fire had already been doused out. We were both eager to sleep with the sound of rain hitting the rain fly covering the tent. Brett was eager because he wanted the rain to put him to sleep quick; I was eager because I wanted the rain to drown out the noise of everything else I heard moving through woods that struck a constant anxiety in my chest. As expected Brett fell asleep quickly succumbing to the sound of rain I unfortunately was awake long enough to catch the break in the rain during the night relinquishing to my ears the sound of coyotes distant and yet closer than expected to camp for most of the night. One noise left me pondering exactly what kind of noises coyotes were capable of as a very high pitched by soft trill persisted very close to our tent and spanning a few hours. At some point my mind drifted into sleep as if the boat of insomnia became shipwrecked and I was thrown overboard off my consciousness. After many hours of turning and drifting between sleep and wakefulness as I could sense the mighty battleship The Insomnia was being rebuilt, morning finally came with her relief forces to free me of my fits from sleep. It was very dark as we had decided to get into the blind before shooting light this final day of hunting. It was our last chance to see Ghost, it was our last chance to see anything including Chester because at this point neither one of us wanted to leave empty handed. We planned to break down the blind at noon and then pack up camp thus ending our camping hunting trip. The time served as a constant reminder as we maneuvered our way to Cebola once again, this time up we made the best time we had all weekend reaching the blind. Overnight most of our gear that was sitting at our feet in the front of the blind was soaked as was the inside front end of the blind. The thick fog that rested on the mountaintop and engulfed us dropped the temperature and threatened to put a chill in our bones. However it seemed to me that it was the perfect shroud for Ghost to make his debut appearance. Throughout our time in the blind my mind continued to fantasize seeing antlers to suddenly protrude out of the fog heading our direction but it was never so. We saw absolutely nothing, not even Chester; the only thing that came around us was a crow gawking his taunting and sarcastic rhetoric down upon us. Sooner than I wanted noon came and we both reluctantly tore ourselves from our chairs and began to uncover and pack up the blind and all the gear we had brought to the blind. It was a disheartening trudge for me to put Cebola and all the legends of Ghost at my back. We had agreed to never come hunt this spot again because of the rigorous terrain and the extreme wear and tear it put on our bodies but part of me still wanted to find myself venturing back here to see this alleged Boone and Crockett buck. We packed up camp and as we hike back down Sentential Path through Mossy Oak Gap and out Slog Road, I wondered. Part of me was almost at ease you could say that we didn't see Ghost, cause it placed that much more mystery in the valley. The other part of me would have loved to have been packing out a set of antlers and my brother being able to harvest his first deer and his first buck. Even now sitting in the comfort of a warm room and soft bed my mind still finds itself sitting in Cebola yearning to see this buck we've deemed Ghost. Call it bad moon phase, call it pre-rut jitters, even call it misinformation given by a local hunter. We saw all the right signs and had all the right weather but not even a doe came through Cebola. That mountain range and valley will forever nag at my conscience until I glimpse a picture, a shed or even bag myself the Ghost of Cebola.