Rich Akin

There are times when alone in the desolate big woods of Northern Maine that a hunter may sometimes really wonder if in fact there are any deer around for miles. When you have read books all year long about how to get a big buck, you get excited about going hunting in the big woods. When you see pictures of buck after buck taken up there and they’re all bigger than anything you have ever shot you get psyched. When you have studied topo maps, perhaps did some scouting and have quietly crept through the forest to an area you have chosen with confidence, it is only normal to at least “hope” to see a deer. See several nice bucks hanging on game poles at hunting lodges in town, some taken by complete, but very lucky nimrods and your heart starts to race a little. Observe plenty of sign in the woods while walking, including fresh ground scrapes, baseball bat sized buck trees and your “hopes” seem to automatically be converted to expectations.

This, I believe, is where the problem is rooted, the expectations. Hour after hour, day after day, week after fucking week may pass without even seeing a tail bounding off or hearing a few blows from a rapidly departing whitetail, that proved he was indeed, “scent locked”. This is a game requiring a patience that has on more than one occasion, quite frankly, tested mine.

I have hunted the Maine woods for several years with my hunting partner and brother, Gary. We have put in our share of effort, hard work, hardships and homework. And yet, sometimes you can just get down on yourself, these woods, the area, the state and the whole fucking reason you are even there. Ratchet this feeling up a few notches by throwing in some inclement weather and things may just cause you to exhibit irrational behavior and reactions to the mere thought of being quiet and patient. I refer to this state of mind and “condition”, which it most certainly is, as “The Maine Effect”. Perhaps humorous during conversation to the unknowing, for those of us who have experienced this phenomenon, it is quite the contrary.

Unfortunately, for some unsuspecting critters of the woods, who have happened to come across my path under these circumstances, they have had their existence ceased abruptly. Once, during a more serious episode, I have actually emptied my .270 and put in another clip because I was convinced a red squirrel’s excessive chattering was being sarcastically directed at me. It may have been an over reaction on my part, but that sonofabitch didn’t have shit to say after that volley of lead went roaring up his ass, did he?

On another occasion, I can recall a day when I was still hunting another “nice looking” area in Maine where there were apparently no deer around for miles (I seem to have no problem locating these areas). Obviously, however, there happened to be a downright over abundance of partridge present. As you know when creeping through the woods still hunting for a buck the last thing you want is a partridge flushing violently away telling all other animals within a half mile square something is very bad over here. I’m not talking about last night’s chili that let loose when the bird took off from nearly under my foot that was now requiring attention with toilet paper either! Knowing that most of the time a flushed partridge usually flies about a hundred yards, I decided in a fit of rage that this day would be his last. After six or seven flushes, two empty clips and a red hot barrel, I turned around and walked out of the “nice looking woods” without the bird but with a sense of relief knowing he too had probably shit his feathers.

It would be nice to know that what I often think is a smoking hot scrape is in fact just that. Not one that was made by a buck that now is in an area requiring me to obtain a license from another state to hunt him. I’ve found also that you can only go so long (In my case years ) with a standard response when asked, “how’d you do in Maine?” Depending on your personal pride, one can answer, “we had an awesome trip again, unfortunately I didn’t get one but I found some of the best sign ever and some really nice woods for next year’s trip.” (It’s not hard to find nice woods with 6.5 million acres of forest) And then add, “you should have seen the ones we saw hanging”, while simultaneously motioning the size of the antler spread with your hands.

Again though, it becomes increasingly harder to say what you’re really thinking about that fucking place that has not given you one fucking break since you started fucking going there! These feelings can also become more apparent when you’re asked every year if you’d like some venison by your pals who have “too much for their freezer.” I’m wondering as I write this and I’m looking at the calendar for the dates Gary and I are going up there this fall, if maybe, just maybe I enjoy the fucking frustration…..

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