Up through the black oaks. This was November and the blacktail bucks were supposed to be in the mood for breeding, which is the time of year when they make mistakes. But every group of blacktail does I had seen were unaccompanied by bucks.

This was not the case with the Columbia whitetails down along the river. The bucks’ necks were swollen and they chased does down along the banks of the North Umpqua and fought each other out in the flats.

This was muzzleloader season, which in Oregon is limited to 1840s-era technology, and the tag was for a blacktail deer.

When I carry the old 54-caliber Lyman sidelock I feel a kinship to the people who settled this land, who followed the trails west out of Missouri — the Barlows, the Applegates, the Dixons, the Pengras, and the rest, whose names are found on creeks and small towns all over Oregon, who carved out the roads and cleared the land for farms. They carried rifles like this one and hunted deer the same way, probably gathering mushrooms, too. Up through the black oaks and into the madrones.

On the first day when the fog hung heavy on the hill, I took a trail up through the oaks and found the bright red madrone berries fallen on the ground. Here the deer tracks were fresh. Perhaps the deer were foraging on the berries to go with the acorns. Beneath the madrones and at the edge where the madrones gave way to firs, I glimpsed blacktail does. And now with that memory, I slowed, tree to tree, pausing for long minutes, my silhouette blending with the bark of an oak or a madrone.

A silver-gray squirrel walked along a branch, while another skittered head-down into the leaf litter. I circled wide so as not to alarm them.

Uphill now, the slope steeper, the tops of my legs burning. Around deadfall, careful not to step on branches. In the shade of an ancient madrone, I leaned into the bark, noting the red berries beneath my feet. This was the level of the mountain to focus the hunt. It was funny, I thought that I had not seen a blacktail deer yet, but then again, I only needed to see one deer. As that thought crystallized, the graceful angles of a deer resolved between the branches of an oak. A black brush for a tail, a gray face. A blacktail and another one, both females. Wind touched the left side of my face, blowing down from the ridge top. Where were the other deer?

A spike buck walked through an opening. This was the third day, it would be easy to end it now. I left the rifle against the tree and then felt the wind shift, blowing straight at the back of my neck, holding my breath.

One doe raised its head, and then another and then deer were running, many more than I had seen. I counted seven flashing through the trees. Gone. All of them. Still I leaned into the madrone.

Out into the open another deer fed, a sleek blacktail buck, blocky in the body, with tall antlers wider than its ears. By far the biggest blacktail buck I had seen in three days.

The buck passed through an opening and stopped behind the large oak with a low crooked moss-covered limb. With a rangefinder, I got the range at 73 yards, about what I had guessed. This rifle was capable of that shot if I could get a rest on the limb … but then the buck turned and began to walk a trail toward me. It stopped next to the oak tree, only its head and neck exposed.

Hammer at full cock now. Steadied against the trunk of the madrone.

The buck must have caught a hint of danger for it turned broadside and began to go for the top of the little ridge.

Focus on the front sight. Move. Squeeze. At the crack of the rifle, a white curtain of smoke was thrown like a blanket on the calm air.

We cut the meat the next evening after I had told and retold the story a couple of times, double-wrapping the steaks, setting aside meat for stews and for burger, and I began to think about those madrone berries. Apparently I missed what the squirrels might have told me. Madrone berries can be gathered after the berries turn from orange to red, after the first frost, and can be mixed with granola or wild rice, pine nuts and asparagus. It can also be used as a spice or a sugar substitute.

I know a spot where the madrones carry berries in December. A good excuse to go turkey hunting. It may be too late for Thanksgiving, but I still have a fall turkey tag and a muzzleloading shotgun. Maybe the wild chanterelles will show themselves where I found them last year.

In December and January, on my favorite trout streams, I find myself tying on “searching” patterns more often than not.

And searching in winter means reaching into crevices, under ledges and into log jams where resting trout may be tempted to grab an easy morsel. That’s where this Tungsten Jig Pheasant Tail nymph comes into play.

Because it’s tied on a jig-style hook, a person would be tempted to use an indicator, and that’s OK, but the fly is more fishable and versatile if not constrained by the indicator. Let it fish, man!

Tie the Tungsten Jig Pheasant Tail with burnt-orange thread on a No. 12-14 jig-style hook. Slide a small copper bead up against the eye. For the tail, use pheasant tail fibers. Taper the body with pheasant tail fibers and a close-wrap fine copper wire rib. For the thorax, use peacock and finish with a blue dun CDC collar.

—Gary Lewis, For The Bulletin