That so unnerved us that when the stag emerged at a gentle trot, Wayne missed him, and I missed him, and I really don't want to talk about it anymore, thank you very much.
    You wouldn't think a full-grown sika would resort to a cheap trick like that.
    The next morning Wayne and I spotted five more sika, all of which sproinged away from us. Still, I couldn't complain. I was seeing the little huggers and having a fine time with them, while Bart and his decoy and Sonny in his stand had not seen a thing. Wayne and I were learning some­thing about these creatures, too. We discovered that although calling a sika to us was difficult, a bugle at the right time would often freeze a stag in its tracks and sometimes prod it into sounding off with a howl of its own.
    The next few days continued like that: good times, no deer. One afternoon when frustration ran high, Bart and I cashed in our bows and rigged surf rods. Blues and redfish were cruising, we had heard, so we heaved out mullet. I fed the crabs, while Bart caught three eating-sized blues. We dashed into Ocean City for a peck of Chincoteague oysters and a case of beer. We iced those down at the campground, went hunting that evening, and when we got back, sika-less but happy, the oysters and the beer were chilled. Bart and Wayne grilled their bluefish; I squeezed lemon on mine and ate it raw. Sashimi by the sea. Eating doesn't get any finer than that.
    The hunting, though, was another story. Things didn't feel right where we were, so we moved to a stretch of the island closer to camp. That is, Wayne and I moved. Bart was still trying to coax that spike in with his decoy. A map of Assateague gives little indica­tion of where to go or what to expect. Elevation is insignificant in country where the highest point is 40 feet. Rivers and mountains are replaced as obstacles by vegetation—good old myrkle, greenbrier, saw brier, honeysuckle and bayberry. Maps don't say much about greenery, but we found plenty of it right off. Hedges of dense brush came at us in waves. The only paths were game trails, which coursed through cover that grew thicker and thicker until we were crawling on elbows and knees, pushing our bows before us.
    The country felt right, though, and toward evening, when we reached the bay side of the island, our instincts were confirmed by a lonely sika bugle. I climbed a tree from which I could watch a well-used trail; Wayne took off in the direction of the call.
    I stayed in my stand until dusk, then climbed down and headed toward a path we had spotted, a trail we figured would take us straight to the road and the truck. But as I shouldered my bow, a sika bugled not 100 yards away. There was not enough light to shoot, but I had to look, so I headed cross-country and for 20 minutes snuck from one marsh to another, strain­ing to see a deer in the fading light. I never did; nor did I find the trail again. I knew where the road was, at least: a half mile through a couple of hedgerows. I struck out overland for the road and the truck.
    I found the hedgerows, but before I found them I discovered fields of demonic briers. At one point I was effectively crucified. I could not move. And when I finally broke free—by leaping up and rolling forward again and again until I bulled my way back to where I had entered

that mess—I hit the myrkle and the tunnels and spent an hour that mess—I hit the myrkle and the tunnels and spent an hour on my belly with a fading flashlight clamped in my teeth, slithering along muddy trails.
    When I reached the road, I looked like a sparring partner for a catfight. Wayne had been through the same ordeal. Back in camp, Sonny just looked at us, shook his head, and chuckled softly, "Now you boys are real Myrkle Men." I'm still picking thorns out of my legs.