My brother, Rodney, and I scouted our family farm months before the 2008 bow season opened in October. We watched a fine buck chase does and feed while never moving in close enough for an arrow.
By November we had our big buck patterned. We planned to get him during rifle season.
The opening day of rifle season arrived to find us in well-placed tree stands, waiting for our moment. We both watched several does and small bucks prancing around, just daring us to shoot. But the big guy had disappeared. We waited to leave until the very last minute.
We had a special lunch to attend that afternoon. Afterward, we politely excused ourselves and ran home. Rodney drove us two miles to the area where we planned to hunt. On the way, I looked out the window and was shocked to see a different big buck running almost alongside our car.
This buck was much bigger than the one we watched through bow season. We had scouted and hunted our farm many years and had never seen this old buck. We surmised that he was either entirely nocturnal or had been driven in from another area by hunting pressure. He was a darn good buck.
We sprinted to the hilltop and started glassing the area. Finally our binoculars focused on the running deer. The big boy angled off and ran over another long hill. He soon jumped into a strip on my uncle’s farm.
I immediately knew why he chose this place to hide. He had chosen a long, narrow wooded strip that connected between two big wood lots. The funnel included a large hollow laced with an impenetrable maze of grapevines, sticker bushes and large trees. The buck could lay in this mess and see danger coming from all directions.
Rodney and I formulated a plan considering wind direction and logistics of the funnel. The wind would have to flow toward me so the deer would not pick up my human scent. I would quietly lower myself by rope down a 40-foot bank and climb up the other bank.
Then I would still hunt through the tangled mess, slowly and quietly while moving inches every five minutes. This was assuming that I did not spook the buck while climbing up and down the steep bank.
Rodney planned to sit on a nearby hilltop to watch both ends of the funnel where our buck might escape. The plan seemed remote and almost impossible. But it was our only chance to take this fine animal.
Our sense of adventure outweighed all common sense. We asked permission to hunt on Uncle Leonard’s farm and set out.
Minutes later I secured my stout rope to a black walnut tree and stepped over the bank’s grassy edge. My hiking boots occasionally slipped on the wet ground thanks to a rainstorm the night before. My Remington model 700 BDL, 7mm magnum was secured across my back by a leather strap.
I had my hands full of rope when the first mosquito landed on my face. I gently held on with one hand and brushed away the pest who quickly returned. I dug my feet in the wet bank and used one hand to slip on the netted camouflage facemask I had brought for the still hunt. Finally and gratefully I reached the creek bottom with very little noise.
Climbing up the other bank was easy and uneventful except for those darn mosquitoes. Soon I reached the top and stared long and hard at a horrible mess of bushes, vines and other ground clutter. But the buck had to be close. I had entered his sanctuary and had hopefully not spooked him.
Rodney in the meantime was expecting to see him sneaking out from his position on the northern hilltop. I took my first step and then a second into vines that held me solid.
My razor-sharp knife quietly slipped through the restraints and I took another step. I stopped to look and listen for several minutes before taking the next step.
I slowly and deliberately scanned the brush. I studied this strip for several minutes before realizing something was out of place. A white object about 20 yards ahead was picking up an unusual amount of sun reflection like a white limb that had lost it bark or maybe an antler. I continued watching and felt a cold chill when the white object slightly moved.
My eyes strained until certainty took over. I had walked within a stone’s throw of the buck that had yet to realize that I was there. Call it a hunter’s skill or dumb luck. He was there, and so was I.
I felt a bead of sweat rolling down the right side of my face. Mosquitoes continued to buzz around. I did not dare afford myself the luxury of hand movement. These pesky insects would just have to enjoy themselves. I could only stand there and sweat. The back of my neck started to itch. But scratching was another luxury that I could not afford. I had entered the buck’s living room. I would have to suffer.
I stood there frozen like a forgotten statue of eternity. I have no idea how long. I waited for the buck to make a mistake. I hoped he would somehow present a shot. Spooking him would end this remarkable hunt in frustration.
Big bucks have the skill of diving into brush and disappearing. He had plenty of places to go. Everything had gone in my favor until now. I wanted this deer. I would stand there until a clean shot presented itself.
Then the unexpected happened. I heard bobwhite quail running in the surrounding brush close to my feet. “Damn,” I thought. “That is all I need.” A covey flush would likely spook this buck that was already alerted that all was not well. “BRRRRRRR!” They flushed. The buck looked up.
Then like a moment frozen in time, I was eye to eye with this remarkable animal. He could not wind me and I was frozen solid, my camouflage blended in with surrounding foliage. He stared at me with an intense, almost intimidating sinister glare. I was too excited to think about the danger of being close to a rutting buck.
My hands were full of rifle. I wondered how to move my gun approximately 18 inches to aim for a clean kill shot. That kind of movement would scare the buck into deeper brush. Any kind of movement would end this standoff.
I did not dare breath but must have because I didn’t pass out. This showdown lasted several minutes. My heart was beating loudly like a bass drum. Then all hell broke loose.
The buck decided that something was dreadfully wrong. He may have seen me blink or heard my heart beating. The fine buck snorted and alerted a second deer that I had not been aware of.
A big doe leaped over the creek bank. The buck followed and in seconds was across the creek. I tried to pick him up in my scope without success. He only had to stay in the thick underbrush to survive. Then he made a huge blunder by following his doe up the opposite bank and into an open field.
Both deer were out of Rodney’s view at this point. I followed the buck through my scope in spaces between trees and bushes. He ran across an opening close to a ditch full of old hay about 150 yards from my position. My shooting instincts took over. I squeezed my trigger and followed through.
The big deer took two steps and stopped in his tracks. He just stood there while the doe jumped over a fence to safety. I cranked another round into my chamber but it was a wasted effort. The beautiful buck dropped dead on his side in the soft, green grass. My shot had taken a generous amount of upper lung and a corner of heart.
I leaned against a tree and watched the deer to make sure that he was not dazed. I thought he was hit hard but just wanted to make sure. Hunters occasionally move too fast and watch their deer jump up and run off. I had made that mistake many years before and did not want it to happen again. Besides, I had to catch my breath. I am not sure what it feels like to hyperventilate, but hard breathing from sheer excitement had taken its toll.
I finally started climbing down the steep bank. It took me several minutes to reach my buck. I slowly approached the beautiful eight-pointer and pushed his hindquarters with my rifle barrel. His muscles pushed easily and I knew the hunt was over.
I am not sure what happens to an animal when it dies. Some religions believe that animals don’t have a soul and just stop being. Several native American Indian religions claim that human and animal souls taken in a fair hunt become one.
I don’t know how it works but I do know that deer was an intense, magnificent animal. I would be proud to share my universal space with this incredible spirit.
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My brother, Rodney, and I scouted our family farm months before the 2008 bow season opened in October. We watched a fine buck chase does and feed while never moving in close enough for an arrow.
By November we had our big buck patterned. We planned to get him during rifle season.
The opening day of rifle season arrived to find us in well-placed tree stands, waiting for our moment. We both watched several does and small bucks prancing around, just daring us to shoot. But the big guy had disappeared. We waited to leave until the very last minute.
We had a special lunch to attend that afternoon. Afterward, we politely excused ourselves and ran home. Rodney drove us two miles to the area where we planned to hunt. On the way, I looked out the window and was shocked to see a different big buck running almost alongside our car.
This buck was much bigger than the one we watched through bow season. We had scouted and hunted our farm many years and had never seen this old buck. We surmised that he was either entirely nocturnal or had been driven in from another area by hunting pressure. He was a darn good buck.
We sprinted to the hilltop and started glassing the area. Finally our binoculars focused on the running deer. The big boy angled off and ran over another long hill. He soon jumped into a strip on my uncle’s farm.
I immediately knew why he chose this place to hide. He had chosen a long, narrow wooded strip that connected between two big wood lots. The funnel included a large hollow laced with an impenetrable maze of grapevines, sticker bushes and large trees. The buck could lay in this mess and see danger coming from all directions.
Rodney and I formulated a plan considering wind direction and logistics of the funnel. The wind would have to flow toward me so the deer would not pick up my human scent. I would quietly lower myself by rope down a 40-foot bank and climb up the other bank.
Then I would still hunt through the tangled mess, slowly and quietly while moving inches every five minutes. This was assuming that I did not spook the buck while climbing up and down the steep bank.
Rodney planned to sit on a nearby hilltop to watch both ends of the funnel where our buck might escape. The plan seemed remote and almost impossible. But it was our only chance to take this fine animal.
Our sense of adventure outweighed all common sense. We asked permission to hunt on Uncle Leonard’s farm and set out.
Minutes later I secured my stout rope to a black walnut tree and stepped over the bank’s grassy edge. My hiking boots occasionally slipped on the wet ground thanks to a rainstorm the night before. My Remington model 700 BDL, 7mm magnum was secured across my back by a leather strap.
I had my hands full of rope when the first mosquito landed on my face. I gently held on with one hand and brushed away the pest who quickly returned. I dug my feet in the wet bank and used one hand to slip on the netted camouflage facemask I had brought for the still hunt. Finally and gratefully I reached the creek bottom with very little noise.
Climbing up the other bank was easy and uneventful except for those darn mosquitoes. Soon I reached the top and stared long and hard at a horrible mess of bushes, vines and other ground clutter. But the buck had to be close. I had entered his sanctuary and had hopefully not spooked him.
Rodney in the meantime was expecting to see him sneaking out from his position on the northern hilltop. I took my first step and then a second into vines that held me solid.
My razor-sharp knife quietly slipped through the restraints and I took another step. I stopped to look and listen for several minutes before taking the next step.
I slowly and deliberately scanned the brush. I studied this strip for several minutes before realizing something was out of place. A white object about 20 yards ahead was picking up an unusual amount of sun reflection like a white limb that had lost it bark or maybe an antler. I continued watching and felt a cold chill when the white object slightly moved.
My eyes strained until certainty took over. I had walked within a stone’s throw of the buck that had yet to realize that I was there. Call it a hunter’s skill or dumb luck. He was there, and so was I.
I felt a bead of sweat rolling down the right side of my face. Mosquitoes continued to buzz around. I did not dare afford myself the luxury of hand movement. These pesky insects would just have to enjoy themselves. I could only stand there and sweat. The back of my neck started to itch. But scratching was another luxury that I could not afford. I had entered the buck’s living room. I would have to suffer.
I stood there frozen like a forgotten statue of eternity. I have no idea how long. I waited for the buck to make a mistake. I hoped he would somehow present a shot. Spooking him would end this remarkable hunt in frustration.
Big bucks have the skill of diving into brush and disappearing. He had plenty of places to go. Everything had gone in my favor until now. I wanted this deer. I would stand there until a clean shot presented itself.
Then the unexpected happened. I heard bobwhite quail running in the surrounding brush close to my feet. “Damn,” I thought. “That is all I need.” A covey flush would likely spook this buck that was already alerted that all was not well. “BRRRRRRR!” They flushed. The buck looked up.
Then like a moment frozen in time, I was eye to eye with this remarkable animal. He could not wind me and I was frozen solid, my camouflage blended in with surrounding foliage. He stared at me with an intense, almost intimidating sinister glare. I was too excited to think about the danger of being close to a rutting buck.
My hands were full of rifle. I wondered how to move my gun approximately 18 inches to aim for a clean kill shot. That kind of movement would scare the buck into deeper brush. Any kind of movement would end this standoff.
I did not dare breath but must have because I didn’t pass out. This showdown lasted several minutes. My heart was beating loudly like a bass drum. Then all hell broke loose.
The buck decided that something was dreadfully wrong. He may have seen me blink or heard my heart beating. The fine buck snorted and alerted a second deer that I had not been aware of.
A big doe leaped over the creek bank. The buck followed and in seconds was across the creek. I tried to pick him up in my scope without success. He only had to stay in the thick underbrush to survive. Then he made a huge blunder by following his doe up the opposite bank and into an open field.
Both deer were out of Rodney’s view at this point. I followed the buck through my scope in spaces between trees and bushes. He ran across an opening close to a ditch full of old hay about 150 yards from my position. My shooting instincts took over. I squeezed my trigger and followed through.
The big deer took two steps and stopped in his tracks. He just stood there while the doe jumped over a fence to safety. I cranked another round into my chamber but it was a wasted effort. The beautiful buck dropped dead on his side in the soft, green grass. My shot had taken a generous amount of upper lung and a corner of heart.
I leaned against a tree and watched the deer to make sure that he was not dazed. I thought he was hit hard but just wanted to make sure. Hunters occasionally move too fast and watch their deer jump up and run off. I had made that mistake many years before and did not want it to happen again. Besides, I had to catch my breath. I am not sure what it feels like to hyperventilate, but hard breathing from sheer excitement had taken its toll.
I finally started climbing down the steep bank. It took me several minutes to reach my buck. I slowly approached the beautiful eight-pointer and pushed his hindquarters with my rifle barrel. His muscles pushed easily and I knew the hunt was over.
I am not sure what happens to an animal when it dies. Some religions believe that animals don’t have a soul and just stop being. Several native American Indian religions claim that human and animal souls taken in a fair hunt become one.
I don’t know how it works but I do know that deer was an intense, magnificent animal. I would be proud to share my universal space with this incredible spirit.
