I do not consider myself to be a trophy hunter. A big deer with a massive rack would be nice, but so would an average deer. Most of the time, I am a happy hunter and have gotten nothing but some memories of good times in the woods.
This changed when a really big buck moved into the area. Several people, including me, saw him during the week. By Saturday morning, I decided he was going to be mine. No other deer would do. This is going to be my year for the big one.
He had been spotted always in or near a particular dense patch of hardwood timber. He was probably using the heavy cover to move around during the day, only venturing into the open at night. I would be ready, in the timber before daylight when he came home after a night of carousing.
My tree stand is in a big old hickory tree at the edge of a ditch. From my lofty perch, I have several good 20-yard shooting lanes including the opposite side of the ditch. The only real problem I have with my stand is in the dark most old hickory trees look alike. Being the last tree before the ditch, it is obvious when I have gone too far. Falling down the bank, I think to myself, "that last tree I passed must have been the one.
It is good to arrive at one's stand before daylight so a person is not walking in on the deer as they return from feeding. It is also good to avoid falling into a deep ditch in the darkness as the crashing and profane language will alert all the deer within a quarter of a mile.
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I easily found the correct tree after I dragged myself out of the ditch. It is much easier to find the first tree out of the ditch than the last one before it. How do you know if it is the last one until it is too late?
I climbed into my tree to survey the damage. None of the equipment seemed any worse for the wear since I had used my body to protect my bow and quiver of arrows. Skin and bones will grow back, bows and arrows do not. I sat quietly in my tree stand, pretending all had been quiet in the woods as blood trickled from my various injuries.
Light crept through the woods and animals began their daily routine. A flock of turkeys flew off the roost, making almost as much noise as someone falling into a ditch. Deer began their morning journey from the open fields to the comfort of the heavy timber.
A nice buck followed by a doe came by my stand. He stopped and looked in my direction when I rattled my antlers. Another buck came trotting in when he heard what he thought were two bucks fighting. He was a gorgeous animal, 10 points spreading wide and muscles rippling. I have smaller deer mounted, and am proud of them, but this was not the big buck I had seen.
I used the bleat call and he came closer. He stopped broadside and looked around. I was tempted but let him go. When he turned to leave, I bleated again. Looking back toward me, he grunted as though showing a bit of disdain, and left.
I saw several more deer before I gave up the hunt to go home, have a warm cup of coffee, and dress my wounds.
It was a great day of hunting and I have more than memories to remember the occasion. For the next several months, each time I look at the gash on my forearm, I will think of the nice buck I passed on in hopes of getting the trophy.
Walter Scott is an outdoors enthusiast and freelance writer from Bloomfield, Iowa.
