While Standing at my truck preparing for what would be my first evening hunt of the season it began to rain. Only lightly though. Not enough to change my plans. I was excited about what might occur, and considered setting aside more time for such evenings. Life has become an ever accelerating event it seems, and often I have little say in the matter. That should be different, moving forward. A few years ago most November evenings I would be watching deer from a favorite tree. This rain seemed to be washing clean a cluttered mind. I felt it was delivering clarity. Restoring a tattered psyche.
Departing for a new stand by way of silent footsteps I was visited by memories of hunts with those now gone, both people and deer. Deer that eluded me, people that have transcended this realm for the next. This rain infused the air with a nourishing quality. The sky seemed low, as if I could lift my bow and press it into the still grey clouds. Coyote tracks in the orange sandy road, and the fur of the unfortunate rabbit it had eaten.
From ten foot up the meandering does on the trail beneath me were none the wiser as it pertained to my presence in the live oak canopy above. The wind was perfect from the southwest, pushing the rain to our neighbors in Llano County. Redness began to bleed from the horizon, and an occasional dove would tear across the Texas sky like the incentive at a greyhound track, racing to escape the coming night. Shooting light was all but gone, and the mesquite trees’ barren limbs looked like enormous tarantula legs lurching toward me, silhouette against the pale grey of an eerie twilight zone. It’s a gorgeous thing, this time between day and night in a still-untamed place. I would be back here waiting before the sun rose behind me on the very last day of 2022. Regular season concluding on New Year’s Day.
Clouds had moved north and now above were stars in abundance. Maybe there is a hunter on one of them looking down at earth, wondering if anything is out there.
A Satellite. A plane too high to hear. An owl not too far away announcing the conclusion of his hunt seemed to be telling me it was my shift. A more subtle announcement was the sound of shuffling leaves which could very well be a deer. Or, something other than a deer. Perhaps a stumbling nocturnal creature retiring in a state of fatigue due to a long night out with the guys. Some of these raccoons look like they could drink Tom Waits under the table.
The levitating blob of ash was too big to be a raccoon. Too big to be a doe for that matter. Drifting gently about like a ghost. The audible nature of the scene was proof that this was a living creature, though it appeared one of the countless restless spirits of Gettysburg. Slowly the light marched towards us from the East. Forms taking shape in subtle increments, though still slightly obscured like the image of oneself in a steamy mirror. An inevitable advance of day nonetheless.
What a blessing it now appeared that time and light ran out on the does of the previous evening. If it had worked out on one of them I wouldn’t be in this most exciting position now. The sun set on ladies night, but it also rises, as it was doing now. This is an old deer. Not a slick jet anymore, but more of the AC-130 Gunship variety that could pick you up by the shirt collar if your smart mouth needed a check. He’d done so too, on a few occasions, as the missing dog catcher revealed.
He’s close enough now, and this can happen with a little help. Much of the nice persimmon foliage that offered cover a couple weeks ago was now gone by way of a hard freeze. There is large cactus throughout this part of the pasture, however, and deer milling about with heads down grazing will end up with their eyes behind the cactus, and the vitals readily available. A few more steps and this would be my opportunity.
Leaning in to the shot prior to beginning to draw, finding that triangle necessary for an archer from elevation. My geometry teacher would be impressed. No doubt she thought I missed those principles skipping class to drive through Sonic. Sometimes we need the concept presented in an interesting fashion, like an arrow soaring just over the back of a whitetail; that bakes in the lesson.
The meat of my thumb pressed into my cheek bone and then the arrow was gone. Ribs broken with the sound of snapping saltine crackers. The still peace disrupted in an instant the way a baseball shattering a kitchen window permanently altars a Saturday morning.
Feathers on the side of the deer were contrasted by a saucer of vital blood beneath. Running low in disoriented panic, exploding through brush where a trail we’d later follow would be painted.
It was quiet again now, and what was witnessed was cataloged to memory. The entry wound was further back than preferred, but a slight quartering away angle should have gotten what was needed to put the deer down nearby. His manner of departure bid well that this was a sufficiently placed arrow. I prayed that I would be guided to this deer, and started to climb down.
For good measure the thermos of hot coffee back in the truck was first on the agenda. Drag some square bales out of the barn for the cows, then a drive to the house to pick up my assistant tracker Perry Perry, a 5 year old Jack Russell Terrorist. These tasks would give the deer more than adequate time to expire on a cool morning. Our dog could use some trail time, too, as I put no blood on the ground last season.
By the time we arrived back at the gate nearly two and half hours had passed since the shot. The dog was in flight before the tail gate dropped. He loves trips to the ranch, and if you don’t know anything about Jack Russell’s, know this: they have energy in spades. I let him run for a bit before directing his attention to the task at hand. Upon spotting an armadillo he would log an inspired sprint that has some regional pro scouts working the phones. This is good. Having thoroughly horrified one harmless creature, he should be able to focus, pleased with an early success.
There was blood immediately where the deer was hit, and a pretty fair amount. My dog doesn’t have a lot of experience on a trail with a deer at the end of it, so something that could build confidence was preferable. His nose was to the ground and popping. That’s what you want. It wasn’t long before we were at that place where the buck crashed violently. We found the broadhead and about 5 inches of arrow that snapped off in the impact. The blood on this bit of evidence looked promising too. Kneeling here in this place and surveying the grass for what’s next left me hoping my dog could do the heavy lifting. The bright morning sun and wind in the grass cast a kaleidoscope of shadows making the trail a challenge to see. That nose may be the difference between a celebratory phone call to my wife Jill, or a quiet drive home steeped in disappointment.
While paused examining the remnant of an arrow, Perry continued to work. He’d advanced through the densely wooded area between myself and a field where a pipeline runs through our property. With an inclination he was on the scent I caught up to inspect the evidence from his new vantage. By then he was on the move due North. I looked ahead and there just steps before descending into the creek was a belly of white fur. Amen.
Before I could get to my deer he was on it, tail wagging like an opera fan. A beautiful deer, perhaps six years old, hardened from the battles of many ruts. I thank God for this experience. I took this deer with a bow Allen Boice made for me almost 10 years ago. I hope he’s looking down on this deer, pleased that the artistry he shared with us is still getting it done. I’m thankful, too, to Ken Denton, who challenged me to hunt with a longbow, and participate in a discipline that’s improved the mind, body, and spirit of mankind for dozens of millennia. Let us hope it does so for another thousand years to come. We’re better versions of ourselves when we’re walking with a bow.
Topic: A New Year's Eve Buck... (Read 1494 times)
