While in one bow hunting forum this morning I was inspired by one of the threads entitled A BOW BUCK?. So the following short storey is in tribute to that thread. Those of you who have not visited that site/thread do not know what it’s about. Well it is more or less a discussion on why gun hunters refer to smaller bucks as “Bow Bucks”. While the storey may seem to follow the steps of an everyday hunter (gun or bow) those of us who know the difference can see it. And, if you miss the significance than I hope you enjoy it any way. It is the abridged version with some rough cuts, and I must say my eng. Prof would bleed all over it. ENJOY!
A Bow Buck
Larry McNew
“Four in the mourning comes trouble-free in the woods”. The thought hung in my head as I pulled myself out of my primitive style lean-to. I was still stiff from scouting the day before. And pleased that I had enough whit to leave the coffee warming on the rocks near the fire, next to my drying boots. The early December breeze fluttered into camp from the north east. This reinforced my intention of hunting an over grown logging cut. “Funny” I thought “a simple mistake, such as a misread map can put you in good position”. Truly, a mistake revealed a lost or forgotten sanctuary. Large oaks and some juvenile pine trees lined a long, mid width natural food plot, with a small brook just behind my tree.
I whipped the remainder of the coffee on the fire. I Pulled on my toasty boots, and bow in hand and my pack on my back, I turned my nose to the wind. Happy to get an early start, I reminded myself, “one foot in front of the other, steady, and not too fast.” I walked to the cadence of my own heart beat and the tempo of nature. The red pebble road crunched and crumbled at each foot fall. With each step I knew that was one more near my goal. The beginnings of a slight flurry kissed my face. “Welcome, wind and snow” A loud thought as if to tenderly encourage Mother Nature to manipulate my odds. As if to answer, the breeze turned into a light wind. The trees whisper, to wake the morning song birds, and sang lullaby to the nightingales. Blue gray packed in the eastern sky and shoved the night to the west. “It’ll be just up here to the right, not far then, should be there before full light”.
The unmistakable organized chaos of Turkeys flying out of the roost startled me. “Remember that for the spring.” I told myself. A quiet moment before I continue. A man in his element, joy full. A man humble, on a melancholy morning. Off the path I go, into the tree line, boots down on moist forest floor now. Pine needles and fresh snowfall should make this last 200 yards easy enough. A perfect tree to sit in, my wind fall oak. A trim here and a snip there draw and anchor check for clearance, perfect. The morning has mostly won and splashed its victory all over the trees and field; the squirrels poke their heads out from cover to welcome the day.
The waiting game has paid off. A few does coyly mill around for some acorns or what’s left of them. I suppose not wanting to give up their cover. Give them a bit; with this front they’ll switch gears. The clover and any brasica that remain will draw them in. Before the thought crossed my clear, unassuming mind, I saw why the deer were keeping cover. A grand entrance for a majestic animal, Nearly to the end of the cut he had to be 300 yards away. I felt my fingers twitch and before my mind could respond; my bow was at its ready. Arrow knocked “check the wind old man, and you’ll see, I’m not here.” I willed him. He no doubt came in to refuel on some instant energy and fat. Spellbound, at the ready, I watched as El Jefe slowly made his way strait to me. “Thirsty big fella?” once more I willed him in closer. A hundred fifty yards away, a pause and a sniff, the wind was perfect. He was close enough I could see the steam from his breath. It made me conscious about mine. The twitch in my fingers was more of a tremble now, and it made its way to my boots. A quick prayer, he is on his way. God may the wind stay steady, give me the strength, and guide my arrow. 21 yards and closing, he’s a 9 point,9 point! Outside his ears and my that is a hell of a neck. “Draw slow, smooth, set at your anchor” my gloved finger felt like an angel kiss against my scruffy face………..
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