The Hatrack
I had watched this giant all summer, always able to catch him in glass at last light. He seemed to sense something was there and although the other 5 bucks he ran with fed unfazed in the clover field, he always seem leary and aloof. He had horns alright, 8 magical points with mass and length that made any of the large Illinois whitetails I had taken in the past look inferior.
He stayed a ghost for most of the early fall, but he gave me a glimpse of his spector-like shadow at last light the first week of November. I knew his levels were coming up, and that my chance would soon arrive. I had to stay true to the hunt, and that meant passing on all of the other good bucks using that farm.
It was a tough November with me passing on 2 nice 3 1/2 year old bucks, a 10 and an 8. I was beginning to have buyers remorse, and after taking 2 does with my recurve earlier in the year, I had the need to make more meat soon. The night before Thanksgiving everything was going wrong. Picked the wrong tree for my climber, the wind wouldn't stick to the gameplan, and I nocked off the first arrow I put on my Chek-Mate recurve, watching my "lucky" arrow fall harmlessly to the earth. "Not good", I thought as about that time I realized I was being eye-balled by 2 tom turkey that wigged out into a bedding area that the Hatrack liked to nap in.
With 10 minutes of light left my spirts were down: "I was not a hunter", "Maybe this trad thing is wrong for me", and "This stinks" dominated my thoughts as the giant tentatively stepped into the field 200 yeards away. Amazingly my spirits soared. He was here...With nothing to lose I picked up the string that held my rattling antlers at the bottom of the tree. I crashed them and threw them with reckless vigor for a brief spell. That got him looking, and the snort weez and grunt turned that grey ghost into a galloping racehorse. Coming, coming, in range, too close, busted. That quick he was facing me at the bottom of my tree, looking up the 17 feet at a well-camoflaged, very nervous stickbow hunter. No shot then, but as he left I got what I wanted: a quartering away 15 yarder. Full draw, pick-a-spot...crack. Shoulder high and virtually no penetration. Leaping into the thicket I watched him stand there peering into the maze in which he had ran. My arrow lay there at the spot where he stood, my deer limped out of my life, and I bowed my head, disgraced and saddened at the events of the last 30 seconds.
Oh I looked. I found blood and tracks, but the arrow and the sound told the tale. A branch I didn't see, a shot that was too easy, and a deer that had lived 6 or 7 years with a 6th sense. Grazing job. Healthy animal as of January 17th 2007. Got a look from my jeep through the spotting scope: a giant that had dropped one side of his rack, a slight limp on his Left front, and a real-life promise to this traditional bowhunter. It will happen next fall. Both he and I will be wiser and older, but I will give him the respect he deserves: on my wall as the king of the whitetails in the Davenport den.