“The big deer are always moving on Thanksgiving!”
That’s what my father in law used to say with a contagious enthusiasm to be in the woods. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. Add to this a New Moon on the precipice of December, and you have a complete recipe. This year I would hunt over the holiday rather than going to Dallas to see family as has been the tradition in recent years. So, at 5 am on Thanksgiving morning I pulled out with my bow and a thermos full of coffee to begin the slow drive to the ranch.
Cold and clear. That was the setting for this morning. Similar to my mindset. Orion was low in the sky with his weapon, and I high in a tree with mine. Coyotes erupted into their beautiful racket as the sky in the East was oozing a pale grey up from the horizon. A color scheme well suited for a Bellows painting. A hawk slid low over the field before pulling up dramatically as if scaling a wall to land atop the tall, 50 foot power lines: a wooden chain gang enlisted to march away as far as you can see and electrify the American West.
The morning prior while prepping wellhouses for this first freeze I saw the buck under a large post oak near the cattle pens. His characteristic tall, narrow rack was easily identified. Preoccupied with his female interest, he didn’t melt into the woods as he usually would.
This deer I’ve watched grow up. In hindsight, he was often watching me. I’d notice him while dragging hay out of the barn for the cows, cutting fire wood, or just walking with a bow. So often there, quietly observing what must be peculiar behavior from a deer’s perspective.
At 3 years old he was already pretty. What would he look like at 5 we would wonder? Here now, at 6, he was something special. This was the kind of deer that moves unencumbered by gravity through daydreams like elm leaves on a breeze, and, hopefully, he was still nearby.
The tree line runs East to Northwest. I can see down over a meadow to the creek bottom oaks a few hundred yards away. A vintage winter scene this morning, frequented by red birds, a few does, and their quickly maturing fawns. It’s always fun to watch these yearlings learn the ropes. A whitetail doe is a strict teacher with a low threshold for mischief. It seems like they’re always saying ‘catch up, pay attention’, and ‘yes, that was due today!’ I’m betting if they could talk they would sound just like Mrs. Schwettmann, my 3rd grade teacher. She was scary!
The flick of an ear caught my attention. A rising sun painted daubs of crimson on higher reaching tree tops, though most of the little valley remained in the shadow of the hill. It was him. About 40 yards away. He lifted his face into low cedar branches and then inscribed his signature on the scrape below. There are countless scrapes along the tree line, and I appeared to be well placed between one autograph and the next.
He would cross my shooting lane at 10 yards out, moving at a slow and pensive gate. The fir arrow would break a rib right behind the shoulder. Nothing in the world sounds like an arrow snapping a rib. Shot placement was everything I could have hoped for. Penetration could have been much better. I could tell this was one lung, and a deer can do extraordinary things with one lung. John Wayne did some of his best work with much less than that.
I’d been comfortable during this hunt, but now I was shaking violently. A combination of sub-freezing temperatures and the adrenaline coursing my bloodstream. Reflecting on everything that had unfolded I thanked God for the exhilarating experience, come what may, then quietly descended to the winter grass beneath that would cushion my path to that thermos.
Seated on the back of my truck drinking one divine cup of Colombian goodness, I watched a young 8 point running a doe. An hour ago the warrior king of these woods was doing the same thing. A few years from now perhaps I’ll be tracking this kid on a late November morning. Today, however, another trail was waiting.
The white cresting of the arrow lay in the middle of a heavily used trail. It confirmed my assumption that penetration was not superb. Comparing this to the arrows still in the quiver revealed he’s carrying 7 or 8 inches of Douglas fir, and a broadhead that was shaving sharp upon delivery. Every laborious lunge would continue to pull Gulliver down, step, by step, by step.
Bleeding almost exclusively internal would perplex a very experienced hound. The song dogs would find him before we did, but I’m blessed that I still have a very pretty cape for the taxidermist to work with. A stringy fascia had plugged the entry wound preventing any blood from escaping. The portion of arrow he carried away was recovered. The broadhead will sharpen up, and go back to work.
It’s an interesting feeling when you have history with an animal, and your stories intertwine. In this case that spans many Falls. A respect present for a life lived, and battles fought.
For this deer, an arresting reverie.
Topic: A Thanksgiving Buck... (Read 1187 times)
