With no options whatsoever, I began slowly setting my gear down on the trail. The whole time I ignored the deer that were still watching as if mesmerized by my stupidity.
Finally with my hands empty I got an arrow out of the quiver and turned slowly toward the deer. To my amazement they were still just standing there.
What happened next was and still is a mystery to me.
I remember nothing of the shot once I put pressure on the string and started my draw.
My next conscious observation was the hind end of those deer disappearing into the poison ivy.
It’s hard to tell how long I stood there. It’s even harder to describe the emotions I was feeling. Doubt, joy, confusion, pride, was all there with the emphasis falling mainly on doubt and confusion.
I felt like I’d just shot a deer with my bow, but had no way of knowing whether I had or not. I decided that the best thing to do was to go and get my buddy since my Dad was out on the river fixing up the duck blind for the coming season.
Andy and I would come back and check it out. I wasn’t sure just how we’d do that, but I’d worry about that when we got back to the culvert.
It seemed to take forever to get back to the cabins. My buddy Andy was just rolling out of bed when I came in to his folks cabin. Trying to somehow seem cool I relayed the story and how I was sure I’d hit the deer.
Andy’s grandfather was sitting at the kitchen table as I told my story and seemed pretty skeptical about the whole thing and said so. Nope, didn’t happen in HIS mind.
Since it was apparent there would be no adult help in this matter, Andy and I returned to the woods alone.
I figured we would go over to where the deer had been standing and look for blood or something.
When we arrived at the spot the first thing I noticed was something bright red off in the brush by where the deer had been when I shot. My heart skipped a beat. Could it be? I didn’t even dare to hope.
How could I have not seen that red beacon after the shot? Hadn’t I looked things over quite well? Nothing my eyes were telling me was making any sense.
I soon was standing by what turned out to be my arrow standing straight up in the brush. The white fletch and cap was soaked in bright red bubbly blood. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it looked good enough to me.
I struck out in the direction the doe had run. There was no apparent blood along the path she had taken and that disturbed me a little. I kept walking and soon was relieved to find a big splash of blood in the leaves and a little beyond that more.
We’d barely traveled 50 yards from the sight of the shot when ahead I saw the brown-rimmed white behind of my doe. She was down for the count. As I rushed to her side I could see the broadhead hole in her side right where I’d read that everyone shot them.
Rolling her over I found the same thing on the other side. The arrow out of that little bow had passed through without hesitation.
Again the emotions flooded through my soul. I felt like I’d done something wrong on the one hand and was a little sad about it. On the other hand I was very proud and happy knowing that this was the way of things in nature. As time would pass I’d learn that those feelings were deeply rooted in my psyche and would always be present at these personal moments. And that’s just fine with me.
Almost unable to contain ourselves and at a total loss as to what to do next, Andy and I drug the doe to the trail road. We’d leave her there while we went and got someone with a car. I wiped the back of my hand in the bloody wound for proof should we not be believed back at the cabin.
Even with the proof on my hand we had to do a little talking to get the help we needed. It just didn’t seem possible to any of the adults there that I could have killed a deer with a bow and arrow, but soon we were back at the deer and loading her in the back of Andy’s grandfathers, Chevy station wagon.
There was a big old pecan tree down by the river where the old man had hung his big hoop nets when he’d been a commercial fisherman. We’d do the field dressing there and put the offal in a number 2 wash tub.
As we worked to hang the deer, a crowd started to gather. I told the story over and over and each telling felt as good as the first time. Somewhere in the middle of the third or fourth telling I heard the hum of an outboard motor coming up the river from the direction of Dad’s duck blind. It was Dad and his buddy.
The look on Dad’s face was worth more than a million bucks to me that morning. He was almost speechless and I knew he too was full of pride and emotion. He didn’t know anything about deer hunting, but he knew this was pretty cool stuff and so did I.
The taking of that doe made the local papers and for a little while I got my time in the limelight. My local club, the St. Louis Bowhunters, had an awards banquet each year for those in the club who’d taken deer with their bows. There were only 3 of us that year. Earl Hoyt Jr., a guy named Don Fallon and myself.
The deer was processed and packaged and consumed with relish. The hide was tanned with the hair on and adorns the wall of my living room to this day. The front feet were preserved as hangers for a gun rack or coat hooks.
None of us knew at that time the impact that that deer would have on my life and I thank God for that doe. It’s been a great trip.
Topic: Just got my first deer..... again!! (Read 3029 times)
