At age 16 my Dad let me go off on my own. Our hunt spot was a two hour drive away. Laurel Spings, NC. Dean Pruitt's dairy farm, which was Elk Knob Hunt Club, named after a nearby mountain.
We always picked apples from an apple tree that happened to grow at the head of a spring fed creek. Those mountain apples were as big as softballs. I could barely squeeze three in a cargo pocket of BDU camo pants.
I had just climbed down that tree and filled my pockets. As I was walking back to my 73 Jeep CJ5 I noticed what appeared to be a deer feeding in the distant pasture. She was about a half a mile away near the edge of some white pines. I went into stalk mode and quickly learned that with stuffed pockets it would be a loooong stalk. I dumped the apples with intent to return later to get them. I never did.
I stalked her for about an hour and a half and got within 20 yards. I loosed an arrow into her shoulder and she ran downhill for about 30-60 yards or so. I came upon her as she was breathing her last breaths.
She's my greatest bowhunting accomplishment to this day.
Mr Pruitt is now gone. The farm has been sold off. The apple tree was cut down and Christmas trees now grow there.
But the white pines on the hillside still stand to this day, holding in secret what heppened some 32 years ago. They whisper about it from time to time. I hope to hear their whispers again.