As I watched the bits of grass and weightless debris drift back and forth on the breeze like the tails of sunning cattle I wondered what to do. The wind was switching ahead of a cool front making it difficult to decide where to hunt. Any location would be a gamble, somewhat, so I set out to the northernmost spot on the ranch.
This place is just across the creek in Mason County, the rest of the property is in Gillespie. I was excited about the decision, as it would be my first time to hunt here this season. The creek is seasonal due to the abundance of cedar trees in central Texas, but several thousand years ago it was a very strong flowing stream. Native Americans camped and hunted along this creek long before my Father and I, perhaps they fished as well. We have both assembled decent collections of artifacts found walking freshly plowed fields; several bird points, and occasionally a knife.
I had not been settled long before I heard behind me deer entering the shallow water, a few steps in crossing, then leaving the opposite side onto the dry red granite that also makes the creek’s floor. Veins and tributaries of the same granite that form Enchanted Rock and its peripheral satellite domes that from a distance look like the backs grazing prehistoric buffalo.
Three does. The first two of the trio were quiet and cautious, their steps as light as sixteenth notes. They were followed by a belligerent and thunderous splash into one of the deeper green pools. Startled cardinals flew past me as if I was warping through luminous red embers; I wanted to laugh out loud! That dive would not score well. This doe traversed the water with bravado. She reminded me of the ever-present oafish buffoon that accompanies every act of pre-teen mischief; your friend that steps on what you and the rest of the gang step over…
Grazing before me now were these deer, and I felt I had passed a great test. They would drift calmly within eight to ten yards, in my shooting lane, so the wind would not pose a problem, indecisive as it was.
When we heard the low grunt we all looked south together and saw the approaching buck. Head low to the ground approaching like a nuclear submarine and equally intent on his trajectory. The doe with a penchant for free diving was in heat, and this big seven point had no qualms about interrupting girls’ night out. The buck and doe set off at a brisk jog through the food plot, no sooner than I thought this might be the last I saw of the two, they boomerang right back to me as if I were reeling them in. Their jog began to tick down to a power walk, and then they slowed, and slowed, and slowed more. As this buck began to assume suspended animation within my shooting lane my heart rate had achieved its zenith. This must be what Valentino Rossi feels like at 200 miles per hour, but time had stopped? Anchor. Follow through; and now the arrow was nestled into the armpit of the animal to the fletching, like a boutonnière for a formal event. A kick in the direction of that which had bit him and he was gone.
There was blood in abundance. While it was late in the evening now, though not yet dark, I needed no flashlight to follow this trail; perfect for training a young dog. He was in full stride outstretched like Christmas décor blown over in the yard, and in one of the regions larger congregations of cactus; I got the last word, but he got the last laugh… This buck was very smart. I had seen him on trail cam only on rare occasion, and always well past dark. Like General Petraeus, and countless men of stature before him, chasing skirts would be his undoing.
Topic: A November Buck! (Read 1006 times)
