I was in a tree that my Dad has hunted in year after year. The kind of magical tree that you might find at the center of A.A. Milne's 100 acre wood. When he first found it he would ascend the tree's various knots and branches like a spiral staircase before arriving at that place several hundred years in the making. That was along time ago. Now he prefers the ladder. When I was first given permission to hunt in the tree I felt I was being tossed the keys for the first time. It was his spot, after all. In hindsight he must have been proud of me too. Perhaps he was successfully turning a skinny punk into a man, the way things begrudgingly give way to the hammer of the blacksmith.
Although I was beneath the canopy of the big tree the sun was low in the sky, and hot. At least there were no mosquitos. It's not uncommon for an owl to sit in the branches above. Two hunters sharing a tree. As we're close to our hay barn they probably do very well here.
The stirring of leaves directed my attention to an old raccoon that looked as if he'd spent the evening in a gas lamp era tavern. One eye was white, blind, and adequately compensated for with disdain for the forest's co-inhabitants. Occasionally an acorn would fall onto the tin roof of the barn like a dull snare, then begin its oblong descent to the edge; tiny base jumpers leaping from the precipice.
This was my first evening hunt here at our little home place. I thought I might see pigs, who are in my opinion the "Cousin Eddie" of an otherwise nice deer hunt. September trail cam photos provided countless Megabytes of pig-occupied pictures, and should they arrive I would roll with the punches. Rather than my beautiful wooden arrows I had a quiver full of old Gold Tips for just such a menace.
Finally there were deer. My hunting through October was primarily in Kimble County. That place sits on the threshold of the American desert that spans from Texas to California. I've been looking at pitifully thin deer, subjects of a hard summer. These, however, were plump and sassy does. They reminded me of FFA pigs that were never weaned off the automatic feeder. Beautiful blue does, like strutting yard hens.
Amused with the sewing circle I failed to notice the buck at all. He was before me instantly like an image on a slide-show. How do deer move through leaves without a sound? Perhaps the belligerent Raccoon was an alibi. He was making enough racket to conceal the other goings on; a brains and brawn type of arrangement. While not a giant antlered buck, he was as big a deer as I have seen on the hoof. His belly swung low making his legs appear too short further confounding how he snuck up on me, but he was here no more than 8 yards.
His time in front of me was as brief as a subliminal message. My arrow slipped between ribs and lay still where the buck had paused seconds ago. The shot looked beautiful. The arrow looked merely ok. He tore threw the brush due west the way a bottle rocket climbs into the dark. It was six o'clock, and everything was still. My Dad buried his dog earlier this spring. I wished he was at the truck to help find this one, instead there were three good flashlights. Two doves flew low overhead displaced by the fleeing buck. The sky was an odd pale color and looked as if it would shatter if I threw a rock. I waited a very long time. It was six twenty...
About a dozen young pigs emerged from the dark on the trail where my buck had left. Terrific. These juvenile miscreants would undoubtedly render a real mess of my blood trail, at least the beginnings of it. If I had any shooting light at all I would have attempted to turn one of these guys into tamales for Christmas. I had good reference of where I had last seen the deer, and that would turn out to be where I picked up the trail.
It was faint, but it was there. Occasionally intermittent. Running as he was 100 yards would be covered in seconds. Usain Bolt would look like a nerd tripping over his laces next to this deer. I welcomed the spots on the cactus, those I could see several feet ahead. It was also better to be in the thick brush, where blood was rubbing on to things. The challenge was in the open clearings where the grass was dry and low. Standing and looking down was not so good, but to get low and look through the grass was more effective. You could see the trail as it was dispersed at a dead run. Having two more flashlights in my pocket was comforting. Would the second string flashlight be ready when it was his time? That hasn't worked out too well for the Cowboys in Romo's absence, but I had faith in my backups.
Progress was steady enough to keep doubt at bay. After calling my wife to let her know I had shot an hour had passed prior to tracking. I didn't think I was pushing this deer. I texted my wife Jill to let her know things were still ok, and resumed the task at hand. Shortly thereafter I found my buck. He was up under the low hanging branches of a cedar tree as if he was seeking an improvised shelter for the night. An answered prayer. It was eight forty-five. After a jumping fist pump that might still enlist the services of a physical therapist I sent Jill this picture...
A few more...
Topic: A Monday night buck. (Read 1244 times)
