With the first hunt out of the way and not a whiff of Beginner’s Luck left upon me, I approached my next hunt with “more realistic” expectations. Setting our wheels north towards Colesburg, Paul and I discussed the perfect place to sit based on the wind and any potential pressure from hunters on the neighboring property for the majority of the hour-long drive there. Agreeing on a cedar tree that had one stand in it that had not yet been hunted, he decided he would take a stand down from another tree on the property and hang it in the cedar so we could sit together for its maiden voyage. It seemed like a lot of work to me, but Wild Paul would not be deterred.
We (mostly Paul) had been tracking the movement of the deer on this property for several weeks. Deer were moving at all times of day, according to trail cam data. The stand we chose was above a heavily-trafficked trail, so we snuck in as stealthily as possible, just before noon. Paul dropped his gear at the base of the tree and backed out quietly to take down the stand that was 100 yards away in a tree on the fence line, closer to where we parked. I sat silently on the ground, bow in hand, arrow nocked just in case.
As the minutes ticked by waiting for Paul to fetch his stand, I grew more confident and smug about my utter badassery. Look at me out here, forest bathing with a weapon in hand, ready to shoot a deer to provide meat for my family. Just me in the woods, camo’d up, face painted like a fucking jungle cat, prepared to ground and pound a Booner. With every cell in my being I wish I could deny that these primal thoughts consumed me, but I can’t. It’s a whole mood, y’all. Did I scout or hang the tree stand I was fixing to sit in? No, but goddamn I looked the part.
When Paul returned with his stand, I assisted on the ground as he hung it above the existing one. The climbing sticks on this tree were far easier than the ladder on the tree from my first hunt, plus we were in a cedar tree which means lots of branches to grab onto and many opportunities to bounce off of limbs before you hit the ground on the way down.
By 12:30, we were settled in our stands. We were in a great position, but it was clear to me that this stand had not yet been hunted–the shooting lanes were narrow and crowded. There were small branches and ground cover growth obstructing most areas a deer would walk on the path below. I was relatively certain that there was a small opening directly in front of me for a 30-yard shot. With a 40-pound draw weight, there’s a lot of physics that goes into a 30-yard shot, it’s just science. Although my heart told me this was an impossible hunt, a combination of Paul’s apparent satisfaction with our position and my woodswoman hubris allowed me to remain confident and hopeful that I would be bagging a big one in no time.
Sure enough, at 1:10 PM I spotted a mature buck meandering down the trail. I stood up, grabbed my bow, clipped on my release, and waited for him to come into range. If you’ve never lived this experience, it’s hard to understand what happens in your body when you see a deer like that deer moving your way. Your heart rate rockets, your legs, arms and hands start quaking from the deepest center of your core, and you are singularly transfixed on every step of that animal. Meanwhile, my brain is sending me messages about where to aim, which pin to use, when to shoot, how much of a complete badass I am, how this deer is bigger than anybody else’s harvest this year, how bad it would suck if I missed, and hey, why didn’t it stop in my optimal shooting lane. And oh shit, I missed my shot!!
Paul let out a “Merp” and the deer stopped. “TAKE THE SHOT!” he whispered, exasperated. I lined up, but there was a labyrinth of limbs in the way. I pulled the trigger on my release, despite my better judgment. The arrow flew, hit a limb, then another, and flailed off head-over-tail completely missing the deer. Having heard the commotion, the deer got the hell outta Dodge and told all of his buddies because we saw nothing for the rest of the day. The afternoon wind lulled me to sleep for a while; the gentle breeze and my complete unavailability to everyone lent to a state of pure relaxation that I had only felt during my last hunt.
When shooting light ended we climbed down, I grabbed my arrow, easily identified by the illuminated green nock, only to find that it was broken in half in the middle. That kind of fucking-up of an arrow takes a special kind of skill. Confounded, but not completely defeated, we headed home and prepared for the next day’s hunt.
Arising before dawn the next morning, we made our way south to Jackson County to hunt on some private land. Cue the normal routine when we park at our destination–pee, gear up, paint my face, check my bow and it’s accoutrement, then mentally hype myself up. Hiking in, we had to climb over a fence, navigate hills and thick timber in the dark, and try to avoid the cow pies left by the bovine occupants of this land that were evicted fewer than two weeks prior. This was a special day. It was my first solo hunt; Paul would not be sitting with me in the same tree. He was hunting another stand nearby, but I was otherwise on my own.
Vigilant like never before, I scanned the terrain in all directions in as innocuous a motion possible. One thing I love about hunting is watching the sun rise and the woods awaken. Visibility changes with every passing minute. Squirrels, rabbits, birds, and other wildlife start (or stop) moving. There’s something that feels intimate, almost sacred, about witnessing the passing from night to day hidden in a tree.
As the sun broke through the woods before me, I spotted a beautiful, mature buck walking straight at me. He was too deep in the woods to get a shot and the harder I looked, the more I believed that there was another deer with him. After a minute of grazing, he emerged from the woods and I ranged him at 44 yards head-on, just off the path. Cue the shaking and laser-focus. I stood with my release clipped on my bow for the next 20 minutes, but he never came into range. He grazed on the vegetation just off the path, obscured enough that I knew I couldn’t get a kill-shot on him–especially from 40+ yards. My heart sank as I watched him disappear into the woods again without ever coming in range.
Disconnecting my release, I sat back down and waited for him to reappear. The stand I was sitting in was nice, but the seat was high enough above the platform that my legs started to go numb from lack of circulation if I sat for too long. This was a sit-for-10, stand-for-10 situation. When I was on my third stand-for-10, something caught my eye in the clearing to the north. Something was moving over there. Grabbing my range finder (because I don’t have my own binoculars yet), I zeroed in on the area and found that the culprit was the very same buck that had ghosted me a short time ago. He was bedded down on the hillside about 70 yards away.
He was so beautiful. I watched him through the magnification of the range finder. He lay in the leaves, still, grooming himself, resting his head on his legs occasionally, reminding me of our dog. He had a small abnormality on his left G-2. I was filled with envy and desired more than anything for him to get up and move back towards me. For 2 hours I watched him–a few times he stood up and wandered within a radius of a few yards before settling back down. Eventually, he wandered west out of sight. Watching him walk away left me in a state of alexithymia–I couldn’t quite put my finger on how I felt. Sadness, anger, frustration, wanting, envy, jealousy, almost even embarrassment. He was right there and I couldn’t shoot him. Didn’t call him in, couldn’t bring him home.
Midday was upon us and Paul made his way to my stand. Bless him, he took the long way and tried to push deer toward me so I could shoot one. We walked silently back to the truck together, packed up and hopped in the cab for the drive home. Recounting my tale of woe, we discovered that Paul had seen the same buck with a doe together before they made their way over to my stand. Paul had a broadside shot on him at 30 yards, but knew he was walking in my direction so he passed up his opportunity so I could have a shot at him. That’s love, folks. Describing my situation, Paul asked why I didn’t grunt-wheeze at the deer. My sad defense is that I simply don’t know how to grunt-wheeze in a manner that sounds more deer than human. Given that we were full-on in the rut and that deer had probably just mated a doe, Paul believed that even a novice, shitty grunt-wheeze could have gotten him in range.
To pivot the conversation from loss to folly, I told Paul about the woodpecker that was relentlessly attacking the limb above my stand, dropping wood chips on me while I was faux-glassing the buck. Additionally, a squirrel kept running the same path from the ground, up the tree next to me, stopping to stare at me before jumping to another limb and running back to the ground and up the tree over and over.
For the next several nights, I woke up dreaming about that deer, and couldn’t stop thinking about him in my waking hours. I was filled with regret for my poor grunt-wheezing abilities and determined to never repeat that mistake. I was driving home from work later that week, thinking about what I could have done differently on that hunt, and a gorgeous pileated woodpecker hopped right in front of my tire. I saw him flattened on the pavement in my rearview and then it all just went to shit.
The two animals I had killed within the last week were both ones that I see in the woods all the time, but not the ones I’m actively trying to kill. What the actual fuck? I spent the next few days in an existential crisis. Why am I so obsessed with this big buck? Why is my ego so huge about this? I want to hunt to harvest the meat, source it locally and humanely. Not to put a head on the wall. I found my mind wandering back to the beautiful deer I missed out on and wishing I could turn back time and try something different to bring him into shooting range. I replayed it in my mind dozens of times.
I eventually realized that my sadness about the squirrel and woodpecker that I’ve killed should be an indicator that I need to reflect on my intentions around deer hunting. Naturally, I visited The Wall of the Ancestors downstairs and consulted with Bo. That’s right, I named the first deer I killed with a bow, Bo. He’s my only deer on the Wall of the Ancestors, and he’s easy to spot, as the only Ancestor with his light summer coat. I shot him on Opening Day, October 1, 2020, before it got really cold out and their winter coats grew out and got shaggy. I remember the day I shot him, I was a wreck. I was shaking like a leaf when he came into the path in front of my stand. I took what I thought was a great shot, but the arrow stuck in him as he ran off, I hit him a lot further back than I thought I was aiming.
He ended up crashing about 100 yards from the tree stand, I had hit an artery and he died quickly. I initially thought I had just wounded him and he would just suffer for a few days before he died for no purpose. When we found him, I remember kneeling down next to him and laying my head on him, hugging him like I hug my dog while he lays on the ground. Paul reminded me that he’s not an animal that gets bathed regularly and that maybe I shouldn’t put my head on him. I cried. I cry every time I kill a deer. I’m grateful to them and so sad, but grateful. Humbled.
Looking a Bo, I was grateful for the first time that he was on the Wall of Ancestors to remind me that hunting is not a means for getting an ego-boost or cool points with the guys for bringing home the biggest rack. I remembered the shame and hurt I felt when I thought I wasted him, and that the goal of the hunt is to put meat in the freezer to feed my family.
As I dusted off his nose and 10-point irregular antlers, I thanked Bo once again for his sacrifice and sagely wisdom. He is so beautiful. Deer are gorgeous, majestic animals, and it’s amazing how many of them roam freely around our fields and timber here. I love them.
With my mind, intention, and energy clear, I finally felt prepared to go back out the next Friday and Sunday to get the job done.
