What a trip.
Every year a good friend and hunting buddy of mine take off a few days from our scheduals to crawl back to our primordial selves; unshaven, no womenfolk, lots of meat and beer, and of course - bow hunting. It has earned the name of "Man Camp", and is proudly displayed on a 2x4' nailed to a stake, pounded in front of the pop-up camper to remind all that wander close that heathens live here.
A typical day at Man Camp involves arriving in the woods an hour before light, staying until mid day, begin the trek back to the camper where much beer and meat is consumed, before hopping aboard a farm implement to help my buddy's aging father prepare the land for the coming seasons, or to remove crops that are still hanging around. After the chores are done, its time to re-arm and return back to the woods to hunt well until the moon has risen, and trudge home to beer and meat again.
Sometimes, Mother Nature allows us many a great day and oppertunity. This year, She laughed at us with her terrible sense of humor.
Rain. More than I care to think of, so much the fields have flooded on the low spots with the standing corn and beans rotting on the stalks. For three straight days she gifted us with water. Then wind. In an effort to salvage the three days lost to rain we both ventured out in 35-45mph winds - each of us clinging to our climbers as the 12" diameter oak trees swayed in a five foot circle over, and over, and over again. All the while, no deer. Not even a squirrel dared to venture out - save one unlucky fellow who's tail met the sharp end of my small game head. I hadn't thought to practice elevated shooting from a moving platform this summer, something I'll need to consider in the future.
Dejected and spirits down, we returned to the camper and scoured over the local news of a promising forecast for the morning. Sure, we've heard that before we grumbled ringing the water from our socks.
The dawn came with a crystal clear sky, no wind and just a hint at the frost that would appear as the sun rose.
Entering the field with our gear, we immediately spied 7 does still graising in the moonlight. My friend headed west and north into the woods, trying to skirt them and come around on top of them. I went due east across the mud and muck of the field and then north again for a little, stopping in a thin finger of woods that split the standing corn and the beans. Quietly I hoped that the does would turn north, and possibly lure any would be suiters from the protection of the corn into the relative safety of the woods.
The sun rose, and with it the frost gently touched everything - the juniper limbs on my Firefly flashed white briefly until the sun warmed them. Now to wait. And wait I did. watching the squirrels bounce from tree to tree, scamper 26 feet beneath my chosen oak, well protected from the vast lacework of thin branches that sprouted everywhere from the saplings yearning for sunlight. I grew bored, nocked my small game arrow and let fly at one of the buggers, deteremined to connect with something this trip. The greedy fingers of the saplings gently pushed my arrow wide by a narrow margin. EFOC helps, I thought, but I need to be on the money if something shows up. These shooting windows are small!
I settled back in for a bit, happy that my muscles had a chance to work for even a moment, and even happier knowing how the bow was reacting to the temperature. No squeeks, no creaks, just silent and unrelenting.
Just then I saw the deer as it moved from the small swamp, crossed through the standing corn and entered the woods. I looked hard at it, it looks big for a doe I said to myself, staring between it's ears. Sure enough, a tine - the two. Narrow, almost hidden from the distance and branches that obscured him some 50-60yrds away. He's heading north I noted, reaching into my muff to remove my buck grunt tube. All I need to do is get his attention...
I blew into the grunt tube. Too quiet, I said to myself watching the buck continue on his path. I blew again, more forcefully. Forcefully in this instance, with the cold, locked up the reed at the end of my breath. My glorious bellow became an angry goose! Frozen, I stared at the buck through the trees.
Abruptly he stopped, turned his head to face my direction, and stiffly stalked toward me with the full intent to firmly give who-ever this goofy "deer" was a firm what-for.
I stuffed my grunt tube back into my muff, and closed my fingers back around the string. Eyes shifting between the buck, my arrow, the single bevel Tusker broadhead, the shelf of the bow - everything hinged on his path to my stand. Stiffly he weaved into and around the saplings, head low and aware. As he approached my lane, I prepared myself - mentally rehearsing his passing through the shot window, noting the small branches along the arrows path, readying my body for correct form.
Zigging, he entered the window of oppertunity at 15yrds. I drew to my anchor point, became comfortable with the shot and my surroundings, picked that one single hair on the his chest, and moved as one with him as I released.
I watched the laser of a shot from above - and Shawn will attest to my unnatural desire to walk the line concerning arrow weight, string diameter vs draw weight - no deviation, no deflection. In the blink of an eye the arrow arrived at it's destination, however I could not account for one thing.
The buck took a step and zagged just as the arrow released.
The Tusker penetrated with the force of an axe through the buck's spine, burying the Beman Bowhunter a full six inches through the bone into his chest. It was as if the ground was removed from beneath him, the buck dropped to the forest floor with such force the leaves moved on the impact.
Not realizing what had happened, or comprehending why his body refused to move, he rolled away from the stand snapping the broadhead off and bent the arrows shaft at an unbelievable angle.
Quickly I loaded another arrow, but was unable to find a shot that would bring the animal peace. I immediately climbed down the tree, positioned myself and cleanly delivered the shot.
As I knelt before him, I took a moment to give thanks, thinking of my father who was never able to share this moment with me.
Sometimes the path we chose takes us to places we hadn't considered, but the journey and memories along the way instill our passion for what
makes us who we are. I am a traditional bowhunter.
And here he is, my first real buck - and to me he's a real dandy. Goofy 5 point rack, but I don't think I'll make P&Y this year.
Chris, back in it with LG1
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