"First Buck"

A combination of my son needing a diaper change and Daisy needing to go outside for similar reasons roused me from my late fall slumber at 4 a.m. this morning.  I had been planning on hitting the rifle range early to throw down a few warm up shots before next Monday's opener, but there would still be three hours of darkness before the task could be approached on a rather frosty morning. The Centre Daily Times was lounging about in the front yard, so I decided to check it out before catching a few more hours of sleep.  Sundays feature local writer Mark Nale's "Woods and Waters" section, which I almost always enjoy. Usually there is a column and a feature story about hunting or fishing—depending on the season—set in Minnesota or some other outdoor enthused state.  Today, the column was about the magic of a "first buck". At the article's close, Nale called on the general public to submit their own "first buck" stories for possible publication the following Sunday or "Buck Eve"—many hunters will be passing the night in quaint camps throughout the state in quiet anticipation of the event which will see close to half a million men and boys in blaze orange entering the woods.  I spent the next three hours recounting my own "first buck" story before firing it off for a chance to run in print.  The memory is still young, as it was a mere four years ago that my brother, George, helped me end the drought.  But, I suspect the story will always remain clear as day.

"First Buck" November 27, 2006. 

I was 12 years-old the first time I accompanied my father on the annual trek to my great Uncle Bill’s camp in  northeastern Pennsylvania to hunt the first few days of deer season.  While I did not score a buck that first year, the nuances of deer camp left an indelible impression upon my young mind.  I would return for the next four years with fresh hope and enthusiasm that would not wane until my senior year of high school when I skipped the experience to remain focused on my last wrestling season.  A seven-year hiatus from deer hunting began—mostly due to four years of service in the army and the college years that followed at Penn State. Over the span of that time, the prospect of harvesting a “first buck” faded into the background.  

When I picked up the rifle once more, the nostalgia of my earlier experiences returned, and new adventures began.  I hunted on farms and in the big woods. Days were spent patiently waiting on stands and in ground blinds with nary a buck in site. Unperturbed, I continued to make the annual journey into the forest—all the while enjoying the experience regardless of the outcome, which when all was said and done, did not include a buck to my name.

In 2006 my brother George—who had recently finished eight years of service in the Marine Corps—enrolled at University Park.  For the most part we had not been able to hunt together since our youth, and autumn found us taking pheasants on the wing and rabbits on the run over my beagle, Daisy.  Before long it was late November, and a new deer season was upon us.

George, who had taken a buck in archery season, recommended a few good spots, and we scouted them for stand sites in the days before the opener. Eventually, I settled upon a scrappy pin oak which rose above an old clear cut that broke up the open hardwood surrounding it; it seemed like a perfect escape passage for pressured deer.

Monday morning arrived and I woke with a scratchy throat, but the anticipation of a new season remedied all physical ailments and it was not long before I found myself scrambling up a tree in the predawn light like so many other hunters in the commonwealth. I watched the sunlight filter across the horizon and relaxed my mind—taking in the familiar sights and sounds of an awakening wilderness. A peaceful hour passed.  

Suddenly, I saw the flick of a white tail. Immediately, my brain snapped into a heightened level of concentration as my eyes scanned for another sign.  A few seconds later what I could only identify as a single deer skipped into the rhododendron about 70 yards to my right. A single rifle shot shattered the silence.  Another hunter in the hardwood had fired. Moments later activity exploded.  A doe and a four-point buck dashed directly under my stand, and then, another doe trotted into my secluded ally. Directly behind her was the finest eight-point buck I’d ever seen. The buck stopped about 30 yards to my right, and gave me a nearly broadside shot.  Harnessing my nerves, I carefully shifted and took aim—placing the sights of my .30-06 directly behind the deer’s shoulder. I relaxed. I breathed. I squeezed off a round.

A euphoric state that bordered on disbelief and overwhelming joy pervaded my soul in the moments that followed. The fine creature had dropped in its tracks and died quickly. I don’t even remember climbing down from the stand; the adrenaline coursing through my body may have permitted me to make the descent in a single bound.  The hunter who fired the spooking shot ambled along and congratulated me on the harvest and my grin probably told him all he needed to know about my first buck.  

That single moment and the minutes that followed are forever etched into my memory.  A first buck is in many ways a rite of passage for hunters not just in Pennsylvania, but for all hunters across the country.  And even though it took twenty-eight years for it to become a reality, it was worth every second of the wait.