Best Buck

Walking out of the local gameland fields on Saturday with two pheasants in my vest evoked a sense of deep satisfaction that is difficult to replicate, for it has been a fantastic November. Archery season ended a week prior, and I was still raising my fist and pumping it with enthusiasm. On the final Saturday of bow season, I had harvested the best buck of my life—a high racked eight-pointer on public land.

I would say this year was a culminating year. A gathering of knowledge and experience from past seasons. Mistakes I made in years prior were remembered and I was able to move forward into a realm of becoming a better archery hunter. In many ways the story of this year's buck, began last season.

It rained a lot last year. Nearly every Saturday of archery it precipitated. November 2018...it was one Friday evening after work that I rushed to one of my stands along a ridge top where I saw the best buck of the season. There was a yearling doe that always seemed to be milling around my stand. I often felt she was good cover for other deer. If she was comfortable, other deer were more likely to be at ease.

I remember watching this same doe feed along the ridge 50 yards away that day. Suddenly, she raised her head and skipped in one graceful, seemingly alarmed stride nearly 10 feet to the side of the trail. I thought something was coming along that might disrupt my own hunt, but then I heard the low grunt of a whitetail buck. I scrambled into position and knocked an arrow. Three doe made their way up the ridge and right behind them, nudging them all along, was a nice rack buck. He was king of the ridge no doubt. 

All four bedded down as the rain subsided and a low fog rolled through the understory.  Fat bombs of water splashed down from the tree tops. I hit the grunt tube a few times and waited. Like a monolith the buck rose and scanned the area seeking the source of a possible challenger. He began a deliberate walk toward my position, and it was a thrilling jolt of adrenaline. The monarch craftily made his way to me using all the cover I could not shoot through...until I had one clear lane. But, I couldn't get my pin on his vital areas. I remember hoping he would keep following a cliff edge around my tree, for he would emerge in a perfect opening, but he stopped to scent me and though he could not see me, he dropped over the cliff, and smartly came back up 60 yards away. There he simply stood and the cover of darkness enveloped him. I had to tip my hat to this buck, for he had beaten me at the game. I waited until pitch dark so as not to spook him and climbed down for the hike back to the trailhead.

I relived that hunt a thousand times. 

A year later a new opportunity would dawn.

It was the final Saturday of the 2019 archery season. Up until this point, I had only spotted a few legal bucks, a nice six on a frigid, blustery, snow-spitting afternoon and a bigger eight the final Friday evening of the season. Neither buck had moved closer than fifty yards as both were in pursuit of does and largely ignored the bleats and grunts I threw in their direction.

I still had a lot of hope. Seeing a good buck in the waning light on Friday was a positive. The big boys were moving and pushing and setting the stage for exciting shows in the woods.

I did not have to wait long for the entertainment to commence on Saturday morning. Shortly after sunrise a doe zipped across the hardwood as I watched from my stand set back against a tangle of woody browse and a marshy swale.  Seconds later a grunting, sleigh-headed buck charged behind in hot pursuit. Marveling at the size of the antlers, I watched him skitter to a walk. I could not see the doe in the cover, so I hit the bleat call to get his attention. His antlers were definitely visible and I knew he was definitely a big racked buck. To get this big on public land, I knew the buck was wise. He lifted his nose and scented the wind which prevailed from my direction. Despite the doe scent I had put down, I knew chances were he could also scent me. 

For the next hour and a half I observed the buck slowly pick his way through the brush. I thought for sure he would eventually lose interest in my intervals of bleats and grunts and make off in the direction of the doe. My heart pounded the entire time, and once I lost him for a few minutes and thought that he was gone, but I kept trying to think positive. I've seen the smart bucks circle in from behind and I knew that maybe he would do so. And, then, I got my biggest break of the morning. 

Roughly fifty yards to my right, a deer popped out on the trail that leads past my stand, and it was the same doe the buck had been chasing. I had no idea that she had been there all along, hence the buck stayed in the area. I quickly decided there would be no more enticing calls on my part. The doe was my ticket, and if I didn't spook her, he might follow her all the way.

I mostly remember the absolute intensity of the next twenty minutes as I watched the doe drift closer and closer to my position. The buck emerged on the same trail and kept an eye on the doe as he mimicked her feeding lane—laden with spicebush and hackberry. The moment of truth came when he stopped and silently stared at me from about 55 yards. The doe was at about 30 yards at this point. I remember holding stock still and closing my eyes a few times while hoping beyond hope that he would not snort and bust away. It felt like five minutes before I could breath again, and the buck dismissed me.  He continued to feed and once I thought he would use the screening shrubs and saplings to move away from a good shooting lane. But, the doe continued to put him at ease.

A sense of calm pervaded when the buck stepped back across the trail and stood broadside, slightly quartering away at 35 yards. All my cards were flipped and I was dealt an unobstructed shot. All that mattered was the shot and I focused entirely on it. I'll always remember the arc of the arrow as it plunged downward and struck home. The buck whirled, staggered, and fell. It was all over in ten seconds. I openly wept with happiness and immediately felt that a true monarch of the woods had fallen. He was a magnificent buck. A smart buck. And, it was an honor to take him. I know I will lose more times than win in matchups with bucks like him. Most times I'll be lucky to even see a big buck for they move like spirits...always wary and always wise. Yet, as I walked out of the forest on the final day of archery, I knew that I was carrying with me...the buck of a lifetime. 

Beagle Song

I often think about how I attempt to peel back the layers of sounds while archery hunting in the autumn forest. The leaves rustling in the breeze. The incessant chatter of gray squirrels. The skittering of chipmunks on the forest floor. The drop of acorns. But, one sound I want to hear again in autumn is my Daisy’s beagle song. This will be the first autumn afield where I will not hear it. And, I am heartbroken. After fifteen years of crossing hill and dale, forest and field, I will not have the honor of being in the company of my beloved hunting partner.

In her passing I could only thank her. Thank her for giving me all her heart in every hunt. For teaching me how to hunt pheasants and rabbits. For bringing me closer to my father and brother, who accompanied me on so many hunts. The friends and family that hunted with Daisy and I over the seasons always seemed to walk away with a smile and a harvest. More times than not, fellow hunters were left in awe of her ability. She was a scant 20 pounds, but it seemed like no gamebird could trick her. No rabbit outwit her. I learned her different barks and bays, and in time, I could tell by her songs exactly which quarry she was tracking. There were times when we hiked out with game pouches laden with pheasants, rabbits, turkey, and grouse. She hunted them all.

Daisy was a marker on my life. I was in my mid-twenties when she was a puppy, and now I am beyond 40 in her passing. In the early years, I recall the sheer joy of rushing home from school in October and November, so we could get in a few hours hunting before sunset. I felt like Billy Coleman from Where the Red Fern Grows...just me and my little dog, and all was right with the world.

I can still feel my heart hammering the first time I trained her on birds and watched her flush seven roosters. I knew I had not only a rabbit chaser, but also a bird hunter. In college I hunted the local game lands sans dog, and all I had to show for it were three pheasants in three years. The first season with Daisy she was but six months old, and we harvested 25 roosters and hens...and probably missed more than we should have. What ensued was more than a decade of everything I could have ever hoped for in a dog. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings immersed in the pursuit of game, roosters and rabbits hanging off the back porch seemingly every time. Crock pots simmering with fresh meals of barbeque or apple cinnamon wild game.

Her final hunt was on Christmas Eve this year past. She was feeling a bit better. With tears in my eyes I listened to her sing her song, while roosters lifted, wings beating, and fortunately, fell one for Christmas dinner. I knew it would be her last harvest, but she saved some time for the snows of late winter when we folded over into rabbit walkers with my sons, Kale and Quinn—who over the years loved to go out and watch Daisy find a late season hen or bunny.

In her passing I know I was lucky. Thank you girl! You picked me! Me! You taught me! You loved me! And, my heart is broken. But, forever will I be thankful to have been the hunter at the center of your heart…the center of your beautiful beagle song-a song you sung so many times for me. I miss you girl! I miss you. But, I know one day...I’ll hear your song again.

Ridge Runners

Fellowship. Family. Father and Son. In the Pennsylvania woods of late autumn, the days grow short, and the cold cracks into hills and streams. Here you’ll find hunters bonding over whitetail deer hunting. In the first week of December of 2018, my Uncle Tom made his annual trek to the rolling, forested landscape of central Pennsylvania for rifle season. This time, his son, my cousin Tommy, was able to participate in the pursuit of the most highly sought after big game animal on the planet.

For an entire week, they toiled in the predawn darkness and hunted until the twilight. Day in and day out they stalked without so much as a flash of a deer. I was able to join them in a washed out opener as we searched for whitetails in a pouring rain, trekking up and over ridges and down along creek bottoms with overflowing creeks and flooded out swamps. It wasn’t until the final day of the hunt on the doe opener, that an opportunity for a shot at success would present itself.

After an unproductive morning of stand hunting in state gamelands, we transitioned to the Stone Valley forest, a 7,000 acre public land swath of high ridges, wooded creek bottoms, and thick pine stands. We began by posting on the ridgetops high above Shaver’s Creek around midday.

For the first drive, we set up along the Mountain View trail which tops out around a thousand feet above the stream. Uncle Tom, Tommy, and Dad would watch the spine-like tops for deer crossing over from one side of the ridge to the other. Past experience showed that deer like stay high in order to see hunters pushing up toward them from below. Typically, they’ll lay with the wind at their backs, so they can scent danger from behind, while using their vision to watch the forested benches in front of them.

After everyone set up and began settling in along the south side of the ridge, Spencer and I began a plodding hike down the north side. The object was to try and push deer up and over to the south side where our posters waited. At the time, I had no idea that we were about to walk into a small herd of doe. Likely, they spotted us just as we began the drive, and after we had walked no more than a few hundred yards below them, they decided to make a break for it.

I remember hearing the shots...one….two….and then a short pause before a third. I knew almost immediately that the fired rounds had come from Uncle Tom and Tommy. Briefly, we pondered turning and going back, but after a few minutes of silence, we decided to continue on with the push. Working along the backside of the ridge and at this point nearly a thousand yards from where we started, I dropped way down the south side of the ridge to push the creek bottom. After roughly an hour or so, I struck directly back up the ridge to the posters.

When I first reached Uncle Tom, he was a bit forlorn about missing with a shot. “I was fiddling with the damn scope...you put those deer right in our lap Andy! Fifteen yards! All of them big, dark beauties...damn it!”

Tommy confirmed that five doe had come crashing over the ridge directly at them when we first started the drive. “The first shot I hit a tree...I saw the woods chips flying….I took a second shot just before they disappeared out of sight...but I don’t think I hit anything...I shouldn’t have even taken it,” he said.

I told them not to worry. It’s only the first drive of the day. We’d get more moving. I was sure of it. But, I know the disappointment of a missed shot well. It’s always best not to dwell on it, because the next opportunity often presents itself quickly.

As they gathered their gear, I struck out ahead and met up with Spencer, before following the path down to Dad. “Did you see those deer?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Which way did they go?” I asked.

“Well, they stopped up there on top and turned and ran back over the other side. But one of them rolled down the hill,” he said.

“Ok, how many did you….Wait! What?? One of them rolled down the hill?” I said.

“Yeah.” Dad said.

“Wait….did you see it ‘roll’...I mean how did it roll? A deer wouldn’t just roll down the damn hill like it tripped or something,” I said.

“I saw it roll, gray...white...gray...white...but then I lost it, I couldn’t find it in the scope.”

“OK,” I said, beginning to feel excitement rising quickly, “Point to where you last saw it!”

By, this point, Uncle Tom, Tommy, and Spencer had arrived.

“Guys,” I shouted. “You may have hit one of the those deer. Dad saw one roll down the mountain.”

Now everyone was moving quickly. I started toward the spot where Dad said the deer tumbled, and after no more than twenty paces, I saw it. A big, fat doe piled up at the bottom of a steep draw. I knew immediately that Tommy’s last shot was no miss at all. It was a hit! And, a good one. We soon discovered that the bullet passed clean through the deer’s heart before it came rolling down the ridge while the rest of the herd ran back over to the other side of the mountain.

There is no way to capture the pure joy of the moment when a life memory is being realized in real time. No way. All I know is that I was happy….immensely happy….positively happy. I knew how hard Uncle Tom and Tommy had hunted that week. I knew how wonderful it was for them to have that time together as father and son. I also knew that harvesting a deer was high on the list of objectives, and being able to check that box is everything a hunter could ever want in a hunt. There were a lot of smiles and back slaps...rounds and rounds of them. There was the excited talk of the shot, the rifle, and of course, a man’s first deer. I knew in that moment I would never forget how it felt to be part of it. To have a role to play. To see the success sought and won. To see a father and son bond high on a ridge top in the Pennsylvania wilderness on a cold December day.