Whitetail hunters, more than any others, get stuck on specifics. We search trail cameras and scout crop fields to find a few specific deer to go after that season. The science of the species plays into this. With smaller home ranges and less of a propensity to wander, hunters develop relationships with singular deer. Elk or mule deer are mostly here today, gone tomorrow animals. Whitetails, however, live and die inside a circle of just a few miles. So, in hunting the same animals and the same herd, it becomes personal.
We rank the bucks we’ve found to create the now infamous, “Hit List.” We study and daydream better ways to walk in. We fine tune placement of stands with wind directions. We attempt to mentally play through scenarios of where and what would seem most likely, so that we are prepared. Many seasons come and go in a flurry of fun encounters and meat stacked in a freezer, but often the top deer on that “Hit List” doesn’t fall. He got to the top for a reason, and mistakes come fewer and farther between the sager and wiser he becomes. Every so often though, your preparation meets an opportunity. This year mine did.
As I have been running cameras on public land over the past few years, he’s one of the few deer that I have many, many pictures of. He showed up somewhat out of the blue last November working a scrape, and never seemed to leave. He was one of the last deer I got pictures of on my season ending, “Who’s Still Alive?” check, and he was the first deer I got a picture of in August for this season. He was thin-horned both years, but he went from being a respectable public land deer, to a stud on anyone’s land. After each trail camera check and each picture viewed, he slowly and surely engrossed my thoughts. He became the deer for the year. The #1 on my “Hit List.”
I had other deer on camera that might have scored better or even been prettier to look at on the wall. If I lined up a picture of every good buck I had on camera in 2020 though, I don’t think one hunter would have chosen any other deer but him. A lot of hunters name deer like this. I’ve been known to do that. For this one, for whatever reason, a moniker never organically landed. I knew him well, but through 2020 he was called nothing but Him.
All my early season woes and issues I’ve tried to document here, were all in an attempt to harvest Him. I hunted around bedding areas that I knew were high risk, high reward. I would either see Him, or I would see nothing. I began questioning myself as a hunter, as I continued to see nothing day in and day out. Luckily, I kept at it, praying my luck would change. As early season gave way to the beginnings of the pre-rut, I was reminded of the scrape he originally was captured on camera working the previous year. I would circle through that area as the early days of October clicked by to see if there would be another scrape there this year.
On October 19th, I decided to go back and just hunt that area. Whether or not there was a scrape, it was a good pinch point, and I had a chance either way. I saw nothing, again. On top of that, that was the day I had my accident that still has my shoulder sore today. A hastily set climbing stick went sideways, sending me on a short but painful ride. If I had let go and embraced the fall, I would have escaped with just a few scrapes and a bruised ego. However, instinct takes over leading me to attempt to hold on, and giving my shoulder a nasty tug. Drawing my bow was impossible after that. So, I just had to wait it out for 8 long days until I finally had just enough strength to pull back. I felt the pressure of Him slipping away if I didn’t hurry. Hurt or not, time was of the essence.
Friday, October 30th was a big day already. A conference call with our wedding officiant was planned to work out details. My lovely wife-to-be knew how important this time period was and gave me the okay to be in the tree, as long as I was also on the call. I busted my butt to be set and ready for the hunt yes, but mainly for the call. Men, don’t mess up when you are given a gift. As I am hiking in, I am shocked to see a young man on a 4-wheeler flying down my walking path coming from the exact direction I’m headed. As angry as I am when people misuse public lands, I try hard to remember that these lands are here for us to enjoy. Also yelling at him would not give him a positive experience, so I calmly relay that these woods are foot traffic only, and if a warden catches him, he will be getting a ticket. I also jokingly sneak in that if he rides back through where I am headed, I will put an arrow through his tire. He laughs, somewhat uncomfortably and we part ways. Not a great start.
I climb into my saddle and get everything set so I can pop in my headphones and begin the conference call. It’s a beautiful spot and I’m somewhat in awe of how I could have not put more time into this than I have. The phone call comes, and I jump on it. Everything goes well. I’m simultaneously both quiet but engaged, and make sure that I answer questions and chime in where needed, all while being as quiet as humanly possible. It’s now 4:30 and the call is over. Success! Now let’s get serious. The minute I think that, I can hear someone coming down the trail, talking with someone, on speakerphone, absolutely screaming. I try to be patient, but he just keeps getting closer and louder. I eventually give him the old public land whistle and wave, but this does not register to him. After three attempts at that with no response, I finally just have to yell, “Bruh! I’m hunting here!”
I suppose bluntness has its place in the woods, because at that point he finally walked away. Leaving me feeling like my final hours in the stand were ruined. I sit in my saddle as the temperature begins to drop. The day finally loosens its grasp and allows twilight to begin its short but lovely stint in charge of time. When out through the calm, there’s a crash.
The rest happened both in slow motion and in a split second at the same time. I catch movement to my right, and I grab my bow off the hanger and attach my release. I have already ranged the most likely places he could stop and have set my sight accordingly. I finally get a view of antlers, and it’s Him. I refuse to look at the rack. I focus solely on finding the right time to draw and picking my spot. With my shoulder still sore, drawing my bow had been proving difficult even more than a week later. But I was not about to let any amount of pain stop me from breaking that cam over.
He stops at the very scrape I first saw him at a year ago.
28 yards.
He raises his head to work the licking branch.
I draw.
I settle my pin.
He pauses.
Deep breath. This is it. Here we go.
Whack!
He runs off about 60 yards and stops, as I begin to beg him to go down. He has the tell-tale sign of the tail twitch, but he just starts to slowly walk into the thicket. The minute he’s out of sight, I lose it. I’m shaking like I’ve never shaken in my life. I am, in the most literal terms, shook.
It’s at this point you will learn what my biggest weakness is when it comes to the outdoors. I am colorblind. Colorblind to the point where if I am left to track on my own it will take hours. I’ve done it, and can do it, but it takes four times the amount of time by myself. I start calling friends and hope to draft some help.
Without missing a beat, one of my best hunting buddies whom I’ve talked about a few times here, Evan Owen, didn’t even hesitate. The deer ran in a way that blocked my exit to my truck, so we discussed the best way for me to get out without risk of jumping the deer. I circled way around to a different road access point and he picked me up there.
He brought along a mutual friend, Matthew Heller, who just happened to be hanging out at his house. Matt doesn’t deer hunt so I was worried he might be a bit of a liability on the track. With emotions high, we hike back into my hunt zone and start the track. I am riding an intense roller coaster, with every second giving new hopes and doubts. We stand at the scrape where I shot, and we struggle to find first blood. We spread out and begin to grid for blood. Matt several times says, “Hey, is this blood?”. The first three of those where met with a quick rush to double check. When they were all wrong, the next three weren’t deemed as urgent. The seventh though… the seventh time, he was right!
At that point he was like a seasoned pro. He even got us back on the trail when we lost it a couple times. He earned a lot of respect that night. Once we finally got about 50 yards into the track, things looked great! There was good blood and a lot of it. Then, without reason, someone turned off the faucet. We circled and circled for the next 30 minutes, trying to find the next drop, but nothing. Our hearts sank.
After a tenuous 15-minute discussion, we decided to back out and head back in at first light. The three of us had our noses to the ground in a thicket for so long, we were starting to lose our bearings. We gathered ourselves and decided to spread out and search for about 60 more yards. That would put us in a clear spot, making for an easier hike out in the dark. We fanned out wide to give it one last push.
Just like in any good story, in our final efforts, we caught a break. Evan began shouting that he had stumbled across tons of blood, and the trail was headed for the lakebed. We grouped back up and nervously entered the thick cattails. It was like pushing through to another dimension as we break through the thick underbrush into the openness of the lake. Evan’s shoulders drop, and he begins to apologize. “Man, I thought for sure we’d see him right here.”
He had his eyes on the bank, and his head down. He was trying so hard to console me that he wasn’t looking far enough ahead. He didn’t see the tines sticking up out of the water. I grabbed his flashlight and lit up the water. We’d found him! Finally. Knee deep in a lake at that. I didn’t care how cold the air or water was, I ran in. I grabbed his antlers and stared in disbelief. It was Him. It was Him.
A Day in the Field 