Damn Deer

Trout Whisperer posted on January 06, 2009 14:03 :: 4226 Views

It’s now early January and the pounding in my hunting head, is as close to the sound as the hammers of hell. A damn deer that couldn’t care less. Four hoofed feet left that resounding sound echoing in my hearing. When the arrow entered just back of the buck’s shoulder he burst forward smashing into the underbrush.

He didn’t gallop or leap with the white flag flying, he exploded into the canopy of brush, tail down, disappearing. Brush busting, deer feet throttling away, then all was quiet. I see him in memory. I hold his photo taken so many times in my hand. I hate that buck.

I exhaled and the breath plume clouds my vision. I try to collect myself and my heartbeat is still in my throat. What a buck. What a big thick shouldered carpeted stag. He walked into the field last august like his shoulders were broken. He swaggered. Coming up the trail that morning last November like a horned bad ass from Hades.

The first time we saw him in august, we guessed his on the half shell weight at about 230 pounds. By mid October he was pushing 240 and he looked awful. His hide was chocolate brown through the nape of his neck. Ragged hair tuffs stuck up along his back and his nose was gray as fireplace ash.

That big stinking swamp buck’s rack was pimpled with mineral bumps all along his ten point frame. He would step into the field night after night, never looking at another deer but they all gave him the once over. Small forkies and spike bucks just eased away.

A tall thin blondish eight pointer took a poke at him in late October with a light mist falling. The big old boy flipped him in some soft plowed winter wheat like you or I would toss a poker chip to ante up. That eight looked to be a three and half year old. He got schooled real quick that evening.

We hung trail cameras every day it rained. First fall it wasn’t as wet as it could have been. We worked over that ridge from the east, only on days we had winds coming hard from the northwest. After six weeks we had what we thought was his go to dinner route when the wind came out of the southwest. Problem was with winters onset we weren’t gonna get to many warm southern breezes.

You wait for rain. You hate your own sweat. Are my boots clean enough? The deer comes out just before it’s too dark to see him. He owns this field and all my deer hunting thoughts. Where does this 250 pound ghost go?

But then the old boy showed up on a camera just after Halloween. Only once he trod this path. In a glimpse, looking down in his track we hung our hopes and a stand that eventually he would hike into our history.

That dark colored broodish deer tuned nocturnal prior to the rut. During the rut a neighbor saw him mid day ripping some pine branches to shreds in his yard while the mailman was filling the box. He waltzed as in years past, unseen through the entire gun season.

Why I sat that day, was why I sat any day. You want him so bad. You turn down so many what ifs. Oh here comes a buck, but it aint the bruiser, it aint the big boy, so you watch them angle past and you don’t draw. You don’t shoot; you hope those also ran bucks don’t bust you. Bust your stand and tip him off.

It gnaws on you how you might not get this ancient racked breeder and you may end the season with no meat, when doe after doe has wandered by. It’s a two sided loss if he wins the whitetail hunt.

The snow flakes whirl and my mind drifts with them. I shiver and barely bother to wipe my dripping nose. Deer. Moving down the far ridge. It’s a racked buck. I sit up and shiver. Body heat is creeping out of my neck muffler. My eyes water in the cold.

From two thirds up the ridge I see his antler tines. His gate is unmistakable. It’s the biggest ugliest deer alive. He moves upslope and pauses on the hills crest. He breaths in and then sniffs just abit of air. Snow flakes are piled on his back like he’s wearing a white shawl. I wonder if his hide is that thick or he’s just too lazy to shake it off.

Under my breath, in my head, I beg him to just keep coming. Walk to me you big fat brown antlered monster. I hear him move, I see him move. I draw my bow and he is unawares. I want to kill him. Whack. The arrow hit is perfect.

After twenty minutes I get down. The arrow is greased tallowed white and streaked red with his blood. The snow is crimsoned. Your mine, I know your mine. Your out there somewhere, I just have to track you. Just need to follow this flowing red line.

I followed the deer for three miles. The blood quit after a mile and half. He turned to watch his back trail twice. Then he lost me for good with the falling snow. Ive seen him twice now on film since Christmas. His broad left shoulder shows the scar I gave him. He could care less about the torture and torment he’s caused me. That damn deer.

The trout whisperer