Cold, hungry, tired and defeated, there wasn’t much left in my tank. The weight of my soaked Johnson wool pants and jacket constantly reminded me of an entire day’s unsuccessful efforts in the woods.
After picking up a nice buck track just after daylight, I chased the animal the whole day on a rare blanket of snow, which had fallen the night before, but never sealed the deal.
With just a few minutes left of legal time, I stumbled to a spot not far behind my house to wait out the last bit of light and hope for a miracle. Shortly after settling in, I heard the telltale crack of a rifle shot sailing across a set of blueberry fields next to the block of woods where I’d spent the day following the buck.
In a childlike fit, I walked back to my house while completely swearing off deer hunting forever.
I knew exactly where the shot had come from, and who had fired it. I’m lucky to still have a few old-timer family members still around who have spent their lives hunting the same ground as me. They’ve earned their preferred hunting spots after decades of fidelity to the area, and I’m more than happy to respect their space so they can enjoy every season in peace.
That’s not to say I don’t find myself a bit jealous from time to time. While I’m stuck finding spots in the surrounding thick woods to still-hunt, set stands or occasionally track after a rare snowfall, those fellows stake claim to a set of beautiful blueberry fields that serve as deer highways during November.
Unlike mine, their hunting plan is simple, and has remained largely unchanged since long before I came into the picture. Typically, a suitable rock, blowdown or other comfy spot along the edge of the field offers a perfect ambush.
Or, in the case of inclement weather, a nice, warm truck cab might serve as a blind for the day’s hunt. Shots have been close occasionally over the years, but those guys are used to settling crosshairs beyond 100, 200 or even 300 yards in the open fields.
After peeling off my clothes and gear, I had just started to dry out and warm up when my father knocked on my door. He rushed in to tell me he’d heard one of the old-timers had just shot a beautiful buck up in the blueberry fields.
With a sigh, and roll of my eyes, I put on some new clothes, and we headed up the old bumpy dirt road to help him. I was happy and excited, but at the same time, I wondered if he’d killed the same buck I had chased so hard all day.
Identification wouldn’t be a problem, as I had seen the buck several times, and the outside left hoof curved sharply inward, leaving a distinct track.
We met up with the happy hunter just into the woods from the field edge, where he was excitedly starting to field dress his deer. It was a beautiful buck with a perfect, heavy, wide 10-point rack, and weighed around 175 pounds.
As my father helped dress it out, I sheepishly made my way into the field to locate the deer’s tracks in the snow. Sure enough, I soon found the crooked left hoof track.
There was nothing left to do other than shake my head, help load the buck, and offer sincere congratulations. It was bad enough already, but when I heard the hunter tell his whole story, I felt like throwing up.
I listened in disbelief as he recalled the course of events. Though excited as anyone about big bucks, he’s more of a non-discriminatory meat hunter, especially in recent years. So when a small four-point buck poked his head out of the woods around 100 yards away, he left the warmth of his truck, drew a bead and fired.
With light fading, he walked across the field, and looked in the snow for any sign that the deer had been hit. Confident in a clean miss, he returned to his truck, looked up the field and that beautiful big buck was casually walking across at last light, oblivious to events that had taken place just minutes earlier. Two shots later, the deer was dead.
I hadn’t heard them, because I was too busy sulking in my living room.
It was a hard one for me to come to terms with. I felt like I had earned the buck after spending so much time chasing him, and it just didn’t seem fair. But as I reflect on it now, the story reminds me that sometimes having a little luck is all you need in the deer woods.
There is no fair, or unfair when it comes to deer hunting. It’s unpredictable, and imperfect, which is maybe why we love it so much. It is said that diligence is the mother of good luck. And I believe after years of diligence, the old hunter earned every bit of his big buck luck that day.
