It was 4:30 AM, I knew we were going to be late but still couldn’t help feeling overly optimistic. The outside thermometer read 20 degrees, a fresh 2″ of snow laid in the yard, the rut was peaking and I couldn’t think of a better recipe for bucks to be on the move. To top that, my friend Dan Infalt was up from Jefferson and we made plans to swap hunting/filming for the weekend. Seemed like I couldn’t ask for more but already had. Being a selfish host, I called dibs for the bow on our first hunt, a venture deep into public land. We whipped our gear in the truck and hit the road.
A month earlier, I took a rainy afternoon to scout this area and found three small scrapes at the rim of a valley between two ridges. I wasn’t overly impressed at first but remembered several wrist sized rubs found during a spring turkey hunt at the corner of nearby planted pines. I checked them and nothing was fresh but heavy scarring showed this was a year-in and year-out buck travel route. I decided this spot needed a hunt or two but no more than that. I was already a good mile back and a lung busting hill at the start left me wondering how many more years my body would hold up to this type of abuse.
As we neared the parking spot, I caught a pair of eyes in the far ditch. Rounding the corner, headlights landed on the rack of a 2 year old buck. Not the size we were looking for but he showed full rut while trotting away from the road side. I gunned it the last quarter mile, pulled in and we hit the ground running. On the way up never ending hill, one of our frequent rest stops revealed a good set of tracks next to one of those quick scrapes made by a buck on the move. I begged to be sitting my hotspot at that moment but for the last half mile we stayed in the harder, less traveled woods until reaching the valley rim just as shooting light appeared. A straight trunked red oak downwind of the scrape/rub area with a fork 25′ up was tailor made for hunter and camera man. I set the climbing sticks trying not to think about missing the first 15 minutes of shooting light until reaching the fork. Climbing down, half frozen fingers remembered there was more than one hunter on site and asked Dan if he could hang the stands. Not wasting time to chide me, he hung both and we were set in no time.
The morning was gorgeous, a white blanket below with crisp still air kept me on high alert for the first hour. But like other hunts, anticipation surrendered to cold winds and the lack of any fresh sign below. The scrapes I’d found in October were long since gone and our only saving grace was one fresh rub Dan picked out just off the base of our tree. Idle chit chat had given away to long stares when I heard a muffled crack to my left front. I looked over to see nicely spaced G2’s and 3’s fifty yards out and whispered shooter buck but not knowing for sure if he really was. As I stood the buck turned towards us and confirmed my initial thought. I knew without a doubt he was going to be in range soon and the mature timber was certain to allow an open shot. As he plodded closer I took a couple deep breaths to keep my nerves at bay and focused all attention on his actions. Just as I was sure he would pass downhill and to my left a 90 degree turn took him broadside heading to my right. With one look at his chest the “in range” light lit green and my legs instinctively crept forward to the stand’s front allowing a full draw without obstruction. I glanced ahead for a wide opening and found just that beyond a small popple tree.
As he stepped into the kill zone, adrenaline cranked up the volume of my stop bleat and he slammed on the brakes, whipping his head and locking eyes on me. The pin had just found on center behind the shoulder when the string dropped. I saw no arrow, no white nock, no spinning fletches. My shot had gone everywhere but through the vitals. I was in disbelief when he took two jumps and trotted off only slightly distracted from his morning of lady chasing.
I cursed and immediately blamed my misfortune on not settling the pin for that crucial half second. It seemed as though I’d hit a new hunting low. I just had a full bodied nicely horned eight standing over fresh snow in broad daylight with a camera rolling over my shoulder and blew it. Worse yet, now I had to explain this scenario to an audience. Somewhere in my depressing skit I mentioned how the buck was probably Pope and Young. Camera man Dan, a veteran big buck killer, said “Dude, that buck was at least a 140!!!!” I tried to reason that he didn’t have very good brow tines but that didn’t seem to make anything better. We sat the next hour but I really didn’t have it in me, the cold winds were a nice excuse to get out of the tree. Reaching the ground I soon found my arrow 21 steps from our stands. Looking close at it’s angle and distance beyond long striding tracks showed it should have smashed right through his chest. Now I really didn’t know what the hell happened but it didn’t matter much, another bragging rights buck was running the woods instead of riding around in the back of my truck.
It was a long walk back but I tried to keep my chin up. I did a lot of things right on this hunt. Scouting and reasoning put me in a location where most people wouldn’t go and it produced a shooter buck on the first crack. I had kept my composure from first sight and was able to avoid mistakes up to the point of shooting. Maybe I didn’t lay the pin on him as well as I could have but history showed a shot like that resulted in heavy blood trails and punched tags. The urge to look at that tape grew stronger with every step.
We reached the truck, loaded up and headed to the closest TV. First review showed this buck was a hog. Not a monster rack but long bodied and barrel chested, easily a four year old deer. It was hard to watch so I busied myself making a sandwich when Dan blurted out “You missed him by three feet!!!” I was in no joking mood and voiced my attitude when he replied “No, seriously you were there feet in front of him!!” I watched in slow motion and sure enough a black streak appeared three feet in front of his shoulder. I’ve missed deer before but by three feet at 21 yards hinted something other than buck fever kept this one walking.
We watched from front to back a couple times before the clue surfaced, a little tick noise just as I reached full draw. I knew what that sound was before a practice session in full gear confirmed it, my arrow wasn’t on the rest at the shot. The combination of one heavily mittened bow hand, new fall away rest and a broad head tuned by Murphy’s law cost me the ride on cloud nine. It was a tough pill to swallow but easy problem to fix. My fall away now resides in the “will never use again but too expensive to throw out” box replaced by thoughts of his tracks and the snow days I’ll get before season ends.