Narrative

Trial and Error

For as long as I can remember, hunting has been a monumental part of my everyday life. Ever since I was old enough to sit out in the cold, I was up bright and early, eager to be in the woods with my Dad. As I got older, I became more and more serious about hunting. For the past six years I have been in the woods with every opportunity presented to me.

One November afternoon in 2008, my Dad picked me up from school and we headed to the blind. It was a very cold, windy day. They were not the most desirable conditions for hunting, but seeing as it was the middle of the rut, we decided to stick it out. After an hour or so without seeing anything, I decided to take a nap. I wake up to my Dad shaking my arm and whispering, “Big buck, big buck” over and over again. I slowly reached for my shotgun and brought my sights onto the deer. I was shaking like a leaf, so much that I didn’t think I could even get a shot off on the tall, white horned deer. When my Dad gave me the green light to take the shot, I squeezed the trigger. “You missed” he said. I couldn’t believe it. There was not a doubt in my mind that I had the sights on him. I looked out the window of the blind just to see a tail and huge rack trotting away through the weeds. I was devastated. I felt as if I blew my one chance, that I would never have an opportunity like that again.

At the age of thirteen, I decided I was ready for a bigger challenge, chasing big whitetails with a bow. After countless hours of practice, opening day came around, and I was ready. The first couple weeks of the season went by pretty slow, the high temperatures kept deer from moving during legal shooting hours.  About three weeks in, my Dad and I climbed into one of our favorite tree stands on a warm October afternoon. We had a couple does mosey around in the field a couple hundred yards away, but nothing in range. I look up, and he was right there, forty yards. A big bodied, massive racked, Ohio ten point. I stood up as slowly and quietly as possible. Grabbed my bow and squared to shoot. Right before he stepped into one of my shooting lanes, I drew. He stopped just short of the opening. I held my draw for what seemed like ten minutes, until my Dad asked “Can you slip it through that hole in the leaves?” “I think so” I replied, “But it will be tight.” I settled the sight pin right behind his shoulder, took a deep breath, and let the arrow fly. He ran off hard and fast, just like he was hit. “He jumped the string” my Dad said. I leaned against the tree in disgust with myself. Once again, I had a great buck, the deer of a lifetime for many people, and I blew it.

A few years passed, I kept practicing and spent countless hours in the woods, with multiple close encounters with more great bucks but no success. Now, at the age of seventeen, I have dedicated most of my time in the woods strictly to bow hunting. After two and a half months of hunting almost every day after school, Youth Gun Season came around. At this point in the year, I was almost burnt out with hunting. The long hours in a tree had taken a toll on me both mentally and physically. After getting trail camera pictures of multiple shooter bucks at one particular farm, Dad and I headed out once again. This time, I decided to take my muzzle loader along, hoping to increase my odds. We climbed in the set long before day light, hoping that the frigid temperatures and heavy frost would have the deer up and moving early.

Once we finally got all settled in, we sat back and enjoy the beautiful sunrise. Right after legal shooting light, a small group of does began feeding in the field to the west. Not long after that, deer began piling into the corn to the east. Just like years past, all of a sudden I hear “Big buck, big buck right there, get ready”. I slowly stand up, get a steady rest, and find the buck in the scope. He was feeding about two hundred yards out in the field, definitely in range for the muzzle loader but I wanted as close of a shot as possible. The big eight pointer started checking every doe in the field, then began making his way back into the thicket. I thought it was done, there slipped another opportunity right though my hands.

A few minutes later I hear my dad whisper “He’s back” as he looks through his binoculars. I stand up, grab the gun, and find the deer in the scope. After he ran all over the field on the scent of a doe in heat, he worked his way back in front of the stand at ninety yards. After the numerous close encounters since that November afternoon in 2008, I was able to control my emotions and calm down. I wasn’t shaking at all, that is, until after I squeezed the trigger and saw the Ohio brute fall through the cloud of smoke. I was so excited I could barely stay standing.

Words cannot describe the feeling of finally putting my hands on the horns of a beautiful whitetail, especially after all my blown encounters. I’ve been told throughout life that time spent is time you’ll never get back, so the fact that I am able to spend all this time in the woods with my Dad makes it so much more worthwhile.