The Right Deer

A beetle moved across one of the slowly decaying logs in the pile. I was hiding amongst the old stumps that were left on an abandoned log landing next to the new growth of an old clear cut. The beetle inched along, step by step as it inspected whatever beetles inspect, then quickly scurrying to the next spot of interest. There was a gentle breeze coming downhill and the rustle of the remaining beech leaves periodically interrupted the silence of the afternoon. 

I arrived at my hiding spot after a slow and stealthy approach along a cleared path that divided the younger saplings with the older trees that surrounded them. It was the collection of fresh deer tracks in the mud, and a heavily used trail that disappeared into the heavy cover of the early successional habitat. The log pile was only twenty yards from what could only be described as a small “deer highway”. There was even a perfect little sit in the center of the pile, and I tucked myself into the little hallow with an arrow nocked. 

Whitetail buck in the woods.

It was the end of October, but I hadn’t seen a buck in these woods yet. Not for lack of trying; I had hiked many miles and sat silently for many hours. As an inexperienced hunter, the thousands of acres were daunting, and I was only beginning to understand where to narrow my search. It was for this reason that my heart skipped a beat when I caught something larger than a beetle moving out of the corner of my eye. 

I turned my head as slowly as I could, and there he was about one hundred yards down the path, moving in my direction. Three deep breaths but I couldn’t slow my heart rate and the shaking was beginning. He was sauntering down the path like somebody window shopping on a warm summer day. A stop here to lick an overhanging branch, a stop there to nibble the leaves of a low blueberry bush on the edge of the path. Even though he was still sixty yards away I was worried he would hear my heart pounding. He took his time but he was definitely coming my way. 

Eventually he moved into the grassy opening with my log pile concealment. Something rustled behind him and he paused momentarily. He was not a mature animal, but his forked antlers were majestic. In time, he decided that the noise was of no concern and began to feed gingerly along the edge of the clearing. Closer and closer he came. The next time his head went down to the grass I raised my bow in my left hand. He took a few more steps in my direction. 

He couldn’t have been much more than five yards from me when I slowly moved my right hand to the release hanging on my bow string. He looked directly at me and froze. The rut was beginning and I could see the saliva dripping from his lip as he flared his nostrils in an attempt to figure out what I was. Luckily, the wind was blowing in my face and I was in full camouflage, facemask included. I still don’t know how I managed to subdue the shaking. We stared at each other in this fashion for a long time. He was trying to figure out what he saw move and I was trying to remain undetected. Every muscle in my body was engaged. 

Author’s blurry photo of the deer in question.

The motionless combat continued, but finally my perseverance succeeded and he flicked his tail and lowered his head to feed. I knew it was the moment and I drew my bow. It was hard to pull the seventy pound string in my awkward seated position, but I managed undetected. The pin on my sight was hovering over his heart and lungs. I had never been this close to a deer and I knew at that moment that this was not the first buck that I wanted to kill. He raised his head and I let my bow down. There was no way to hide that movement, and he bolted to about forty yards. He looked at me and I had just enough time to take a blurry photo of him before he disappeared completely into the trees. 

I knew I wasn’t going to shoot this buck when he had emerged into the clearing. He wasn’t the right deer. The quest to find a larger, mature animal had got the best of me. A strange thing to say when the ultimate purpose of a hunt is to harvest meat, but then it would be over. I wanted to remain in the woods, hiking and waiting in frustration. And even as I sat in the silent clearing shaking violently, knowing that I might regret the decision not to release the arrow, I could not wait for the next day in the woods, back on the hunt again.