The Lucky, And Dead, Buck, CornFed [read along books .txt] 📗

It hurt my pride like hell to get out of the deer stand. Here I am, sitting some 20 feet up a tree in the middle of the swamp, at 4 PM in the afternoon, knee boots caked over in the kind of mud that the Egyptians used in the mummification process, and something inside my head is telling me to get down from the stand and change locations. And it wouldn’t shut up.

“Get down. Sit in the peanut field.”
“Get down. Sit in the peanut field.”
“Don’t be a goober.”

This was not an easy decision to make. My big fat head had hand picked this spot deep in the swamp after days of tip toeing my way through mud, muck, and briars looking for that special hiding spot where post peak-of-the-rut bucks ambush unsuspecting does. And to top it off, before I “discovered” this den of the big bucks, I had been hunting other areas of the farm solidly for weeks, taking only time to turn the covers over my head at night and throw the alarm clock across the room in the morning. I thought I knew best.

As to add even more insult to my pride, I had hiked 45 minutes with the kind of climber you don’t want to move around very often. I called it the Fat Butt Stand. It had teeth big enough to use as self-defense against wild panthers. The seat and legroom matched the dimensions of my dad’s recliner. Raccoons often roomed with me. Their extended families sometimes paid a visit.

I had even tried to lay a Tinks Doe-In-Heat-Come-And-Get-It-Big-Boys-Because-This-Stuff-Costs-Lots-Of-Money scent trail but somewhere between the first quicksand pit and the part where I fell over backwards, I lost track of the string and cotton.

I had been on the stand for an hour. It was prime time for deer to start moving. The sweat from the walk, trudge rather, was gone. My back had settled into its contentment position. My fanny had adjusted enough to allow circulation. The teeth of Fat Butt was gripping the tree with a death hold, the tree whimpering in submission.

I didn’t want to get down. This was where the big boys lived, in the swamp, next to the creek and bamboo thicket. Bruisers liked places where dumb humans, like myself, wouldn’t even attempt to venture unless desperate for a kill. It was thick with low visibility, not a barren and over hunted peanut field, months after the harvest.

It was now 4:30. I had argued with that voice for a solid 30 minutes. It won. Typical, I always gave in to people whom I could see. Now, I’m giving in to a voice I couldn’t.

I need medicine.

I climbed down that tree, and took off in a sprint, sans Fat Butt, to the truck. I drove to the peanut field and was in the stand at 5:30 PM. There was not a deer in the field. I had about 30 minutes of shooting light left.

The first few minutes were sort of intriguing. I stayed locked on that peanut field, gun in hand, thumb on safety, finger on trigger, expecting a Booner to prance out in the field, lay down delicately at 50 yards, and give up his life to the mighty hunter who listened to voices in his head.

Nothing like that happened. It was now almost 6 PM and I had precious few minutes of legal shooting light left. I was distraught for having left my previous perch, visions of bucks dancing in the swamp, grunting and farting in my head.

And then, as I’m getting ready to call it a failed hunt, I glanced to my left. A single deer walked out, 100 yards away, marching across that wide-open peanut field. To my eye, he was a small-bodied deer.

Probably a spike.

However, in my binoculars, I saw a long tine with many friends. I didn’t even take time to count them. Down periscope, up missile launcher. I squared the cross hairs of my .280 on his vitals and squeezed off a shot. Even though there was about ½ mile of peanut field ahead of him, the raising of the gun, the aim, and the squeeze were split second movements, and I was unaware of the fact I should be nervous beyond comprehension.

Following the fire show from the barrel of Old Betsy, he turned around and ran back into the weeds on the edge of the field. Of course, I did what every hunter does at this point. I ignored every rule in the safe deer hunting guidelines published by some idiot who was used to shooting 60 pound does with a slingshot.

I didn’t wait 10 minutes or whatever for the animal to perish. I didn’t remove the second bullet from the chamber, my hand jacking another shell in the chamber before the first one found it’s target. I didn’t really climb out of that stand. I sort of shimmied out of it, skipping steps until I was close enough to jump. And I ran, ran like the wind, to the spot where the deer disappeared in the woods, my Georgia Certified You-Need-To-Wear-This-To-Win-Deer-Hunting-Contests orange flapping with each synchronized arm and leg stroke.

And there he was, right on the edge of the weeds bordering the woods, still kicking. Effectively dead and not going anywhere, but kicking. I shot him again, at about 10 yards, partly to ensure a quick kill but mainly to ensure he didn’t jump up and run away. I’ve heard stories deer could run for 2 miles with a head and 2 legs alone. I was taking no chances.

I got close to the deer for the first time. I didn’t check his eyeballs with my gun barrel, preferring to put my hands on that rack. A perfect, I mean perfect ten pointer. The biggest deer I had ever killed and, much to the chagrin of my dad, the biggest deer killed by anyone in my immediate family.

Not to sound fanatical but to say I thanked God would be underestimating the situation. I danced in circles. I screamed out loud. I laughed. I near bout fired a few more shots into the air for good measure. I did this for a solid 10 minutes, checking the horns after each dance routine to ensure I wasn’t imagining it.

The buck grossed 158 and netted 156 ½. It made the cover of the August 2001 Georgia Outdoor News magazine. That picture of the bearded man on the front, smiling, never told the readers the entire story. I hope this does.

One thing is for sure, I learned a life lesson from this. Since that day, I very seldom ignore that voice when it comes. And, if I ever want to hear that voice, that prompting, that whisper of sorts, then I have to slow down, sit back, relax, and get all my wants and wishes out of the way. The woods are the best place for this.

At the end of the day, I didn’t really kill this deer. I just suited up and showed up. Something else did the rest.

Publication Date: 04-06-2010

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