jlmustain
Well-Known Member
I forgot to post the story about yesterday's buck, so here it is:
I was blessed to have my mother come down from Indiana on Saturday. She kept our little girl while my wife worked so that I could be in the woods on opening morning. As I walked in the dark to my spot, I couldn't help but have high hopes even though I was a little beat up.
I know I've moaned a lot on here about my bow being stolen, but if that's never happened to you, I do hope you continue the streak. While nowhere near as tragic as when an actual human dies, you go through a mourning cycle. The pep in my step Saturday came because I felt like I was going to redeem the thief's transgression by launching my aggression at 1,500 fps into a set of cervid lungs.
At 8:30 Saturday morning, my chance arrived. He came in like a ghost. I'd only killed three bucks in my life at that point, and though he was no giant, he would still have been my biggest. I settled my crosshairs on solidly as quartered away at 40 yards. I watched him raise his head as he broke the wood edge onto the field. It looked like he was seeing the sun for the first time and was soaking in a beautiful morning (really, I know he was just checking the wind, but that's still how it struck me). Slowly squeezing the trigger, a sigh of near-relief was already coming over me that I was about to redeem the bow and be able to head home early to spend time with my family, avoiding an all-day sit.
The hammer fell, the burning smell of popped primer filled the air, and I watched him walk away. The kids have no idea what they're talking about when glorify "popping a cap." To them it's a glorified kill, but to us it's a sure sign of the oncoming day of thoughts about how to have done things differently, what caused the mishap, will he come back, should I call to him, what just happened.
Nothing else came around that day, and as I walked back to the truck I heard a snort in the distance on the road I was on. I laughed as I thought about how that just fit in with my string of bad luck, but then it occurred to me: "I can see that white flag! Maybe it's still shooting light out here!" For me, when I'm in the woods, there's no way I can see well enough to take a shot at 29 minutes past sunset. That's why I was already headed to the truck. I checked my phone, and sure enough, there were two minutes left, and this time, I'm not in the woods . . . I'm in the open.
I got it in my crosshairs, barely. It jumped through a line of cedars into a cut corn field. Knowing it wouldn't be able to hear me as it was running, I dropped my gear, and took off to head it off at the other side of the field. Between cedars I could see it running, and I was watching as closely as I could so that I would stop as soon as it did. Finally, as if we were watching the same gauge, we stopped simultaneously. I raised the gun, let the scope settle on the broadside image, almost a silhouette now. I began to squeeze the trigger, and re-learned another valuable lesson: as a general rule, the safety doesn't allow the user to fire. As soon as I got the safety off, it took off again. Defeated, I checked my phone and saw that it would've been taken illegally. It was three minutes past shooting light.
Saturday night I prayed. I asked my wife to pray. I asked my mom to pray. I needed a win.
As I lay in bed, I ran across an article Harold Knight wrote about learning what's valuable in life, and thanking God for the privilege of hunting. I know that's true, but to see it from a guy who has a reputation and a career like his, along with everything that had occurred over the past several days, the moral struck me differently.
The next morning I pulled into the parking spot, got dressed, and stopped a moment to look at those pre-dawn stars. In that moment I came to my senses. Killing something wouldn't bring my bow back. Being in the woods is a gift, a hobby, and yes, a privilege. Not a privilege granted by some government. In that respect, it's definitely a right. It's a privilege God gave us.
While my wife and mom prayed for me to bring a buck home, I thanked God for creating all of that for us.
I got to my spot, settled in, sipped coffee, and enjoyed the show as the morning quietly moved through the halls of the woods like a mother rousing her children for school.
Around 9:15, I was preparing to head out. My wife and daughter were heading out of town, and I wanted to see them before they left. But then came that familiar "whoosh, whoosh" in the leaves as a doe came running by. Right behind her was this buck. He was dogging her hard, but something caused him to stop. She was already in the field, and there's no good reason (according to everything we usually ascribe to deer behavior) why he did what he did next: he broke his stride toward the doe, turned left and stopped broadside at 18 yards. I harvested him with, hands down, the most perfect shot placement I've ever been able to make.
When I found him, without hesitation, I hit one knee, placed one hand on him, removed my hat, and thanked God. A buck taken legally, ethically, and for the right reason. Nothing will tarnish the story, no stolen bow, no outside shooting light, no failed powder ignition. It'll be proudly displayed, and I'll proudly recall the day God let me take my first muzzleloader buck.
Being my fourth, I named him Cuatro.
I was blessed to have my mother come down from Indiana on Saturday. She kept our little girl while my wife worked so that I could be in the woods on opening morning. As I walked in the dark to my spot, I couldn't help but have high hopes even though I was a little beat up.
I know I've moaned a lot on here about my bow being stolen, but if that's never happened to you, I do hope you continue the streak. While nowhere near as tragic as when an actual human dies, you go through a mourning cycle. The pep in my step Saturday came because I felt like I was going to redeem the thief's transgression by launching my aggression at 1,500 fps into a set of cervid lungs.
At 8:30 Saturday morning, my chance arrived. He came in like a ghost. I'd only killed three bucks in my life at that point, and though he was no giant, he would still have been my biggest. I settled my crosshairs on solidly as quartered away at 40 yards. I watched him raise his head as he broke the wood edge onto the field. It looked like he was seeing the sun for the first time and was soaking in a beautiful morning (really, I know he was just checking the wind, but that's still how it struck me). Slowly squeezing the trigger, a sigh of near-relief was already coming over me that I was about to redeem the bow and be able to head home early to spend time with my family, avoiding an all-day sit.
The hammer fell, the burning smell of popped primer filled the air, and I watched him walk away. The kids have no idea what they're talking about when glorify "popping a cap." To them it's a glorified kill, but to us it's a sure sign of the oncoming day of thoughts about how to have done things differently, what caused the mishap, will he come back, should I call to him, what just happened.
Nothing else came around that day, and as I walked back to the truck I heard a snort in the distance on the road I was on. I laughed as I thought about how that just fit in with my string of bad luck, but then it occurred to me: "I can see that white flag! Maybe it's still shooting light out here!" For me, when I'm in the woods, there's no way I can see well enough to take a shot at 29 minutes past sunset. That's why I was already headed to the truck. I checked my phone, and sure enough, there were two minutes left, and this time, I'm not in the woods . . . I'm in the open.
I got it in my crosshairs, barely. It jumped through a line of cedars into a cut corn field. Knowing it wouldn't be able to hear me as it was running, I dropped my gear, and took off to head it off at the other side of the field. Between cedars I could see it running, and I was watching as closely as I could so that I would stop as soon as it did. Finally, as if we were watching the same gauge, we stopped simultaneously. I raised the gun, let the scope settle on the broadside image, almost a silhouette now. I began to squeeze the trigger, and re-learned another valuable lesson: as a general rule, the safety doesn't allow the user to fire. As soon as I got the safety off, it took off again. Defeated, I checked my phone and saw that it would've been taken illegally. It was three minutes past shooting light.
Saturday night I prayed. I asked my wife to pray. I asked my mom to pray. I needed a win.
As I lay in bed, I ran across an article Harold Knight wrote about learning what's valuable in life, and thanking God for the privilege of hunting. I know that's true, but to see it from a guy who has a reputation and a career like his, along with everything that had occurred over the past several days, the moral struck me differently.
The next morning I pulled into the parking spot, got dressed, and stopped a moment to look at those pre-dawn stars. In that moment I came to my senses. Killing something wouldn't bring my bow back. Being in the woods is a gift, a hobby, and yes, a privilege. Not a privilege granted by some government. In that respect, it's definitely a right. It's a privilege God gave us.
While my wife and mom prayed for me to bring a buck home, I thanked God for creating all of that for us.
I got to my spot, settled in, sipped coffee, and enjoyed the show as the morning quietly moved through the halls of the woods like a mother rousing her children for school.
Around 9:15, I was preparing to head out. My wife and daughter were heading out of town, and I wanted to see them before they left. But then came that familiar "whoosh, whoosh" in the leaves as a doe came running by. Right behind her was this buck. He was dogging her hard, but something caused him to stop. She was already in the field, and there's no good reason (according to everything we usually ascribe to deer behavior) why he did what he did next: he broke his stride toward the doe, turned left and stopped broadside at 18 yards. I harvested him with, hands down, the most perfect shot placement I've ever been able to make.
When I found him, without hesitation, I hit one knee, placed one hand on him, removed my hat, and thanked God. A buck taken legally, ethically, and for the right reason. Nothing will tarnish the story, no stolen bow, no outside shooting light, no failed powder ignition. It'll be proudly displayed, and I'll proudly recall the day God let me take my first muzzleloader buck.
Being my fourth, I named him Cuatro.
