Nature Calling

I left the woods with a deer in the back of my truck this weekend, but the only problem is that it wasn’t mine. My good buddy Scott sat in his stand for several hours over the last few weeks with nary a sighting of a buck with a big enough rack. Sunday was actually perfect hunting weather. Overcast, negligible wind, and a temperature between thirty and forty-five. You can’t get better weather than that, really. I had been battling a head cold or something all day and couldn’t shake a mild headache that I woke up with at five thirty that morning when the alarm told me it was time to chase the big boy. As I stood in the frigid air, it felt good, but I knew I had seen many days just like this where I felt better. My heart was there, but my body was not cooperating.

Scott’s stand overlooks a little clearing next to a small pond. He had seen several small deer and many doe, but nothing with a rack. That is, until Sunday afternoon. As we stood in the cabin, pulling on our warm weather gear, we both joked about the final trip of the weekend back into the area where we hunt. We had the normal discussion about where each of us would be going so that we’d have a general idea of where the other one was should we have to pull the trigger. I decided to go back where I had seen all the deer, even one shooter with more than six points a couple weeks prior. While I was putting an honest living in at work during the week, Scott and I got several reports from the elders of bigger bucks hanging out in the cedar thicket where I saw the bruiser, but nobody was lucky enough, or a good enough shot, to bring him home.

Back to our discussion, Scott sighed and said he would be back in his stand again where he had seen plenty of small deer. He sounded dejected,
“You know, I’ve been using the same bullets for three years and haven’t seen a single buck worth shooting.”
“Changing the Mojo, huh?” I said.
“Exactly, I needed a Mojo change.”

Apparently, the Mojo Gods were listening because we weren’t back to our respective spots for fifteen minutes before the sharp report of his .243 broke through the cold afternoon air. Fifteen seconds later, I hear a jubilant shout, “Whooohoooo!”

I knew it was Scott’s rifle when it went off, and the announcement was all I needed to know that his new bullets had saved the day. I was only about five hundred yards uphill and west of his stand, so I decided to walk down and see just how big his deer was. I trampled through the thick undergrowth to see Scott reaching down and dragging out a nice little six point. Not the bruiser I had seen a few weeks ago, but worthy of providing several good meals.
“Were you hand-feeding it when you shot it or what?”, I shouted.

The deer was lying a mere ten or so feet from his stand, but Scott later explained the deer had been standing over near the pond, about forty yards away, when he sent the .243 caliber slug into the deer’s lower ribs. He was dead and didn’t know it, but a bit of adrenalin let the guy run a few yards, toward Scott’s stand, before expiring. Seeing the huge smile that belied both relief and happiness on Scott’s face made the weekend trip worth it. I wasn’t feeling well, but just being out with nature and good friends combined for a great weekend.