My Buck

As is every year, I had been doing my homework and had been scouting for a month prior to the archery season’s opening.
I had stumbled upon a little sweet spot that seemed very promising and decided to stick with it for that seasons hunt.
It was situated behind the grave yard in my little town of Port McNicoll and consisted of an apple and scrub treed meadow that bordered a red pine bush. Beyond this were farmer’s fields and a patch of hardwood with a big boggy kind of swamp right in the center. An ideal location for harbouring Whitetail deer and relatively close to home. I couldn’t ask for a better region to hunt.
Each evening after work, I would park my truck in the graveyard and enter the meadow through a narrow but well beaten ATV trail.
The first night that I ventured into the area, I was delighted to find a rather well beaten doe trail that headed directly through the meadow and into a corner of the red pine bush.
I could see the flattened down patches of wild grass where the deer had been bedding and the soil beneath the hefty and twisted apple trees had been trampled with deer prints.
I quietly skulked down the doe trail taking only a few steps at a time placing my feet ever so gently. Every few feet I would stop and take a very thorough scan of the vicinity hoping to catch a glimpse of any movement within the foliage.
The wind was wafting in my favour depositing my scent behind me and I slowly pressed on towards the red pine.
The path veered to the right side of the meadow and I could see that up ahead in the corner front face of the pines there was a buck scrape. He had placed it beneath an evergreen tree and had pawed and scored an area of roughly two feet in circumphrance. Some light rubs on a few of the surrounding pine trees were evident as well.
A little early for scrapes I thought to myself, but was still quite impressed with my newly found location and the promising indication of White tail presence.
The weeks progressed as did the deer sign in the area. The buck had made a few scrapes along the doe trail and under some other evergreen trees and had completely torn apart the little pine bush. There were scrapes all over the area and rubs on damn near every other tree. This fellow meant business.
Judging by the size of the scrapes and the antler marks dragged through them, I suspected that this buck had some size to him.
There was also evidence of another smaller buck in the area and so, I decided to try placing a few drips of bottled buck urine on the superior buck’s scrapes. This would hopefully send him into a fit of rage as jealousy and territorial instinct kicked in. This could somewhat lesson his senses as to my presence, and anything at this point was worth a try.
In a few days to follow, archery season began and I was lucky enough to be able to use a crossbow that was lent to me from my cousin.
The bow was relatively new with a camouflaged pattern and had a very high tech scope on it making it a rather accurate weapon. I spent a number of hours practicing with it in preparation for the hunt and felt moderately comfortable with its capabilities.
After work each day I would speed home to don my camouflage, grab my gear and bow and proceed to my little White tail haven.
I would always slink in through the meadow, down the doe trail, in an extreme stealth like mode, taking only a few thought out and pre planned steps at a time. I would make my way surreptitiously through the glade and take a seat a few yards inside the red pine bush.
Each time I entered the spot the signs were prominent and fresh but I could never seem to get a jump on or even get a peek the deer. Somehow they were always one step ahead of me.
I sat through sunshine and rain and every element that Mother Nature chose to throw at me during those two weeks of hunting with the crossbow. I remained loyal to the area and kept returning time after time only to see fresh scrapes, rubs and tracks. Unfortunately, these make terrible soup.
As the daylight faded away on the last afternoon of bow season I gathered my belongings and began my lengthy totter back to my vehicle. I felt both thwarted and enthused at the same time.
I was frustrated due to my lack of success during the archery season, but the following day would be the beginning of the gun hunt and I had drawn an antlered or antler less dear seal. I was also a lot more confident in my old Browning Auto five that dad had passed down to me. The ol’ girl shot slugs as straight and true as a pool cue and I had had success with er’ in years past.
As does happen sometimes, my employment got in the way of my morning shotgun hunting. In the afternoons however, I dressed in my orange ensemble and headed out to “the graveyard” faithfully. I had picked up a rather hefty cold somewhere along the way during the two weeks of bow hunting, and felt pretty crumby sitting out in the elements. However, I continued my quest for the Big Buck and returned day after day.
I had hunted three days of the five day shotgun hunt and had accomplished nothing. I could almost feel the Buck’s presence in the pines but it seemed if he were always one up on me.
On the second last day of the hunt, I decided that instead of gaining admittance to the red pines through the doe trail and exposing myself to whatever may be in the meadow, I would park the truck on the far side of the pines and enter into the area without disturbing any thing. This meant crossing a small area of quagmire and walking through another section of red pine. This would be fine though due to the ground’s moisture making the foliage on the forest floor soft and quiet to travel through.
It was raining off and on that afternoon and was rather windy as well. I entered the area through the pines as planned and took a seat behind some deadfall scrub brush in the center of the woodlot.
My chosen position upon arrival enabled me to see a fair distance each way and I felt rather confident that my walk in was made with extreme stealth. . The wind also blew violently in all directions and made for some ideal cover as well.
As I sat there in the wind and rain that day, I kept thinking to myself that with all of my persistence and dedication, I was bound to get a crack at something. At this point I would have been quite content in taking a doe if given a chance and found myself growing rather irritated.
I continued to sit for another forty five minutes wet and shivering, giving the odd grunt and snapping a few twigs to mimic another buck. The wind gusted around me even harder now and I decided that I would try my luck with creeping every few feet and making some grunt calls
I took to my feet and started towards the corner of the red pine where the meadow trail met the bush. This is where the buck had scuffed his main scrape and had tattered a large group of trees with his mighty antlers. As I approached the scrape I quickly noticed the fresh moistness in the center of it and the extremely fresh antler marks that had been dragged through. The rubs on the trees were so recent that the pine was actually dripping from them. These signs were extremely unsullied and I knew at this instant that the buck was very close.
I hunkered down and gave another grunt with my Knight and Hale‘s deer call and went into extreme stealth mode.
With my eyes completely targeted on my surroundings I took about fifteen or twenty slow steps and something out of place caught my eye…. There, just off of the trail about twenty yards in front of me was a great big White tailed buck standing broadside and watching me to see what I was going to do. Because of my hunkered down posture and my incredible slow pace, I believe that he was actually double taking me to figure out what exactly I was.
After a split second I focused in on him, quickly shouldered my Browning and put the bead on his heart.
I squeezed the trigger and sent a slug sailing into his chest. As the bullet penetrated him he faltered as if he had been punched in the shoulder and spun around in the opposite direction.
He bounded forward into the middle of the trail still at about twenty yards. I took advantage of his position on the open trail, knowing I would only have a short clear chance, and lobbed two more slugs into his chest cavity. His body seemed to buckle when the bullets hit their mark but he managed to pull some strength from within and vaulted another ten feet or so. Upon landing, he collapsed under an old apple tree at the meadow’s edge.. The big boy was down.
I stood there shaking and watching this king of deer thrash around in a most powerful manor.
As I reloaded my gun and approached the buck I could hear the death rattle gurgling through the cavities in his chest where the slugs had penetrated. He took long deep breaths and every few seconds, drove his rack deep into the earth around him. Loud snorts of breath shot from his nostrils as he fought death.
I knew then it was time to finish what I had started and shouldered my shotgun one last time. The last shot seemed to echo in an almost eerie way throughout the woods and seconds later his gasps and snorting came to an end.

I let him sit still for a minute or two and then walked over to his side. My ears were still ringing from the thunderous shots as I began to smile.
I had just harvested a buck that some men go a lifetime with out attainment. He was a great big bountiful eight point that an extremely strong and gallant physique. How many times had this chap watched me walk into his territory without my knowledge of his presence? The game was over however, and I had prevailed.
With incredible stimulation I dashed across the meadow and through the trail to find some assistance in dragging my newly acquired gift to a more suitable location.
Unfortunately, with all of the exhilaration and sprinting, I started to hyperventilate and had to cease my fast pace, put my gun down, and breathe heavily into the inside of my jacket as if it were a paper bag.
Once my breath was back and I had stabilized somewhat, I continued through the trail to a buddy’s house to borrow his ATV. He offered to lend me a hand and come directly back through the bush to the deer, tied it on to his bike, and hauled it up to the main trail.
This is where I decided to gut the animal and apply the tag. Unfortunately, once we had reached a spot on the main trail that was suitable for addressing the deer, I realized that my hunting bag with my wallet was back in the truck on the far side of the red pine bush. I swiftly hammered through the gears of the ATV, along the twisted and slender trail until I reached my vehicle. I quickly grabbed my hunting bag and burned back to the deer.
I skidded to a halt, jumped from the bike, and unzipped my hunting sack to acquire the deer seal.
To my dismay however, the seal was not in my wallet nor was it in my sack and I couldn’t find it anywhere.
At this point I thought it best to load the deer onto the bike and head for my house merely a few streets away. The seal had to be there, I must have forgotten to put it in my bag, maybe it fell out, all of these things raced through my mind as we journeyed back to my place.
When I arrived home, my wife and I rummaged through the whole house trying to find the missing tag. Unfortunately we came up empty handed. I was livid at this point and began to panic. I had just shot an eight point buck and was missing the tag for it. It must have fallen out of my sack sometime throughout course of the hunt, without my realizing, and now at this point I could have been considered a poacher.
So, with no other options, I decide to do what I thought was the proper thing, and called the Ministry of Natural Resources. After all, I had entered the deer draw and was a successful candidate in obtaining an antlered or antler less dear seal. I had misplaced my tag.
I figured that honesty was the best policy.
When the two conservation officers rolled into my driveway in their big white truck, they got out and immediately began treating me as if I were a criminal. The buck was still on the back of the ATV. They threatened to confiscate my buddy’s bike as I stood there completely stunned. They seized the deer and loaded it in to their truck. He didn’t believe that I even had a tag and said that their system was too back logged to verify my claim. They were cocky, arrogant, and completely wrong in this situation.
After taking down all information, the big white truck drove away with my deer in the back and I watched it go, completely disappointed and disgusted with the whole situation. I felt like a lottery winner that had their prize torn from their hands.
My head hung low that night, as I had been given such a wonderful gift only to try to do the right thing and have it taken from me in such a manor.
My wife and I searched every nook and cranny of our home and ended up finding the tag in a pair of washed hunting pants. This brought back some hope for me as it confirmed my story.
With great excitement, I called Wayne Lintack, the conservation officer in charge to make him aware of my findings. He said he’d be back the following afternoon with my deer and some charges and also questioned the legality of the seal.
The next day dragged by as I awaited my sentencing.
The white truck rolled into my driveway with my buck in the back and the game wardens jumped out.
After thoroughly examining my deer seal and seeing that it was all legitimate, he rhymed off all of the charges that he could have laid but said he would do me a favour. His favour was a two hundred and forty dollar fine for transporting a deer without a game seal.
Thanks a million asshole I said under my breath with a big fake smile plastered on my face as they pulled away from my drive way.
Oh well I thought, as I looked over at my deer. At least I got him back and the smile returned to my face.
I had learned a valuable lesson
My buddies persuaded me to have him mounted and he hangs on our wall to date.
When ever I enter the room he hangs in, I can’t help but to stare at him each time and remember the games he and I played in the meadow that season.
I win!