Going into November 10, the last day I could archery hunt, I was not feeling especially confident. For the first time in a few years I was mentally preparing to lug the .270 into the woods with one million of my closest friends of the PA Orange Army.
It’s funny how much intuition plays into hunting successes, or lack thereof. I had some frustrating days the past week of my rutcation. Terrible weather. Three solid days without sighting a deer. Lots of hunting pressure. You name it. I was grasping at straws. Overthinking to the max. I formulated a grand Hail Mary for the last day thinking I would try a mountaintop saddle/funnel I had quickly scouted the previous winter that was nearly 2 miles hike from the road.
As I sipped my coffee at 3:45 AM, I called an audible knowing I needed to throw one more hunt at the area I shot my doe a week prior. It was just a gut feel. Instant mental clarity after days of hem-hawing. Stick to the facts, Joe. Don’t speculate. I know there were multiple mature bucks in the area. I felt I was really closing in on them, finding about 100 rubs on a low bench below bedding areas. Much lower elevation than I had hunted buck beds in this area several times previously the past two seasons.
In the darkness I hike my way through a whiteout band of snow to my GPS coordinates I was placing my last day hopes upon. I picked out a tree where the terrain of the bench and a funnel of thick mountain laurel converged. I settled into my Kite tree saddle for a long sit, thankful for my experience, equipment, and mental fortitude to persist in a state of reasonably tolerable misery in 10 degree windchills.
At 8:00 I caught a glimpse of a doe 60 yards to my West. She bounded off, and I knew from her body language she was being pushed around by a buck. At 9:00 in the exact same spot I again caught a glimpse of a trotting deer, and this time a second deer was following. I could tell it was a shooter buck, but didn’t get a great look. I believe it was the buck I would encounter a few hours later but can’t be 100% sure.
They disappeared up the hill and I let 10 minutes pass then without hesitation I raced down the tree and hastily carried my stuff over to where I had seen the deer. I wanted to get set up quickly and stealthily so I ditched my aiders and climbed three sticks high, only reaching about 10 feet on a triple-maple with good cover.
I’ve seen it happen so many times; rut action occurs in the same little zone, so I was hopeful I’d get an opportunity over here farther into the laurel thicket. By 9:30 I was settled back in.
I hung there uneventfully until 11:45, when I caught a glimpse of a good buck up the hill. He was about 100 yards above me in the laurel, walking West to East. I had one more opening I was expecting to see him cross before I was going to try aggressively grunting. But he never crossed it. I waited and waited, wondering if he snuck out, when suddenly I catch him 40 yards out on a beeline for my stand.
He’s covering ground quickly now, at that steady gait rutting bucks do that I just call “the walk”. 25 yards out he crosses behind a tree and I draw.
Being in a triple maple, I had planned to lean out on my saddle beyond the stem to my left when I drew to have the best shooting position. But in the heat of the moment I drew between the trunks, and that put me in an awkwardly blocked/contorted shooting position. It was a dumb rookie saddle hunter mistake.
He stepped into a lane 20 yards away, and I squeezed the release. I heard the arrow clang off a rock and the dread of just having missed possibly the biggest buck in my life set in.
Amazingly, he only took two bounds and stood there at 35 yards assessing the situation. This is crazy, because I later found I didn’t totally miss, but in fact I had barely nicked his elbow and gave him an armpit shave.
Since I take my quiver off, it became an urgent but delicate race to grab another arrow. I was able to grab one and nock it, but didn’t quite have a good shooting lane. The buck proceeded to walk a semi-circle around me at 35 yards, never quite presenting a shot I was comfortable taking. When he got below me, to the point he was almost downwind, I was about to let one fly in the next shooting lane when he turned and started walking toward me. I am in utter disbelief. The wind is blowing right at him. He should wind me at any second. Again, I am not even 10 feet high in the tree.
He keeps coming at me. 25 yards, 20 yards, 15 yards. Straight downwind. No scent control routine is possible for this guy. I stink good and ripe from hunting hard all week. He must have been mere feet from catching my scent stream.
Just inside 15 yards he locks up and starts acting sketchy. Now or never moment. I have a straight-on frontal shot, which I feel comfortable taking with this low angle and this close. I carefully line up the anatomy, squeeze the release and see the arrow bury deep, and he charges off low to the ground. I hear a lot of crashing and assume I put him down for the count but remain cautious. I wait 30 minutes, then carefully get down just to confirm that my eyes saw a hit. I find short hair and a couple drops of blood, then go grab my other arrow at which point I discovered the hair I shaved on that shot and no blood on the arrow.
I quietly take down my platform and sticks, pack out, drive to where I have some cell service, and make a few calls. My friend Kevin has been hunting with me all week, his first year archery hunting. He called it quits around 10 after freezing his buns off and generally experiencing a discouraging week. He was able to come out and help me track.
We set in at 2, and trail pretty easily, but very cautiously and quietly. The light coating of snow really aids the tracking. This buck refused to take deer trails, instead zig-zagging through the thickest parts of the mountain laurel, thus all the crashing I heard. Only about 50 yards into the trail, he jumps up 50 yards ahead and crashes away through the laurel. I could only see him about two bounds, and wondered if this would be the last I ever see of this beautiful mountain buck.
I immediately decide to sit down and let things calm for a half hour, then we quietly back out in the opposite direction and take a long circuitous route back to avoid his direction of travel. There is still two hours of daylight left, and Kevin has some renewed optimism after a pep talk. So I set him up in an easy-access roadside doe bedding area, and he sees a yearling buck and later misses a doe.
The next morning we set out once it gets decently light out. We take up the blood trail where it left off, and again struggle in a couple places due to his zig-zagging, but generally with the snow, trail pretty easily. We arrive at the bed we kicked him out of and find a ton of blood, then we were able to follow his tracks in the last remnants of the dusting of snow and wet leaves as he ran. We find a couple drops of blood along the way to confirm it was him, and cross a few other tracks from the previous night we have to sort out. Only about 50 yards from his bed, I round a corner of laurel and there he lay on the military crest overlooking the open valley.
Pure elation. Lots of photos were taken and since he politely ran toward the car we opt for the downhill drag instead of packing him out. Every time I drag a deer I resolve to never do it again. This was no exception. The first 400 yards were downhill and easy as can be. The last 200 covered some thick, wet, nasty terrain then briefly uphill at the end. 200 yards of pure misery.
This was my saddle platform/stand from the buck’s point of view at the shot. Not even 10 feet high but great cover.
Napkin map of setup
Willow got to come along for the recovery effort. She was leashed as legally required and no, she is not a tracking dog just another warm body if we had to resort to a grid search.
