Payback
By: Steve Flores
It is early November and I find myself in a strange tree, in a foreign state. It’s the second evening of a four day hunt, and I have yet to draw back on a “Hoosier” buck. I wipe the stinging sweat from my pupils as the mercury settles into the low 80’s. “Unbelievable!“, I think to myself, as I sit and wonder what the evening might hold.
The sun seems to remain visible forever in this flat landscape. The area is void of any mountains for which to hide the fireball that has pounded me for the previous two hours. Although I do not wish for my hunt to end, I catch myself longing for nightfall and the cooling temperatures it will surely bring. Another hour passes as I suck down the last of my luke warm water and lazily tuck the bottle inside my fanny pack.
After what seems like an eternity, the sun finally calls it quits for the day. As the evening shadows begin to slowly fall across the leaf strewn forest, my excitement level begins to rise. I find comfort in the thought of deer movement.
In nearly the same instant that I hear it, I see it. It is a single doe, walking out of a small drain, heading directly to me. I instantly catch movement behind her as the drums in my ears begin to pulse with the sound of shuffling foliage. I cautiously stand up from my seated position and prepare for a potential shot. I can scarcely make out the pale colored bone as it floats over the head of 2 rut crazy bucks.
By now, the lone doe is well within striking distance. As my heart begins to pound like a carpenters hammer, I turn my attention to her pursuers for a better look. Darkness is falling swiftly and moments later, all three animals are in my lap. As they stand, seeming plotting their next move, I am calculating mine. The question whether to burn my only tag, or save it, begins to lean heavy against my brain.
They are immature bucks at best, and I still have two more days to locate “Mr. Right“. As I slowly unhook my release from the string, the two bachelors decide that they have had enough rest and resume with the spirited competition. It isn’t long until I can only recognize the vague outline of the deer. They dog her in every direction, except up the tree I am perched in.
I am not certain, but while this is all taking place, someone must have opened the flood gate and let loose the rest of the herd. The timber suddenly erupts with the sound of dashing hooves. The two drains which I have been surveying for hours, suddenly spews forth deer from all directions. At one point or another, every deer comes within range of my ambush site. Determining which ones are slick heads, and which ones carry horns, is a futile effort. Without the aid of the sun, which I had cursed earlier, I can only speculate. I rest against my tree and anxiously watch as the dark figures tango beneath me in the fading light. Although I never send an arrow down range, it is one of the most exhilarating times I have ever had in a tree stand.
Back at the hotel, lying in front of an air conditioner that is running like a scalded dog, we all ponder our next move. As I recap the events surrounding my evening stand site, I can see my fathers eyes fill with amazement. I begin to wonder if maybe that was how I looked, some twenty odd years earlier, when he would return from the woods with adventurous stories.
My mind begins to reminisce about the many times that he had unselfishly put my own hopes and dreams of harvesting a deer ahead of his own. My first deer was a spike buck. I finished him off after an unsteady first shot clipped him low in the front legs.
My dad was standing by my side when the rifle blast echoed across the frost covered leaves. I clumsily ejected the shell from my old 30-30 Winchester, yelling “I got him Dad!, I got him Dad!!!” The young buck regained his footing and scrambled off into a nearby thicket as I tried to grasp what had just happened. My father never said a word as he calmly bent over to pick up my shell casing. However, there was something odd looking about this one; the bullet was still in it! In case you missed it, I ejected a shell that had not been fired. Talk about shook up!!
In my youthful excitement I hadn’t notice that it was my dad that fired the first round. I heard the muzzle blast and assumed it was from my own gun. It wasn’t until after a lengthy tracking job, and a good follow up shot, that I learned the truth. Just for the record, I did fire the second round that put the small buck down for good.
My dad had been hunting for many years and could have easily ended his drought by taking this deer. Instead though, he gave the opportunity to me and when it was over, raised me high upon a pedestal; proudly celebrating in my achievement. I was the happiest 6th grader in the world. It was a day I will never forget.
The previous year found Dad and I stalking through some deep timber that had just received about 5 inches of snow. As usual, I was cold, so we abandoned our stand position in the hopes that walking might help restore the feeling in my toes.
As we slowly walked along, I couldn’t help but gaze with silly eyes at the carpet of flakes surrounding us. It seemed to hang from every branch and twig; the way a rock climber dangles from a cliff as he contemplates his next move. As we neared a rather large blow down, I continued on with my stumbling day dream.
Drawing closer, events began to unfold faster than my young mind could process. Suddenly, I lost all capacity of movement. I could sense the muscles in my face and throat tighten as I watched the snow quickly fall from a large set of mahogany colored antlers merely 10 yds away. Every now and then, you witness things like this, and yet you do not believe them to be real.
From the corner of my eye, I could see my fathers rifle barrel point in the direction of the massive buck as he rose from his bed. I tried to follow suit, but it was a fruitless effort. I still think my 30-30 must have been tied to my boot laces. Straining like a finalists at the World’s Strongest Man contest, I again tried to raise my rifle. But to no avail. I had succumbed to the fever. Complete meltdown.
The seconds were beginning to slip away as my dad waited on me to drop the hammer on the brute standing in front of us. Without hesitation I utilized the one muscle still functioning in my otherwise unresponsive body. “Daddy, let me shot it!!!!!!” Those words seemed to echo across miles of timber as I realized that my mouth was the only body part immune to the effects of buck fever. Go figure.
There is no need to describe what the monarch did next. Although he easily could have, my dad never shot that great buck. I like to believe he thought of it as “my deer“. Even if that meant the only place I would ever see him again was in my dreams. I still see him from time to time.
Over the dull purr of the air conditioner I suggested that my Dad should accompany me to my stand site the next morning. It was a risky move. Placing him on a travel route also meant positioning him very close to my own stand site. I didn’t care. I had my own objectives. Considering that the deer could possibly be moving through the area when we approached it in the morning, I felt that if we got in early enough, we might catch a buck headed back to the security of thick cover at first light. Given the action I witnessed the day before, I did not have to twist his arm.
As I sit with my back towards my father, I find myself lost in a daydream under the blaze of an early morning sun. My bow hangs motionless above my head as I pondered certain aspects of family, religion, and quite simply, life itself. It is a picturesque morning.
With the speed of a rattlesnake, the “electric-like” jolt almost knocks me from my stand as my father’s bow catapults an arrow through the hot morning air. The loud “cracking” sound seems to dance across my every nerve ending as broadhead collides with flesh and bone. My head turns toward the direction of my father’s stand, and my eyes are suddenly filled with antlers moving swiftly through the scattered timber separating us.
The buck must have caught my movement as he quickly changes direction and heads up the side hill of a small drain sandwiched between our positions. I watch with joyful eyes, waiting for him to crash to earth. He never stops, and soon he is out of sight.
Two hours have passed since my dad loosed his arrow, and with the temperature rising, I am having difficulty finding blood. The shot looked good, but after crawling on my hands and knees looking for just “one more drop”, I begin to have my doubts about a recovery. The sparse trail eventually leads back to a rather large body of water bordered with numerous pine trees. As I draw closer, I unexpectedly notice the color of diamonds dash across the ponds surface. The warm sun, that I had cursed all week, was now showing it’s genuine beauty on the cool water just ahead.
And lying peacefully along the edge of the pond, among the tall trees and quiet pine needles, was a gorgeous 6 point buck. As I watch my father kneel down with youthful enthusiasm and grasp his first set of antlers, I begin to reminisce about a spike buck that fell to a young boy many years before. And in the midst of wild hugs, hand shakes, broad grins, and backslaps, one word seems to fill my heart and my mind. Payback.
Thanks Dad.