The first week of October was finally here.  The first three days were spent in my favorite stand watching 3 raccoons in which I had named Larry, Curly, and Moe.  The mother raccoon was slightly bigger than the two younger ones, and seemed curious to every movement surrounding them.  The days here in eastern Oklahoma in October were still in the 80’s with mosquitoes buzzing everywhere.  I was wondering if it were still to hot to hunt and questioned myself again over and over.  Each day so far, I had hunted morning and evening with only a few does showing up.

Our family is one of three families (all related) that live on the mountain with about 360 acres of land owned by our families.  Each year we hunt, we always establish the rules.  {8 Point or better for the husbands} {Wives and kids, buck or doe} Now last year I hunted all year and didn’t harvest one deer, but I had seen enough antlers to keep me excited.  Every time Bill and Grover, my brother in-laws, sure let me know how I got spanked on last years hunt.  Both are avid rifle hunters and tagged out the year I brought home nothing.  I was thinking about this already early in this season while elevated about 18 feet up in my climber.  I wondered, as every other hunter does, will this be my year.  As I looked down from my stand at the raccoons again on the 4^th morning of October 2007, I was once again thinking of how pretty they were and how every day I am in the woods, I look for the highlight of the day.  Whether this was the highlight of the day again, or was an owl going to sit on the limb next to me, a squirrel sitting on my boot, quail leaving a fast trail for a coyote, bobcats on the prowl, turkeys rustling, what was going to be the highlight?

Then, I saw movement directly in front of me.  I was a deer for sure, and no does were present yet.  I had placed my stand in what my wife calls the quiet spot.  High cedars with no brush, not to thick, but perfect for a good bow shot.  A well used doe trail to my right, and another trail coming in from the left, thicker trees to my front.  I could see about 40 yards around me with a creek bed behind me on a down hill gentle slope. The deer in front of me wasn’t spooked or aware of my presence as it slowly made its way directly toward me.  Sun to my back and the breeze in my face, finally, I could see him completely.  “Very nice buck” I was thinking.  As he moved closer and closer, I could count 4 on one side and 4 on the other.  Not sure if I wanted to take the shot just yet, I moved into position just in case.  Standing now and ready to draw, I used the bow as if I was hiding behind its small limbs.  The buck was much bigger than I originally thought the closer he moved to my stand.  20 yards and still coming, 10 yards and still coming.  He stopped, head concealed by a large cedar tree.  I came to full draw and picked my shooting lane.  As if knowing I was now ready to shoot, the 8 point stepped from behind the cedar and moved closer, directly into my shooting lane.  7 yards, I picked my hairs on the buck, just behind the shoulder and quartering down.  I could sense the raccoons to my right and felt a sense of calm, took a large breath, let it out half way, became steady as a rock and released.

{‘Wham”}  I dropped him in his tracks.  I intended to penetrate spine, heart, and lung if possible for a deadly and swift kill.  My broadhead did exactly that.  I stood for a moment and watched the buck lie still and quiet.  Larry, Curly, and Moe were nowhere to be seen.  I called my wife using my cell phone and quietly whispered I had a good buck down, her response to me was “why are we whispering”.  Laughing a little I said, I am in the quiet spot.

After checking the buck in and heading to the processors, I continued to hunt the evening in another stand.  Each day I hunted, I elected to use my climber instead of pre-placed stands used each year.  October the 7^th, 3 days after my first buck of the year, my 14 year old son was ready for action.  This would be his first year bow hunting, and he practiced every day for the last two months.  He was actually quite good shooting the pillow target and 3D’s, in which I was very proud.  Sunday after church, he would be in the woods with me for the evening hunt.  Everything seemed to go wrong.  I found out he was afraid of heights the hard way, but patiently, I assisted him into a lock-on stand with steps, explained the safety belt, strapped him in and climbed down.  I hooked his bow on the bow string and up and away the bow went.  While the bow was being pulled up by my son, I was watching all around me, trying to quiet down the woods, when {Wham}!!!!  My right hand was numb.  I looked at my hand and there was a deep cut to the bone on the top.  My son had almost had the bow in his stand when the bow string slipped.  The bow caught me square across my hand.  Seriously nervous and seeing the blood, my son asked if I was alright and maybe we should just go home and get the hand took care of.  He said he was so sorry and it just slipped, and…………  I assured my son everything was fine, helped him get the bow up the stand, and assured him he was ready to hunt.  “Don’t worry about me son, you just keep your eyes out for the big one.  I will be about 100 yards straight across the creek.”  I pointed with my other hand where I would be, wished him good luck, then started walking away from his stand. After crossing the creek and out of sight from Chase, I stopped and looked at the top of my right hand.  I was hurt pretty good, and I still couldn’t make a fist yet.

Not wanting to leave the woods with my son still in a stand, I elected to set up on a trail I knew of and wait it out.  I pulled off the climber from my shoulder and worried a little about if I could even use the stand to climb or not.  After setting up the stand at the bottom of the tree I picked out, we were going to find out if I could climb with one hand.  It actually wasn’t that bad.  Up the tree I went, got situated, smiled a little at how stupid I was to stand directly under my sons stand when he was raising his bow then shrugged it off as “my stupidity, my fault.” Now situated and seated in my stand, I wondered if I could even draw my bow back with the bum hand.  So, I stood up quietly, drew the bow and wow, man did that hurt.  I sat back down and thought once again, I hope a big buck goes by my son instead of me this evening.  Not real sure I could even draw again.

45 minutes later, about 6:05pm, I caught movement from over my right shoulder.  Yep, you guessed it.  It was a buck, but a very small buck.  Knowing that early in this season the bucks were still traveling together, I stood, turned and prepared.  Sure enough, 5 yards behind the 4 point, was a small basket 8 point.  Immediately I decided not to shoot this small 8.  To my surprise, directly on his heals was a really nice 8 point.  Now I was getting excited.  By the way, the first buck in front had walked directly under my stand and was now in front of my stand.  I drew slowly, aimed center mass of the shooting lane in a gap in the brush.  The small 8 point buck walked through the gap, and then “There he was”,  A fine 8 point standing in the gap.  Once again, I picked my area of hair behind the shoulder, quartered down, controlled the breathing, paused, and slowly squeezed the trigger release.

{Wham} I dropped him in his tracks.  I intended to penetrate spine, heart, and lung if possible again and sure enough, the broadhead did the work.  Can you believe this, 6 yards, another nice buck on the ground, just laying there.  I stood in amazement, I was shocked.  This was a really nice buck, pretty wide and may score as well.  The odd thing about this was, “dropped in his tracks.”  The very thing every hunter hopes for is to find the deer, or even better a swift and clean kill.  Well, not only did I find the deer three or four days ago, I found this one too.  I was like a dream.  Two 8 point bucks, both bow kills, both in the same week, both dropped in their tracks. I realized after a brief moment of silence, that my hand did not hurt anymore, and to make things even better, my son was on this hunt with me only 100 yards away. The two bucks that were in front of this one, there would be a good chance Chase saw them or even may get a shot.  But what will always cross my mind is how big was the buck that was still coming in from behind the buck I harvested.  I saw him jump when I released.  I climbed down and walked to Chases stand, walked cautiously up to the side of him and told him we had a good buck down.  Excited, he said he saw two bucks running and asked how big my buck was.  I told him, “well, I don’t know really, maybe you should help me track him”.  Chase was so excited when he walked up to my tree, buck in plain site.  “Man, I’m gonna get me a buck like that” I went to retrieve the 4-wheeler, we loaded the deer and headed to the house.  I was kind of in a hurry as the darkness was starting to set in, and I still needed to check this buck in too.  Arriving at our home on the mountain, my father stepped out on the deck and observed our approach.  My father had just come in from out of town that day to visit us for a week, so that was kind of cool him seeing me bring in another deer.  He was a big deer hunter with hunting skills that I always admired.

As far as the wife goes, she was so excited.  Not so much that I had gotten a nice buck, but that I had gotten two nice bucks with a bow in the first week of hunting season.  She rubbed it in real good to her two brothers whom still hadn’t harvested anything.  The next morning, as I watched the brother in laws roll out to the woods to deer hunt, I told them the same thing I always told them.  “Good luck and I hope you get a big one” Every bit of this is true, and I honestly believe this will be hard for me to beat next year.  After all, now my season just went from deer season, to “dear” season.  Being tagged out in the first week of bow season is a sure sign that honey-do’s will be a major part of the rest of my season.

My son killed his first buck last season. Now if that isn’t a milestone in a young man’s life I don’t know what is. Sadly, there are too many young men who will never experience this milestone because of the changing values of this country. I was fortunate to grow up in a family that saw guns as tools, and hunting as both a pleasure and a necessity, and even though I am raising my family in the midst of suburban America, I still strive to impart to my boys the values of self-reliance and self-sufficiency. In my opinion, hunting is one of the best methods to do that. But that’s grist for an entirely different mill.

I’ll spare you all the burdensome details, but last fall I lost a valuable hunting lease in Baldwin county Georgia. It was about 1,000 acres of mixed farmland, hardwoods, and pine saplings that I shared with exactly zero other hunters for the vast sum of only $400. Fortunately I was able to secure one spot for myself with the hunting club that assumed the lease. But try as I might I couldn’t get more than a single spot. I was told that I could take my son, but only ONE firearm between the two us. It was a bitter pill to swallow to share property with five other hunters that for 10 plus years I’d had all to myself.

Josh and I missed opening weekend, but the second weekend found us on the stand in the predawn darkness. I picked out two side by side limbless trees that were close enough that I could whisper instructions to Josh, since I had decided that he would be the shooter this trip. We were in a good spot in the rear corner of the field, with a hardwood bottom to our backs and the perfect amount of cover between us and the edge of the field. This is about the point where Murphy made his appearance. I was so focused on helping Josh be quiet with his tree-climber stand that I fumbled and dropped a crucial wingnut in the weeds at the base of my tree. I had suffered the same loss of a critical wingnut years before, and I usually kept a spare taped to the stand. Now, standing there in the steadily lightening morning, I remembered using my spare wingnut on a home repair project during the summer. I had intended to replace it and had never gotten around to it. I cursed the ill luck and resigned to just stand quietly at the base of the tree.

Josh’s assembly of his stand, and his climb up the tree were about as quiet as a bull in a china shop! Clearly he had not practiced using his stand like I had instructed. My heart sank because I just knew that this would be a wasted hunt. The mosquitoes moved in for breakfast and my misery was complete.

Shortly after sunrise we watched three does work their way down along the far side of the field. Josh and I had already agreed that, even though it was a Doe Day weekend, we were there for horns! We enjoyed the view but we stuck to the plan. Seeing deer, any deer, always makes me feel good – even if I don’t shoot. I had begun to think that maybe Murphy would go ahead and leave us alone, but he made another appearance about this point.

I’ve been hunting deer for nearly thirty years, and one thing I’ve learned about the Whitetail buck is that he will usually show up when and where you least expect him. From the hardwood bottom to our left rear came a sound that makes a hunter’s ears perk up: the unmistakable noise made by a deer walking purposefully through dry leaves. In less time than it takes to tell about it, a nice six-point buck approached our stands. Josh, who had climbed to a height of only about ten feet above me, turned slowly and looked down at me with a look of absolute horror and frustration. At first I failed to understand why, but then it hit me. Josh is left-handed. His natural field of fire is to his right. The buck was coming from the one direction that would make it almost impossible for him to get a shot. Because of Josh’s height (in the tree), he couldn’t safely pass me the rifle. Because of how quickly the buck had appeared and how quickly he had closed the distance to us, there wasn’t time to make a move without making lots of unwelcome noise. I experienced the most incredible mix of frustration and thrill as I stood as still as a statue and watched the very shootable buck walk by at a distance of no more than ten feet! He never showed the first sign that he saw us, which is pretty remarkable since I was standing at ground level with my back up against a tree. That was the closest I have ever been to a deer “on the hoof”, and it was something I will never forget.

Later, as Josh and I trudged dejectedly to the house, we talked about all the things that we had done wrong. That afternoon, with a replacement wingnut and another one as a spare, we went back to our stands. This time we switched positions relative to one another. Josh sitting the right, and me to the left meant that he would cover the right and I would cover the left. The only route of an animal’s approach that we couldn’t adequately cover would be directly behind us. Of course, you know…that is exactly where the next buck came from: directly behind us.

The climb was much quieter than our morning climb since we had no setup noises to make, having left the stands at the base of the trees. Now we were positioned about 5 feet apart from one another, and about 15 feet high. Before us lay a mown hayfield, 200 yards wide and 800 yards long. The right side boundary of the field was formed by a tree line that ran the full length of the field, and at no point was wider than 20 yards. Its left boundary was a more substantial strip of woods that probably averaged 150 yards wide its full length. All the adjoining fields were backed by a low swampy bottom that stretched back to the Oconee River. And out of this bottom, straight behind us, came Josh’s buck.

Our prey was no trophy, but he was a buck of legal size sporting four points. I wouldn’t have shot this fellow, but then I have killed more deer than I can count [I feel compelled to write that this is not bragging. Many of mine were equally humble]. This would be Josh’s first kill, if he so desired. We had been back on our stands for about hour or so when the sound of the approaching animal came to our ear. Our visitor came up the incline out of the swamp, and entered the only bone fide thicket anywhere near our position. To my son’s extreme right, the tree line began. At this precise spot, the underbrush thickened to the degree that I would not advise a shot into it. The buck first paused on the far side of the underbrush and began working a rub. All this time, Josh and I had stayed still as was possible given that hungry mosquitoes had passed the word to their sisters that the evening meal had arrived. We had mouthed a few things back and forth, but as the deer close closer we avoided all sounds and slowed down to the speed of minute hands. Even though he was barely 30 yards away, I communicated to Josh that he ought not to shoot through the brush. Better to wait and see if the buck moved into a different spot allowing a more clear shot.

The buck, oblivious to our presence, continued to work his rub for the next quarter of an hour it seemed. After a bit he began to move on up the tree line, in effect quartering away from us though increasingly thicker cover. Disappointment crept into Josh’s face but I whispered to him to hang on and see what happens. Something told me that the closer we got to sunset, the more likely our buck would leave the concealment of the tree line and venture out into the field. If he did that within a reasonable distance, “you’ll most definitely get a shot” I said.

You might wonder at the fact we were now speaking to one another with a deer still so close. But the truth is, our rambunctious young buck was fully committed to a new rub to the extent that he was making plenty of cover noise for us. Although he was now about 50 or 60 yards away, we couldn’t see a single bit of him. We could hear every sound he made however.

The minutes passed. Josh and I both relaxed some, but we stayed at the ready. I observed my son and was proud to note that he was practicing excellent movement discipline and noise discipline. He was showing the signs of being a deliberate and focused hunter, and to note that pleased me immensely.

As sunset was still three quarters of an hour away, we were more concerned that the buck would get too far away before he made his left turn out into the open. He had finished with the second rub and now was proceeding further away up the treeline. Josh is a good shot, but if the animal was 200 yards away across the field, the chances of an accurate shot with the 30-30 would be greatly reduced.

Suddenly the deer made an appearance on the edge of the field. He looked to be about 70 yards away. Josh tensed and watched the animal intently. The line of sight from the hunter to the prey was not yet clear of brush. He waited and watched patiently. I watched both deer and man.

After what seemed to be five minutes of browsing along the tree line our buck turned and stepped further into the field. The change in position brought a nearly clear view to Josh and without hesitation he slowly stood up to further improve his view. As he rose from his seat he slowly brought the rifle to his shoulder. In one very slow and deliberate move he put himself into the firing position he needed. Liking what he saw, he silently cocked the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger. The report was sharp and the impact was obvious. I witnessed a perfect shot behind the animal’s left shoulder. The buck winced and attempted to rush from the spot. A staggering leftward circle was never completed as the animal stumbled and fell within twenty yards.

We waited a couple minutes before starting down from our stands. I cannot give an adequate description of all that I felt and all that Josh felt during those next few minutes. Pride comes high on both our lists if we were to try and list all the emotions that possessed us. His pride at his first kill. My pride at seeing proof that the boy …was a boy no longer.

By Tony Middleton