Eight Pointed Dream: The Story of the B.F.E.

From the moment after my first deer hunt, I fantasized about my dream deer on the wall. Most hunters probably do; the deer that outdoorsmen or women’s dreams are made of.

Mine was always a huge, symmetrical, graceful 8-point. Antlers that reached to the sky like carefully shaped tree branches, a rack that was tall and wide. I just knew it would be many years before I had a chance at something like that. Or would it?

It was just another Sunday, Court and I were sitting on the couch after a day of chores and preparation for the week. Ding. Court checked his phone and let out a little whistle.

“Look what Justin just sent me.”

I peered over the side table at the message. It was a picture of a massive and almost perfectly symmetrical eight-point buck, presumably from his friend’s ranch. Underneath, the text said, “Is this big enough for Jess?”

I chuckled with wide eyes. “He’s a bruiser! That’s just cruel!” I sat back and shook my head. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to see something like that in person.

Court shrugged and replied. Ding. “Do you want to go hunt for him this weekend?”

I froze, heart pounding. “For real?”

“Yes! Do you want to go?”

I practically leapt off the couch. “YES! YES! Oh my gosh, do you think he’ll actually come out?!”

“He might!”

I was over the moon. This was everything I had ever dreamed of in a buck, and it was actually possible. I could hardly sit still for longer than a few seconds.

I turned my focus to the current episode of “MeatEater” that we were watching on Netflix, an episode where Steve brought his friend Janis and Janis’s father on a moose hunt. Steve and Janis talked up a pretty difficult hunt and on day one, Janis Sr. harvested the first moose of the trip. They gave him a hard time, but he just shrugged and in his Latvian accent told them he had manifested that moose, so he wasn’t surprised.

Court caught my eye and pointed at the screen with a wink. “Just manifest that deer!” I shrugged, but got to thinking… Could it be possible?

Now, yes, I know that I do not actually have the power to “manifest” something just because I will it to happen or into existence. But the idea of sending such positive energy into the universe that it comes back to you… It was intriguing enough to try.

Off and on throughout every day that week, I focused every ounce of my will on visualizing that deer appearing in the sendero. By Thursday, I just knew, with all my being, that I would see that deer that weekend.

I regularly told Court this, too. “I just know it, we’re going to see the B.F.E. this weekend.”

“The B. F. what?”

I shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been calling it in my mind… The Big Freakin’ Eight. B.F.8 just didn’t have the same ring to it.”

As I went to sleep at night and as I woke in the morning, that same gut feeling persisted that we would get a shot at the B.F.E.

And on Friday morning, our entire area flash flooded. I mean that even in our neighborhood, which is above the flood plane, I could barely back my SUV out of the driveway because the water had gotten so high. With the ranch just outside town, the roads that weren’t already underwater there would be almost impossible to traverse.

I felt my dream buck slipping out of my grasp. This couldn’t be happening… It felt like a cruel joke. Court assured me that we would try later in the weekend if the roads became passable. It was difficult to stay positive.

The sun burned bright all day the next day, slowly drying up the earth. I manifested, visualized, prayed, and everything else that they tell you to do for those roads to dry up so we could just have a chance. Just a chance, that was all I wanted.

By the end of the day on Saturday, we had decided to give it a go. My heart hammered in my chest as the F250 plowed through thick mud in the predawn darkness that hadn’t completely dried yet. Despite barely being able to sleep the night before, I was alert and ready.

We met up with the ranch manager and he took us out to the stand where the massive buck had recently been seen. I worked to control my thundering pulse as we climbed up the ladder into the stand and settled in. With a thumbs up, Doug was gone and left us there to wait for the beast.

As the sun started to peek above the trees, shadows took shape below us in the senderos. Does and a couple of smaller bucks loitered around a trail of corn, warming their fur in the early-morning sun. We carefully scanned each buck, but they were not the one we were seeking.

Just as the sun finally crested above the trees, a dark shape appeared at the very end of the sendero. Court and I immediately sat up from our chairs in the stand and carefully peered at it through the binoculars.

We could tell this buck was darker than the others even as it waited in the shade of the trees, its thick body still as it bent to munch on some corn. My heart started to race again, but I wasn’t sure if I dared to hope that it was our target buck.

He lifted his head up to the side, and I strained to get a good look at this antlers. They blurred into the tree limbs behind him; we would have to wait until he got closer. Court lowered his binoculars slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I think that’s him.”

I wasn’t so sure. Luck had not been on our side so far!

We watched with baited breath as he slowly meandered closer. Every time he started to move, we both glanced at him again through the binoculars and the rifle scope.

As he stopped about 200 yards from the stand, we finally got a good look at him, and my breath caught in my throat. There he was, those nearly perfect antlers reaching up into the sky above him as he lazily swiveled his head to survey the deer around him. I had never imagined getting to see my dream deer within the first four years of my hunting career, but there he was. He was purely majestic as he stood completely still among the other deer.

Court and I both turned to each other and said “that’s him!” at the same moment.

I grimaced as I studied him again. He was surrounded by other deer, and there was no clear shot. My heart beat frantically, but I knew we needed to wait for a safer shot.

After a few more moments he started wading through the other deer directly towards the stand. I readied myself as he slowly broke away from the group and stepped to the right, completely broadside.

I took a deep breath, slowly tracing my index finger to the trigger, and then exhaled slowly and smoothly…

Then promptly removed my hand from the trigger as he turned head-on to us and started walking again.

Buck fever was settling in, and I had to fight to regain control of my breathing and heart beat. Court put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, he’ll give you another shot, just wait.”

He meandered a few yards closer, easily within 100 yards of us now. The buck slowly came to a stop and stepped broadside again to examine a piece of corn. I was ready, moved my finger to the trigger, started to exhale…

And dropped my hand away as he turned towards us again. Buck fever was slowly turning into frustration and fear that I would miss a shot. No, I wouldn’t miss; I would take the next shot I was given, no fear. I was 5/5 at this point in my hunting career; I wouldn’t miss, and I would make a good shot.

The buck started to slow down again. Court watched through his binoculars as he spoke. “You can do this…”

The buck had nearly come to a stop…

“Just take the first shot…”

He started to step broadside again…

“He gives you…”

I expelled the air in my lungs until there was nothing but the tiny spot behind his shoulder and my finger on the trigger…

“When you feel…”

BOOM!

So much happened at once. The buck dropped to the ground as the other deer scattered around him. The shell flew through the deer stand. My ears rang as my breath came back and my grip loosened on the rifle that I still held in a shooting position. Somewhere to my left, Court had jumped and was now watching through his binoculars.

He smiled broadly as he grabbed my shoulder. “You surprised me!” He glanced down at the deer below us. “You smoked him, he dropped right in his tracks. Look!”

I let my eyes adjust from staring into the scope for so long and saw him, my dream deer, exactly where he had been standing when I fired. Suddenly, it hit me; I actually did it. This deer that I had sent all the vibes into the universe for was real, and he was right there, waiting for me.

“Should we got get him?” I couldn’t even find the words, so I just nodded wildly and carefully grabbed my rifle to bring with us.

I couldn’t breathe as we walked up to him. He was just so beautiful, everything I had ever dreamed of and imagined in my dream deer. His coat was tinged with some grey, his body thick and strongly muscled after a long season of the rut. A big scar marred his side from aggressive encounters with other bucks. I placed a gentle hand in his fur and looked into his brown eyes.

I took a deep breath as I carefully lifted up his heavy head, the rack wider than my shoulders. Even thinking back to those moments of seeing him up close for the first time, words just can’t accurately capture my admiration for such an incredible creature.

Before I had ever really started hunting, I had always wondered how people could kill something that they revered as something of beauty, especially a gentle creature like a deer. As I’ve hunted more, I’ve learned that the relationship between hunters and their prey is a complicated one.

It comes down to the fact that hunting isn’t only about killing.

It’s about food. I still remember feeling conflicted after my first harvest until my husband made me venison tenderloin and eggs for breakfast the next morning. It solidified that connection for me, that hunting is just as much about food as anything else. It’s just one of many possible outcomes in the circle of life.

It’s about experiencing nature. It’s watching the does and the yearlings trailing after them. Starting when turkeys traipse into the feeder like little velociraptors, heads bobbing every which way. Giggling as a feisty little spike stands guard over the corn. Catching the flashes of emerald green and turquoise of Mexican green jays’ wings as they spiral through the air. It’s seeing these animals in their own world, living their lives.

And the more time I’ve spent around them, the more I’ve come to love them. The few times we interact with them up close are truly magical, even when it’s just before taking them away to turn into food for our freezer. Like I said, it’s complex, and it’s difficult to really put into words, but I hope to find the words for it someday.

The Big Freakin’ Eight (B.F.E.) now stands guard over our living room. During the following deer season, when I would spend every hunt relentlessly searching for Big Boy, the B. F.E. would be my reminder that these big, mature deer are few and far between, and that’s part of what makes harvesting one so special. He would remind me to be grateful for the ability to hunt at all and the generosity of others that are willing to share their resources with us.

Throughout my 6th hunting season, I’ve looked into the eyes of that buck again and remembered how lucky I am to have harvested my dream deer.