I took a deep breath after stepping out into the early morning air; the cold front had cooled an otherwise warm October. A perfect morning for a hunt.
Court’s eyes were bright as he handed me a stool to carry to the blind.
“Are you ready?” he whispered. I could only nod in response.
It would be my first bow hurt, and I was going after a monster buck known as Big Boy. After hunting him last year and failing, I had already decided I wouldn’t wait on him forever.
This year, though, he was regularly appearing on camera at the same time and same place every morning. After flipping through the pictures the night before, there was a very real possibility that he could be there today.
We settled into the stand and it was all I could do to keep my breathing steady.
After 6 years, I was archery hunting for the first time. I had watched so many professional hunters bow hunt on their shows, and it was astounding just how much could go wrong.
I tried to swallow my intimidation while adjusting the crossbow in front of me. Though I had only gotten a few shots once, I felt okay about it all. Without sounding like I’m bragging, I’m a pretty accurate shot. But lack of experience breeds doubt, and I was starting to doubt myself.
As the sun rose, we practiced ranging some raccoons that had come out underneath the feeder. A strange feeling solidified in my gut the longer we were there; I couldn’t tell if it was frustration or even relief that Big Boy hadn’t shown up yet.
Just when I had given up on seeing the old buck, there was a ruckus in the trees behind the stand and we both perked up. Moments later, no less than ten turkey hens came running to the corn, clucking their delight at such a feast.
I couldn’t help the smile that came to my face as we watched them. Unexpected turkeys have become one of my favorite things about deer hunting.
We watched them demolish the corn on the ground until their presumed leader lifted her head high, observing the sendero for the first time. With a couple of clucks, she started marching down the sendero, her fellow hens falling into line behind her like some kind of turkey militia moving on to the next feeder.
As they passed just feet from us, I knew in my heart that bow hunting might just be one of the most amazing experiences.
Still smiling after such a close encounter, we decided to call it. There were camera cards to gather and plenty of time for some extra shooting practice.
The camera cards yielded some interesting information about our target deer, and after looking through them, I had three target bucks on my mind.
Of course, Big Boy was hope number one, but his appearances were sporadic at best. Court and I didn’t feel optimistic about seeing him.
My second and more realistic large buck target was one that I had named Bent Bow. To my delight, the nice eight pointer that I let go at the end of last season had returned this year as a wide, mature eight pointer that was easily the second largest deer on the property.
But the deer that really made my heart skip a beat was a little spike. Looking back, I know in my heart that he was the deer I had hoped to see most because the idea of taking my first archery shot at a monster buck was terrifying.
Every year, my control and poise improved, but you just never know what’s going to happen when a monster buck walks out in front of you. I remembered my intimidation and the effort it took to stay in control when I took aim on my largest deer, the BFE. Every part of me shook and it was all I could to control my breathing; but with a rifle, I was able to make an accurate shot.
With a rifle.
Again, after watching so many episodes of bow hunting online and talking to so many more experienced hunters about their experiences during bow season, I was very well aware of the challenges and pitfalls.
I remember when it came to my first deer ever, my husband had been adamant that it was a doe. With a doe, you don’t get the same buck fever and you can focus on making a great shot.
With limited doe tags for the ranch, my best option was a spike. The antlers wouldn’t intimidate me, the meat would be amazing, and it would be a great cull deer for the herd.
With new intel for the rest of our hunts, it was time to get some work done. While Court sawed up the larger pieces of wood for firewood, I stacked them along the fence at the edge lawn around the cabin.
Out of the quiet, windy morning, a gobble rang out and we froze. Before I could process how close it was, clucks erupted from the trees on the other side of the fence where we stacked the wood. We dropped to the ground as 10 turkey hens swarmed the little feeder in the trees with militaristic precision.
Again, their presumed leader kept watch as they demolished the corn there, too. I crawled towards the fence, maybe 10 yards from the turkey frenzy.
Just as quickly as it started, the turkeys fell back into line and disappeared back into the trees. I have to say, the more time I get to spend around them, the more I love turkeys. They know what they want, and they don’t mess around; I can respect that.
Once the work was done, we decided to get in a little more crossbow practice. The wind whipped around us, and timing in between gusts became everything as we practiced at 20, then 30, then 40 yards.
A crossbow is a strange thing to shoot. Many people think of it as a rifle that shoots bolts, but it’s just not that simple. Sure, the mechanics of it are more like a rifle, but the range and the way you have to aim it are just like a compound bow.
Having shot rifles a lot and compound bows enough, it was very comforting to have the extra practice. Now we only had to wait until the late afternoon.
One lunch at the Empresario and a good nap later, we found ourselves heading back out down range from the cabin. Even armed with the knowledge that all of our target deer had appeared at our new hunting spot multiple times, nothing was guaranteed.
While our morning hunt had been in a blind 35 yards from the feeder, we were hunting in a stand 65 yards from the feeder with a trail of corn leading to a massive pile right at about 20 yards. If I’m being honest, I was skeptical. Why would a deer leave all the corn at the feeder for a pile 30 yards away?
I would find out.
Moments after the feeder went off, a doe peeked out from the tree line, examining the scene for anything suspicious. My heart beat faster as she crossed the sendero and was followed by another doe. They repeated this crisscross pattern until they reached the feeder.
We watched them wander around for almost 30 minutes, and I tried to ignore my flaring frustration. There they were, standing broadside within easy rifle range, and here I was trying to get them with a bow.
No wonder people eventually ditched bows and arrows for rifles long ago.
Just when I was considering how I could sneak up on them across an open road, another deer stepped into the sendero; a young buck. As he started mozying towards the feeder, I dared to hope that he might bump them closer to our trail of corn.
The young buck took one look at the little does and leapt towards them, standing over his corn like a dragon over its treasure. The does scattered into the trees, but I didn’t give up hope.
Moments passed and they wandered back into the open, but they were much closer this time. They had found the trail of corn and were slowly working their way down the sendero towards the stand. Somehow, it had worked!
Court started ranging them as I set up the crossbow. I had to raise the chair as high as it would go, and now I could only see by watching through the scope.
“55 yards” Court whispered, as we watched them come closer.
I studied them, imagining the moment when they would step broadside and I could make a safe shot. All in good time.
“50 yards.”
My heart started beating as they inched closer, and it was all I could do to stop shaking. I drew on all of my ballet training to keep my body calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“45 yards.”
Almost within range… A shape moved into the scope behind the does; the buck. He was following them down the sendero, greedily chomping on the corn. This was okay, though, we only needed him to push them about 10 yards closer.
Court and I had agreed that 40 yards would be the absolute limit on taking a shot, but we were hoping for 30-35. I watched as they inched ever closer…
The buck leapt forward and scattered them to the right. This time, they didn’t reemerge.
I lowered the seat and looked at Court as the buck kept wandering closer. Even though we were disappointed that the hunt was over, I couldn’t help but feel a little breathless after being so close.
As the sun slowly sank behind the trees, we watched the little buck wander to about 25 yards from the stand. I jokingly called him Lucky as he chomped on the corn and we studied him for distance and ideal shot placement. Goliad County is an antler restricted county, so he wouldn’t be a legal deer for a few years anyway.
As we slowly walked back to the cabin in the dark, though, I wasn’t discouraged. There’s something about walking back in the quiet twilight that stirs deeper reflections after a hunt. The more I thought about how things had played out on this first day, I realized it was all for the best.
If Big Boy or Bent Bow had walked out this morning, I don’t think I would’ve been ready, and that would’ve been worse than not seeing them at all. By the time I felt ready and confident, I had to experience another bow hunting reality; sometimes, they just don’t give you a chance.
My first day of bow hunting had proved to be pretty eventful and educational, and I was ready to see what our last morning hunt would bring.
Jess and the Outdoors 