November 14. Day 24 in the stand this year. The brutal front from the past few days finally lifted, and the morning was calm and clear. November 14, my favorite day of the deer year, the day I killed my first bow buck, and the day I killed my biggest bow buck a year later, a 167″ beauty that stands guard on my wall at home. The wind was perfect and excitement was in the air as I headed to my favorite stand this morning. As I slipped on my jacket and buckled on my release, I said a short prayer, winked at Orion in the sky above me, and thanked aloud my Grandfather for leaving me this little piece of Iowa whitetail heaven.
6:15, light is barely breaking as I clip my bow onto its hoist from the ground below my stand, and a tight-racked brutish-bodied 8-pointer I’ve come to know all too well over the past 24 days cruises down the other side of the ravine past me, a mere 10 yards away. I wait until he passes, then ascend into my stand.
7:15, daylight is here and so is the full-on Iowa whitetail rut. Does descend the corridor mere yards from my tree down from their CRP fields above to their daytime haunts in the dense oak ridge below. Bucks materialize left and right, a nice 8 on the left, a young 9 past me on the right, a fork crossing in front. Footsteps again behind me, this time I turn to see a young doe only feet from the base of my tree. I watch her intently, but suddenly my gaze shifts as I catch movement out of my upper visual fields. I glance up, and at 35 yards up the ravine stands the man of the hour, the brute I’ve been chasing these past 24 days, a heavy-beamed massive 6×4 I first caught a glimpse of this August on my trail camera.
7:20. Minutes pass as he stands guard above his doe, watching her slowly meander down the ravine past me, feeding along the way. Cautiously, he too descends the ravine, one step at a time, painstakingly slow, but following a trail that will bring him by me at 10 yards. After what seems like an eternity, he finally nears my shooting lane, less than 10 yards from the base of my tree. I quietly draw, breathe deeply, and fight off the shakes. One step, then another, and there he is at 9 yards, barely quartering towards me, maybe 10 degrees off perpendicular. He stops, I settle the pin, squeeze the release, and launch the arrow, at what should have been the easiest shot of my life. CRACK!! is all I hear as the arrow hits home, and the buck spins and makes a mad dash up the ravine where he came from. I look, and see that my arrow, once aimed perpendicular to his chest, is now nearly parallel to his body, with the fletchings jutting out towards his head. He slams into a tree and snaps off the arrow, runs another 70 yards, then suddenly stops in a cedar thicket.
7:35. I stare through my binoculars forever looking for my deer, beginning to think my shot may have done its intended duty. Suddenly he materializes from the thicket, walking at a slow, stubborn pace, head down, tail tucked, limping each time he plants his right front leg. He stops again, clearly in view broadside at 100 yards. He stands there for 5 minutes, surveying his surroundings, then slowly limps off, one step at a time, over a small rise, down into the place whitetails go to die, the thickest brush-choked creek bottom imaginable. I look at my watch and it is 7:40.
8:00, I quietly slip down, and find my arrow. Snapped off clean, with just 6-7 inches missing. I cursed myself as I snuck away.
11:20, 4 hours have passed since the shot. I stop my by uncle to tell him the news; he offers to help track but I insist that this is going to be a hunting job, not a tracking job, as I’d seen this before. I’d rather go it alone, preferring to silently stalk to where I knew he would be bedded. I offered to let him stand guard on the road on the south end of the farm, to see if he crosses the road should I bump him out. He agrees. I start my hunting job bow in hand, tracking into the wind and following the small blood trail.
12:00. My phone rings just as I’m broaching the hilltop to descend into death valley. Its my uncle. He decided to take a walk on his own in the creek bottom, to “see if he could find him on his own.” Find him he did, as he jumped him from the very reed patch along the creek bottom I insisted he would be lying in. He excitedly shouts that he’s “heading my way” and to “head him off in the next ravine over.” I make haste over the hill top, fly down into the ravine looking for an opening where he may cross and I can get a shot. Just as I get there, I spot him as he spots me 100 yards away across the narrow ravine. He spins, and stumbles up the hillside, falling and crashing into brush as he climbed the steep hill out towards the road. I lose sight of him in the thick brush, assume he crossed the road into the neighboring golf course, and sit totally dejected. I give him a few minutes, then spent the next two hours searching for blood. I find spots here and there, splashes, drops, wiped on tall brush. Some dark red, some bright red, but with small bubbles throughout. The blood trail ends, the deer is gone. I dropped off my bow and spent the rest of the day walking the golf course in full camouflage, with hide nor hair nor blood of the buck to be found.
Long story short, somehow a seemingly perfect shot went awry. I shoot a Diamond Black Ice, 65 pounds of draw weight, 340 grain Easton Axis N-Fused arrows and 100 grain Slick Tricks. All I can imagine is that I either glanced off the back of his shoulder, deflecting my arrow posteriorly and shallow, or deflected off a rib, again deflecting the arrow at a shallow posterior angle. The blood was scant, some brighter, some darker, some with bubbles mixed in, meaning to me I hit some part of his right lung. Even if I hit shoulder head on, I would have thought that my setup could break through that bone.
The worst part is I have to work dawn to dusk all week.
Lessons I learned today:
#1 Contrary to what most believe, more is not always better when it comes to tracking. I prefer to track alone, and this case exemplifies why.
#2 Woudned deer go downhill.
#3 Wounded deer always go to water. Always.
If anyone has any suggestions or comments, please bring them. I am sick with regret and remorse, and praying that he circled back down onto my farm where I can find him next weekend. He has 6-7 inches of arrow with a fixed 4-blade broadhead in him, likely cutting away with every step, and I do think I at least hit his lung at a shallow angle, given the bubbles in the blood. To me he’s a dead deer, now the only question is where.
If anyone read through all my rambling, what are your thoughts?
