Hunter’s First Buck

The author of this report is Charlie Black

Recently, many of you read my recap of my middle son’s (Ben) good fortune in shooting his first deer which turned out to be a very nice 9 pt buck. In an effort to maintain equality, fairness and healthy levels of sibling rivalry within my three sons, I am now submitting my recap of my oldest son’s accomplishment, a mere four days later after Ben’s.

Hunter Black – Age 13

Hunter hunted last year for one day with no success. Not that he didn’t have his chances, however. You see, Hunter wants a nice buck for his first deer, much to my dismay. I’m fine with dreaming big, but not on your first deer. A first deer for anyone, child or adult, can be difficult. Sometimes it happens easily, sometimes it takes years. Sometimes it takes so long that a person quits trying. Throw in the base requirement of a "nice buck", and you’ve really got a challenge on your hands. Especially as a father. Last year, Hunter passed on a decent 7-point buck that he should have shot. And he lived with that regret for the past year. To make it worse, finally opening day arrives in ’09, and Little Brother Ben gets to go first because he has better grades in school. Don’t judge me…I needed a tiebreaker.

Hunter’s personality and temperament is somewhat different than Ben’s. Patience is not a virtue. Immediate satisfaction is gold. 2nd place is 1st loser, etc. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful kid. He’s just a little wound up. Needless to say, when Little Brother rolled up with his 9-point monster, Hunt’s sky-blue eyes immediately turned to Army green in an instant. I knew that whatever challenges I had faced last year with getting Hunter a buck had just quadrupled. In Hunter’s defense, he actually handled Ben’s arrival pretty well, giving him high-fives, taking pics with his phone, calling his friends, etc. But I knew it was coming. Deep down inside my young teenager’s heart and mind, a storm was brewing. And once the initial hoopla of Ben’s buck had somewhat subsided, the first shot was fired at both me and Benjamin.

"Wait until you see the size of buck I’m gonna shoot this weekend." Hunter sneered. "Oh boy." I thought. "Here we go."

The next 48 hours were spent with me trying to subdue Hunter’s expectations. I used direct approaches – "Any buck is a great buck for your first deer." I used philosophical approaches – "There’s a buck walking in the woods tonight that you’re destined to shoot. The size of that buck is irrelevant." I used reverse psychology – "I bet you won’t even see a buck worth shooting this weekend." He took it all in stride and never wavered. He knew the true Big One was out there, and he was bound and determined to get it. I, too, knew the Big One is out there. I’ve been chasing him for the past two months with my bow. And he’s a ghost. This was going to be a long weekend.

The wind was a light breeze out of the south four days after Ben shot his monster. It was colder, but not quite unbearable. Our morning sit on top of a ridge in a nice, comfy box blind produced sightings of four does and two bucks. One of the bucks was a little spike, the other was a buck that Dad tried to deem a "shooter".

"Nah." Hunt said as he peered at the buck through his scope. "He’s a wide 8-pointer, but look how short his rack is. He gets a pass."

"Oh boy." I thought. "Here we go."

At 11:00, we left and went to town for lunch and to regroup. I checked the weather and the wind was going to stay fairly obedient all day long. I decided that we were going to stay in the comfy box blind on the ridge that afternoon. Hunter didn’t particularly like this call, as he knew of Ben’s travels into the wilderness to claim his beast. Hunter wanted his shot. I explained to him that high wind is your friend in those types of efforts, and the wind wasn’t blowing that hard on this particular day. "So. We can try." he somewhat-politely requested. What Hunter couldn’t possibly understand is how hard, and nearly impossible, it was for Ben to accomplish what he had accomplished. Some skill and a lot of luck. That’s what made it a great story. But I knew that my odds of maintaining unanimous "Dad of the Year" status in our house would be greatly reduced if I didn’t try and do the same for Hunt.

So here we are, deep in the woods, that afternoon. I found another rub, far from Ben’s area. We made the makeshift blind of logs and branches, numbered the shooting lanes, practiced the moves, etc. Exactly what I had done with Ben. I could tell Hunter was getting excited. It was like this was some sort of teenage video game where the same thing happens every time you master a certain level. We had just cleared level 5, and Level 6 is when the big buck comes. Level 7 is the shot, and so on. If only that were true.

At 3:00, and after about 30 minutes of seeing nothing besides a few squirrels that Hunter pretended to shoot, I picked up my antlers. "All right, big boy. Time to get this party started." I mumbled to Hunter as I busted into a short little rattling session.

Five minutes later (and very much to my surprise) I see the dark shape of a deer moving in the shadows of the creek bed below us. I can only see its back, but it appears to be a large-bodied deer. "You have got to be kidding me." I thought to myself.

"There’s a deer moving down there." I whispered to Hunter. "Lane 4."

We wait. I can hear the deer coming up at us from the creek bed. If and when the deer crests the ridge in front of us, its going to be about 10 yards away. If it’s the monster, I’m going to die and go straight to Heaven and wave to St. Peter as I fly by. But instead, it was only a little one-sided spike buck. We exhale and watch the little buck walk around our feet, no more than 8 feet from us, looking for the the brawl he thought he had heard earlier. Hunter and I joked about the little guy. He was cute, and apparently fearless. At one point he was 10 feet away from us and he started walking towards us. I said "Uh oh…" which made Hunter start cracking up. It was a great experience. Hunter loved it. So did I.

At 4:00 the shadows grew long and I started realizing that I wasn’t exactly sure that I knew where I was. I knew I could get back to the four-wheeler, but it was the uphill battle, literally, with a 13-year old searching in the dark that I wasn’t looking forward to. Plus, the wind had died down completely. "Let’s bail. Let’s get back up top." I said.

"I’ll do it if you think that’s what we should do, Dad. It’s up to you." he said, looking me in the eyes.

The pressure was building.

Back up top for the final 1/2 hour of sunlight. With five minutes left, I see a buck on the edge of the woods about 75 yards away. It’s a nice 8-point buck. Not a monster, but certainly a shooter by my standards for Hunter. He finds the deer in the scope, and says "You talking about that little spike buck?"

"SPIKE BUCK?!?" I blurted out. "If you think that’s a spike buck, then you’re never gonna shoot a deer! That’s a nice deer!" Okay, so maybe my patience is running thin at this point. I attempt a polite recovery. "Are you sure you’re looking at the deer I’m looking at?" Just as I say the words, another deer moves ahead of the buck as both deer proceed to leave the area. It’s a spike buck. That’s the deer Hunter was seeing. I felt better. Not 100% better, but better.

The next morning as we’re eating a quick breakfast, Hunter makes a profound declaration. "Today, I will shoot my buck." He didn’t refer to the monster or size of his buck. He just said "his buck".

"Ya think so, do ya?" I replied, hiding my optimism of a possible change in Hunter’s buck standards.

"Yep. I can feel it." he said, matter-of-factly.

"We’re going back up top." I reported, expecting a rebuttal.

"Sounds good to me." Hunt said as he wolfed down his last bite of microwaved sausage biscuit.

It’s cold. No wind. And no deer. It’s 9:30, and Hunter is clearly losing interest. Fast. I can sense he’s starting to doubt Dad. It’s Sunday. Football. Warm fire. Lovely wife. Good food. Maybe a nap during the Chiefs game. But Hunt has no buck. He’s hating it. I’m hating it. This is the other side of deer hunting, of any hunting for that matter. Try and try again, and every now and then the Outdoor Gods will throw you a bone and give you a little success to keep you coming back for more. Ben is probably ruined for life. Poor kid never had a chance. He’ll hunt all of his life and probably never shoot another deer like the one he shot five days earlier. Hunt might be ruined too, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. Everyone knows that the main key to getting children hooked on hunting and fishing is success, and even though Hunt’s lack of success has somewhat been determined by his own high standards, it still will have a negative effect on his future enthusiasm. These are the things I’m thinking about as I get out of the blind to take a leak. Woe is me.

"Dad, you’re going to get scent all over the place!" Hunter accurately states as I mark the ground.

"We’re moving into the woods. Trying something different again." I gruffly holler back over my shoulder. "Get your stuff and let’s get going."

Hunter packs up his stuff, and I proceed to finish my business. As I’m holding the door for Hunter as he exits the blind, I casually glance over to see a buck standing there, staring at us, at 100 yards. I don’t know for sure if I did a complete double-take, but I bet I did. "Ohmygoshtheresabuckdontmove." I said in .378 seconds. Hunter freezes. I’m holding his gun. I lift the gun to better see the deer. It’s not a monster, but it’s nicer than any deer we’ve seen in two days. It might be The One, and here I am, outside of the blind, holding my son’s gun in one hand, buttoning my pants with the other. We both slowly descend into the tall grass beside the blind. I give Hunter the gun. "Look at him, buddy. Tell me what you think. He looks good to me."

Hunter takes a look. "He’s really nice, Dad."

"OH BOY! HERE WE GO!" my mind screamed.

A few moments pass and the buck turns his head. I scurry to safety behind the blind, Hunter remains motionless. "What’s he doing now?" I ask.

"He’s staring at me." Hunt whispers without moving his lips.

"Okay. Stay still. When he looks away, get over here with me." As I’m waiting for Hunt’s retreat, I notice his little red hands grasping his gun. They’re teenager hands, but still little hands. And it’s cold. We wait. "Cmon buck." I think to myself. "Hang in there."

All of the sudden, but not too all of the sudden, Hunter deftly moves to me. I open the door of the blind and we crawl in like army men. I move the bench into position behind the appropriate window. I take Hunter’s gun from him. I peer over the edge of the window and pray to see the buck. He’s still there. "Okay, move very slowly into position, buddy." He does. I hand him the gun. He looks through the scope. "He’s a nice one, dad. I want him." I almost started breakdancing.

"Okay, find the target, deep breath and slowly squeeze the trigger. Be steady."

Seconds later, I start to hear Hunter’s breathing. He takes a deep breath. He holds that deep breath for about 8 seconds. No shot. Exhales. Breathing gets heavier. Another deep breath, this time holding it for 5 seconds. No shot. Exhales. And so on. "Oh no." I think to myself. "Hello BuckFever." (for those of you who aren’t familiar with the term, it’s what happens when you completely lose all control of your mind and body at the moment of judgment)

I start trying to encourage Hunter, not too much but not too little, wherever that point may be. I’m trying to be calm for his sake, but my own adrenaline is hard to hide. You can almost smell it emanating out both of our pores. My cheerleading is not helping. "Dad, I’m on him, but the crosshairs keep moving to his neck, then the target, then his back…" Hunter desperately says. He has clearly lost it, and he knows it.

I then opt for the quiet route, saying "Take your time. No hurry. When you’re ready. I’m going to sit back and enjoy the show." His breathing starts to slow down, and just when I think I’m the Deermaster, I start hearing a "th-th-th-th-thumping" sound. It’s his feet. His legs are shaking. It’s been three minutes since we re-entered the blind and he’s a complete mess. I feel terrible, but I also understand. I’ve been there. We all have.

"Put down the gun and sit down, buddy."

"What?!? Dad! No way!" he spat back at me.

"Put the gun down and sit down. Now." I said firmly. Hunt sits. He’s drained. His hands are pushing purple, his cheeks are red, and his eyes are crazed and dancing. BuckFever has taken its toll on my guy.

I explain. "You’re going to get this buck, but not like this. I want you to sit here, put your hands in your pockets and warm them up. I don’t want you to look out the window, just chill out. I’ve got an eye on the buck."

"But what if he leaves." A valid question.

"Then he leaves. So be it. He wasn’t The One. But don’t worry about that. This buck doesn’t appear to be in a hurry."

We sit in silence for a few minutes. I ask Hunter if he knows who the Chiefs are playing. "No, but they’ll lose." is his response. He’s calming down. Be gone, BuckFever, you devil.

"Okay, the buck isn’t broadside anymore. When he turns broadside, I want you to slowly stand up. I’m going to move the bench out of your way, and I want you to put your feet back further so you can really lean into the shot. That’s going to really steady you." I instructed. I didn’t know if repositioning the feet would really help, but if he believed it would, it might.

Two minutes go by in silence, and the buck moves. "Okay, buddy. Let’s do this. Buck is broadside." Hunter slowly stands, I move the bench as planned. I hand him the gun. He leans forward and peers into the scope. "How’s everything looking out there?" I asked.

"Good. I’m ready."

"You da man." I replied.

Bang. Perfect shot.

Standing there, watching another son admire his first deer, I noticed Hunter focusing on a particular area of the buck’s left antler. "Look. He has a broken tine, Dad."

"Yep." I flatly agreed, wondering if this minor antler flaw somehow diminished the buck in Hunter’s mind.

"Probably broke it when he was fighting!" Hunter proudly said. "This buck was a fighter!"

"Perfect." I thought and relaxed. And enjoyed.