Pondering Life and Death in the deer woods; Or, Being an Uncle

A northwest Indiana 5-pointer

It was with a heavy heart that I took to the woods for deer season the weekend of Nov. 15-16, 2014. Just a day earlier I had learned of my Uncle Mike’s sudden death--a death that shocked the family to the core. Uncle Mike, from L’Anse, U.P., Michigan, was a deer hunter himself, and I am still coming to terms with the news.

Also, my brother Marky and his girlfriend, Tiffany, were expecting the birth of their daughter Edith Rae (she was born on Friday the 14th)--good news for sure.

Combine those extreme ups and downs with the fact that I had not successfully harvested a deer in four years despite hunting an average of 50 hours a season. Would I be able to hunt and also make the journey to Uncle Mike’s funeral? Would I be able to see my niece in the hospital after her birth? Would I redeem myself after four frustrating years of hunting? The pressure was on from all directions. Thankfully, the woods are my preferred spot for pondering answers to difficult questions.

So, I was alone on my family’s 50-acre plot of land (a mix of farm fields, woods, prairie, pond and stream) in northwest Indiana, ready to pit myself against the challenges of nature and come to terms with ideas of life and death. As melodramatic as it sounds, I even prayed to the spirit of Uncle Mike to send me a buck.

Saturday, Nov. 15

I climbed into my tree stand at 5 a.m. on a frozen morning. Gradually, as dawn broke around 5:45, I could start to make out the features of the land spreading out in front of me: to the right, a creek; to the left, a wooded hillside; in front of me, the 10-acre scrub of the prairie.

At 6:30, I caught a quick glimpse of my first deer of the season. At first I thought it was a doe, but as it reappeared to my right about 150 yards away, I saw through my binoculars what appeared to be a 4-pointer--a odd 4-pointer with one side of its rack bent so that it wasn’t properly sticking up, but more toward the side.

I readied my Savage 220 bolt-action slug shotgun as it crept closer, headed straight toward me by way of a mowed trail. I tried to wait for a broadside target, but just as the deer was about 50 yards from me, he spooked and stepped into the nearby treeline bordering the creek. Maybe he smelled me? The wind was not in my favor.

A moment passed. Then he emerged and headed back the way he came. At 75 to 100 yards away, he started trotting and, fearful that I would miss my chance at any shot, I put the crosshairs on his body and squeezed the trigger.

The buck, apparently startled by the bang of the gun, bounded away at top speed, and I quickly lost him in the brush. He didn’t go down.

I immediately began to shake, convulse, under the influence of the adrenaline (“buck fever”) coursing through my body. I cursed silently, despondent over the idea that I had missed my chance. Would any other buck dare to enter the prairie now?

I only had 5 minutes in which to beat myself up mentally and recover from the adrenaline shakes because to my immediate left, 50-yards away on the wooded hillside, I heard footsteps crunching the frozen leaves. A doe. Then, a buck. They had appeared like ghosts only minutes after I cracked the silence of the morning with my shot.

I saw the buck for a couple seconds before he ducked behind a bush. He was bigger, perhaps a 12-pointer, I quickly surmised. Now if he would only take two steps into the prairie, he would present the easiest broadside shot a hunter could ask for.

But he too turned and retraced his steps, back up the wooded hillside. Desperate, I took a shot at him through the woods. He turned and looked back at me--I had obviously missed. Then, he ran up the hill and was gone.

I was crushed and did the only thing a hunter could do at that moment: wait. Wait for 30 minutes before descending the ladder to truly determine whether I had hit the first buck, for surely I had missed the second.

After a time, I walked over to the spot where I believed the first deer had been running when I took my shot. No blood. I walked the rest of the prairie and nearby treeline, looking for any sign I had wounded him. Nothing.

Doubting my hunting and shooting abilities like never before, I returned to the cabin to rest for the afternoon hunt. That evening produced nothing, as I sat in the same tree stand from 2 to 5 p.m., filled with conflicting thoughts of my uncle, my niece and the bucks that so easily eluded me.

Sunday, Nov. 16

I awoke at 4 a.m., seriously rethinking my priorities and my ability to face another day of hunting failure, especially amid the recent news of birth and death. Nevertheless, I suited up and climbed back into the frigid stand by 5. Dawn broke as it did the day before, and once again I stared out into the prairie.

By 8 a.m., with only the call of Great Horned Owls and the appearance of a yearling doe to break up the monotony during the long three hours, I decided I had had enough for the morning. I descended the tree stand and for no apparent reason, walked again toward the spot where I had taken the shot at the first deer the day before. This time, instead of circling around a tangle of trees, I walked right by it.

There, to my shock, was a deer, a buck, lying down and facing away from me, leaning against a tree. I shouldered my gun, then quickly realized that the deer was dead.

It was the 4-pointer--actually a 5-pointer with a bent-back antler, giving it a distinctive odd look that I had first seen through the binoculars the day before. I had hit him, killed him, with a shot to the left hip that diagonally traveled through his midsection before being lodged in his hide just behind his right elbow. He had laid down and died, and was there the day before when I had walked right by him, not seeing him. He must’ve been alive then, because after I got over my shock and gutted him, he was still warm to the touch (the air temperature had not risen above 25 degrees all night and had dipped into the teens). Again, I felt a flood of contradictory emotions: joy at the success of such a difficult shot, sorrow at the suffering he endured but ultimately respect for the sacrifice he made. I was redeemed.

Being an Uncle

I spent the rest of the day butchering the magnificent specimen, deeply grateful for the opportunity to hunt him and thanking Uncle Mike for answering my prayer (as corny as that sounds). Now, venison--steaks, stew meat and ground meat--has filled my freezer. I have grand plans for homemade jerky and sausage as well. And the skull and antlers will be made into a European mount and join the other deer trophies I have on the wall.

In a way, my success in harvesting this buck prevented me from driving to Michigan for my uncle’s funeral that occurred the next day. I was spent. I’m not happy with that, and will probably regret it for a long time, if not forever.

But I did get to visit my niece Edi two days later. She is a beauty, and my gift to her father, my youngest brother, was a package of venison. Maybe one day I’ll be able to take Edi into the woods for a hike, and we can talk about and witness the marvelous life of the woods--just like I did with my uncles when I was young.