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| A Northwest Indiana four-pointer |
The opener for this year's firearm deer season was different for a couple reasons: I was able to hunt the opening weekend for the first time in years, and an early winter storm guaranteed snow cover. These conditions led to success.
The season opened on Saturday, Nov. 17, where I hunt in Northwest Indiana, and I had taken the previous day off from work in order to get comfortable at the cottage and scout the property for deer sign. While hiking around the property the day before the opener, the two-inch snow cover revealed numerous deer tracks crisscrossing the property, including all over the 10-acre prairie in which I hunt.
I made sure both tree stands (one on the north edge of the prairie and one on the south edge) were still there as I had lost the north stand to thieves last December. Chaining and padlocking the stands, including a new one erected on the north end late in October, secured them.
I had two other "deer encounters" that day. First, while gazing out the kitchen window of the cottage at the hill across Scales Pond, I saw a small deer (doe or buck, I couldn't tell) walk along the base of the hill. It quickly disappeared. Then later, while standing on the deck well after nightfall, I heard a deer snort/grunt a couple times. The sound came from the treeline south of the cottage. It was all very encouraging.
OPENING DAY
I was in the south tree stand early Saturday morning (by 5:30 a.m.), well ahead of sunrise. The temperature hovered just under freezing, and very little moved in the snow-covered prairie all morning. Canada geese, a great blue heron and squirrels entered and exited the landscape I constantly surveyed. I switched to the north tree stand late morning, but it didn't change my luck.
I retreated to the cottage for a break from late morning to mid-afternoon and resumed sitting in the south tree stand from the afternoon to after sunset. Ducks and muskrats, oblivious to my presence 12 feet above the ground, frolicked in the creek directly behind me, but no deer moved all day. My only other entertainment was an opossum that ambled in and out of sight 30 yards from my position. I spent about seven hours in the stand that day with occasional frozen precipitation.
After nightfall, I had to run an errand into town, and while making the mile trek down the driveway, I spooked a big buck (12 pointer at least)--it disappeared from the arc of my car's headlights, bounding from the west to east.
SUNDAY MORNING
The next day broke cold, windy, and I experienced all the precipitation: rain, frozen rain and snow. I climbed into the south tree stand (from which I had harvested bucks for four years straight) by 5:30 once again. This day, I wouldn't have to wait long to be successful for five years running.
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| The snowy tableau of the prairie, as seen from the south tree stand. The buck first appeared near the willow tree at center/top of photo. |
Then, it stepped back onto the mowed trail and walked toward me. I raised my Savage 220 slug shotgun to peer through the scope and saw it--antlers. Although young, perhaps a year and a half old, the deer was a buck--at least a four-pointer I could tell.
Some hunters might've passed on this buck, hunters who are looking for the trophy. They would say, "let it pass; let it live, grow and harvest it (if you get another chance) next year."
That's not me. I'm not in it for the trophy or ego boost--I'm in it for the challenge, and for the meat. Furthermore, since I was the only one hunting the property this year, I know there are plenty of other bucks who will live, grow, breed and prosper. I'll see them next year, or the next after that.
So, at roughly 75 yards, I centered the cross-hairs on the buck's vitals. It was standing in an oblique position from me. Not the best angle, but I never like to let an opportunity go--I've been burned by waiting for a better shot in the past.
I shot, and the buck reacted like it had been hit: it jerked erratically, crashed through the tall prairie grass only to tear back onto the mowed path and run back the way it had come. It disappeared around a corner, 50 yards from where it had been shot, and I thought I saw it go down in the treeline.
I did what hunters are supposed to do in this situation: I waited to let fate take its course.
After about 15 minutes, I climbed down the ladder and walked to where I had hit it. There was a foot-wide blood trail tracing a path in the snow from there, around the corner and to the treeline. The buck was lying there dead. I had shot it in the heart. It had died a quick death, after its 50-yard dash to the treeline.
My early estimation was correct: It was a young, healthy four-pointer. A fork-horn.
I spend the rest of the day locked in manual labor: I gutted the deer and drove the John Deere tractor to the prairie to make extraction easier. After getting the tractor momentarily stuck in the soft ground of the prairie (snow covered slick grass), I had it hanging on the deer pole by 9:30 a.m. Later, skinning and butchering occurred.
Now I have a freezer full of meat, a five-year harvest streak intact, and I am already dreaming dreams of all the other bucks that are out there--including the 12-pointer I spooked in my car the night before. He's the one I hope to see next deer season.
