This article was first published in the November 2024 issue of North American Whitetail magazine.
There was once a fine eight point rack attached to the end of that spinal cord in the picture. And there’s no telling where it is now.
After the year I’d had hunting, I should have seen it coming. It all started in early spring when I missed a tom turkey. The fool bird sprinted across a wheat field like he had a death wish just so I could shoot over his head. That miss was followed by a trip out west where the only bull elk I saw was one I helped another hunter field dress. I did see a decent mule deer on that trip, but he was already well out of range and hightailing it for the next county. And then back home, I didn’t have a single whitetail buck on camera to get me excited. Like I said, I should have seen it coming.
Between the lack of mature bucks on my trail camera and the fact that family obligations were going to prevent me from hunting the first week of rifle season, my expectations for the season weren’t particularly high. But then again, neither were my standards, so when the eight point materialized at the fence line, I immediately reached for my crossbow.
The buck was on the wrong side of the fence, which was fine by me because I was on the fence as to whether or not he was a shooter. He was nice, but there was no denying the fact that he could have used another year and I’d been hoping for something bigger. I wanted another shoulder mount for the wall, not another European mount for the shelf. The way the eight pointer was staring daggers at my decoy, though, suggested that I was going to have to make up my mind about him sooner rather than later. A doe bleat followed by a soft grunt brought him across the fence and straight into my setup, and that’s when I made the decision to shoot.
My bolt blew right through him and buried itself in the dirt. Even if he wasn’t the deer of my dreams, I could at least content myself with the satisfaction of a hunt well executed. The buck was clearly hurting as he rounded a corner and walked out of my sight. I found blood at the point of impact and followed a good trail until I lost it in the gathering dark. Confident I’d find him close by the next morning, I backed out and headed home.
But I didn’t find him the next morning. Or the next afternoon. Or the next week I spent searching for him. It was like the buck had been beamed off the planet. He was simply gone.
My first trip back to the woods after a Thanksgiving spent out of state at my in-laws’ house found me shaking my head at what was left of my buck. Something had drug him up, and his skeletal remains were lying smack dab in the middle of the two track. The ache of losing the deer had dulled in the week I’d been gone, but now it was fresh and raw again, like the scab had been ripped off a skinned knee.
Is there a worse feeling than losing a deer? I’m honestly not sure there is. Waves of guilt and grief washed over me as I stared at his skeleton, and I felt sick to my stomach. I hadn’t just failed myself; I’d failed the deer. He deserved to have his life mean something. He deserved to have his meat fill my freezer and feed my family. He deserved to have his rack serve as the reminder of another memorable day afield.
Those reminders of memorable days afield are all over my living room. There are shoulder mounts above the fireplace and European mounts on the shelf. This year’s buck won’t sit beside them, but I’ll never forget him. Just like the others, this year’s buck will live on in my memories. Unfortunately, though, a memory is all I’ll ever have.
Wright Outdoors 