Pennsylvania Game News - October 2021 - 18

pulled out a bleat call.
I'd never used one before yesterday.
But since I'd left the rattling antlers and
grunt calls on the shelf above my workbench,
I was viewing this small, funnylooking
flip can as my one hope.
I called once or twice, waited two
minutes, and called again. A fox squirrel
scrambled up a tree and a wedge of geese
passed far overhead. I bleated again and
waited some more.
Then I heard it.
Soft and delicate steps approaching. I
looked toward the sound but saw nothing.
I cautiously reached for my bow.
Robotically and unhurried, I stood up.
The steps started and stopped, again and
again. I waited in nervous anticipation.
The undergrowth shook 45 yards away,
and a buck gradually materialized. It was
the same one that nearly ran me over. He
looked magnificent in the daylight. Some
hunters would call him an average western
Pennsylvania 8-point, but to me, he was
everything I wanted.
He moved toward me cautiously, stopping
to nose the air, then moved within 35
yards, stopping behind a tree.
I silently pulled back the string and
when he stepped into my shooting lane at
30 yards, I tried to make a sound to stop
him, but nothing happened.
I can't explain why. My voice just
didn't work.
He moved closer, through more underbrush,
and came into my second shooting
lane, stopping at 20 yards. I let the arrow
fly.
Did it hit the mark? I wasn't sure, but
the deer jumped and took off running.
Every part of me was focused on the
buck and the path he took. Nothing else
mattered.
He bumped a beech tree on his right as
he ran, bounded over a downed log and a
18
rusted line of barbed wire fence, vanishing
into thick cover.
I sat down in my tree stand and waited.
And waited.
When I descended and walked to
where the buck had stood, there was no
sign of the arrow, or blood. I slowly moved
in the direction he had run, scanning the
wet leaves.
Then, suddenly, there it was: a splash
of blood. I felt tension release.
A scarlet streak marked the smooth
bark of the beech tree the buck ran into.
My bent arrow was on the ground beside
it.
Continuing down the slight grade, I
pressed the barbed wire carefully with
my boot, and after a few more steps, saw
him piled up. I felt dizzy. I approached
him cautiously, but he was dead.
There now were hours of work ahead
and a profound responsibility to fulfill.
But I had harvested a buck with an arrow
from my bow, so for a few moments I just
sat beside the deer and gave thanks.
After tagging and field-dressing the
buck, I muscled it up the hill and along
the same path where I encountered him
up close the night before. I was panting
and sweating, but didn't care.
I came out of the woods and saw my
10- and 12-year-old sons running across
the backyard to celebrate a successful
hunt. Their small hands immediately
wrapped around the antlers as I told
them we should be grateful for the meals
the deer would provide. They seemed to
understand.
A week later, our kitchen table set, I
replayed my hunt over and over in my
mind. The venison was finally back from
the butcher and we would enjoy our first
meal of it.
The raw backstraps absorbed ground
salt, fresh pepper and chopped garlic
Pennsylvania Game News - October 2021

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