First Deer

Too recent to be a memory

“Oh shit, turn a little more bud”, mashing the trigger and realizing I was still on safety, pushing the button to fire and settling the crosshairs on his front quarter. I squeezed.

Six years ago, I took my first steps into the world of deer hunting. I traipsed around Florida, learning more and more about deer, seasons, and how to understand land. Those 4 to 5 years spent in South Florida resulted in great memories and no deer. Now in North Carolina, the seasons are longer, and limits are much more liberal than my buck-only antler-restricted spots down south. This is also the first time since I started hunting that I have weekends and afternoons off. So I was able to take a Friday afternoon to hunt and get my spot for Saturday planned.

Yes, most deer hunters would scout locations months in advance, hang cameras and stands, and understand where deer were moving. I am not that hunter. Yes, that’s certainly one of the reasons I haven’t been successful in the past, but also, given the needs of my family and the demands of my job, it’s been hard to justify spending time away from everyone to increase my odds of maybe getting a deer when I might get out.

I loaded my SUV up with all my gear and got ready to drive to the spot in the dark. I looked exactly how I wanted to look while hunting. Under my duck-hunter jacket, I had several layers of thermal shirts, a scrim scarf for face covering and neck warmth, and a knit cap with my blaze orange trucker cap over it. It was muddy, so I opted for my Bean boots, which, while waterproof, provided no insulation. Pairing that with my work gloves, I was a chilly dude as I sat in the fork of an oak tree overlooking the swamp

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I would be using my dad’s BAR as my deer rifle this season. He’d given it to me for my birthday before I moved from Florida and hadn’t yet hunted with it. The rifle was topped with a vintage Bushnell 3-9x and my custom cartridge cuff, it’s a sharp-looking rifle. I suppose the 7mm magnum was a little stout for deer, but considering most of my other rifles had been in 30-06, I didn’t have much to base that “overkill” assumption on. When I got to the field to load my rifle, I flipped the mag catch open and realized that the three-shot internal magazine was not in the gun. In fact, it was probably sitting on my workstation at home with all the cleaning supplies. So my auto-loader would be a single-shot. “Hey, if I can use a muzzle loader, I can make this work.” I dropped a 154-grain Hornady soft point into the breech and headed into the dark

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I would hunt the beaver swamp at the northern edge of the game land, not far from my home. I had located some buck sign the day before and had noted deer trails on previous trips out to the area. Sitting for a few hours as the sun rose, I froze and tried to stay positive. I scanned the surroundings and waited. The more I looked around, the less confident I was in my spot. I had learned that as far as scent control was concerned, I was set. The thermals were wafting up from the swamp and keeping me covered. While that was a comfort, I didn’t see any travel routes that led to this scrape I was overlooking. I decided to move.
I grabbed my backpack and started to still hunt my way to the swamp edge. The water had frozen over, so I could see that nothing had crossed the open water. But, I did see deer prints in the bank filled with water and not ice.

Then I heard movement and a grunt, I held my breath and kept my rifle at a low ready as the buck continued walking north, away from me. “ok, looks like it’s snow tracking time, swamp style.” In L.L.Bean boots and carrying an autoloader I felt like the big woods deer hunters in Maine. though I believe the 760 pump gun is the preferred rifle of big woods buck trackers like the Beniots. Ducking under thorn branches and vaulting over logs, I followed the tracks along the edge of the swamp to the back of the game land, where it was flanked by a river. Here I spooked a half dozen wood ducks and a large owl that hooted its annoyance at me.

A small land bridge marked with fresh tracks ran from my side of the swamp to the high ground that formed a barrier island between “Beaverville” and the river. I paused and checked my phone. My wife had messaged me. 9:30 Tess: Can you grab some apple juice, sausage links, and bagels on your way home? I shot back a quick reply: Yes, tracking a buck right now.

I zig-zagged back and forth across the island, where I spotted a trail I’d follow until I spotted another piece of sign, like a rub, hair on thorns, or tracks in the soft turf.

I had reached another breakthrough on the island, with a small land bridge and a large fallen oak. There were several piles of what looked like bear scat on top of the log.

I considered whether my bear tag was valid for this spot or if this location offered bear hunting as I leaped onto the tree and wobbled to gain footing in my mud-caked moccasins.
A crash and bolt of tan erupted from under me. As a deer sprang out from under the log, I realized that I had jumped this deer out of its bed. The deer stopped about 10 yards away, as unsure of what I was as I was of it. Antlers! I could take either sex, but this was a buck. He spun back towards me, debating which way to go. I put my crosshairs behind his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. I swore as I realized the safety was still on. Mashing the button to fire, I exhaled and pulled the trigger. The report from a carbine-barreled 7mm magnum is not subtle. Despite the powder load, the recoil was mild, tempered too by the winter jacket I was still wearing. The buck spun on its hind legs, spurting blood from its shoulder. He leaped two bounds left and collapsed. I rolled the rifle upside down and yanked the breech open, fumbling for another cartridge off the cuff and closing the action. With my ears ringing, I pulled out my phone and recorded my reaction. fighting tears and hyperventilating, I laughed with joy at my first deer.

A minute later, I called my dad. “What’s up, Spud?” my dad said from the Bluetooth in his truck. Panting and sniffling, I coughed out, “Dad...I.. I got a deer! A buck is right there, like 10 yards from me! He’s down, I got him.” He congratulated me, and I told him I’d send pictures as soon as I could.
I hopped off the log and walked through the underbrush to my buck. He would have been a 6-point, but he was a fighter. He’s broken his left main beam and had a number of scars and woulds to show why he was sleeping at 9:30 in the morning in the rut. I pulled my gloves off and ran my hands down his side. “Thank you, thank you, buddy, I won’t forget this.” I patted my knife at my side and whispered “Thanks Mike”

I called my wife and snapped a few pictures to send out. I looked at my GPS, and I had made it about 3/4 of a mile from where my car was to where I stood now. If I dragged this deer west and south, I could skirt the beaver pond and pop out at the field near the parking lot. It was 10:30, so I figured I’d be able to get the buck out and head back home for lunch. Reality had different plans. First off, dead weight is a real thing, and while I can carry a 120-pound dog, or two children up and down the stairs, I can not carry a rifle, a pack, and a dead deer through thorny underbrush. I roped the buck off and dragged the best I could. When I broke through the woods into the field, I realized that my navigation skills are worse than my deer-dragging skills. By sticking with the topography of the river, I walked even farther west than expected and came out more than half a mile from the truck, not including the fact that I’d have to drag it across a farmer’s field, onto the road, and down the county road back to my vehicle. Dripping sweat and exhausted, I looked at my phone; it was 11:44! I texted Tess, telling her I’d just gotten out of the woods and had a lot more dragging to do. I wasn’t sure I had it in me. That’s not the bravado I usually see written, but it’s the truth.

I figured before I walked further onto private property, I would ask the landowner. I marched across the field and up to the farmhouse porch. I knocked, and was greated by a big choclate lab that became my best friends as labs often do. The home owner came out from the shed next, I introduced myself, apologized for the unintended trespass, and asked for permission to drag the deer out. The farmer laughed when I told him how far I’d walked and asked if I wanted a ride over in his four wheeler, and he’d even bring me back to the parking lot. I said I was in his debt and left my rifle and pack on his porch to jog back to my buck. As my buck came back into view, I spotted a wide-racked 8-point that had emerged from the clearing, most likely to check on the scent that the rutted-up buck was still producing. I just laughed. I didn’t have a rifle with me, and I had even less interest in carrying an even larger deer any distance. Soon the four wheeler rumbled up. We tossed the buck onto the back and I jumped on the front rack. We talked about deer hunting and what it’s like living next to a game land. He told me he prefers to hunt another piece of his family property north of here to get away from hunters who should and shouldn’t be on this spot. I thanked him again and wished him a merry Christmas.