A BOWHUNTER'S Heart

A first deer can work powerful magic in the heart soul of a young hunter.

IT WAS UNUSUALLY warm for the second week of October. The air was thick with humidity and smelled of ferns and acorns. Fall was on the way, but it sure was taking its good old time.

I got on stand at about 4 p.m. in the evening, anticipating 3 solid hours of hunting. Two hours and 55 minutes of that time were spent watching gray squirrels chasing each other and chipmunks scurrying through the leaves. Finally, the foraging animals decided to call it a day and retired to their dens. I wondered if I should do the same.

So far, my first bowhunting season had been much like the weather -- very dry. It was frustrating trying to figure out bedding and feeding areas. I was used to rifle hunting, so trying to get deer within 20 yards was a new challenge. All I could do was look forward to the evening when everything would click.

My initial reasons for taking up bowhunting were to try something new and to tag a deer before the weather turned cold. I also wanted to be part of the passion, glory, and nostalgia of hunting with bow and arrow. But I quickly realized that becoming a successful bowhunter demanded a lot more work than I had bargained for.

As I debated whether to leave early that October evening, a dry twig snapped on the other side of some brush. Instantly my hands twitched and my knees knocked, and beads of sweat dripped faster, even though the air was starting to cool. The sound of shuffling leaves grew louder along the trail I'd chosen to watch. Two deer passed through my shooting lane only 15 yards away, and before I even could think to draw, the deer had slipped away into the brush. I blew my grunt call a few times and waited.

My heart thumped madly Out of control, pounding like a base drum in my ears. My hands were cool and clammy, my mouth dry. I closed my eyes and silently whispered over and over, Please come back. Please! And for no reason, the smaller of the two deer stepped back into the narrow opening.

Using all the willpower a 15-year-old could muster, I drew, settled the pin on the deer's chest, and touched off my release. The sound of the arrow passing through the deer seemed to echo down the riverbottom. Leaves and dirt scattered as the deer sped down the hollow and my ears strained to hear the fading sounds.

I clambered out of the tree and ran to where the deer had stood. My arrow, covered with steaming blood, was stuck in the ground on the other side of the trail. With darkness coming fast, I left everything lying there and ran home to get my dad to help me trail.

As I stumbled into the house my family was gathered at the dinner table, and everyone looked strangely at me.

"Get one?" Dad asked, excitedly.

I nodded.

"Buck or doe?"

"Button-buck," I squeaked.

"Good hit?"

"Seemed like it."

We retrieved flashlights from the basement and headed for the woods. Picking up the blood trail was rather easy. Large puddles of dark red blood went for about 50 yards. Gradually, however, the drops became smaller, turned to specks, and then stopping altogether. The hit wasn't as good as I'd thought. We probed the ground like opossums seeking a late-night snack, but we didn't find any more drops of blood, and at midnight we decided we'd best return in the morning.

Daylight came none too soon. With the sun merely a promise and the dew still thick upon the foliage, we re-established the blood trail the next morning. We couldn't find any more blood, so we began to sweep through the woods looking for clues. Fortunately, temperatures dropped into the low 30s during the night, and we knew the meat would be just fine when -- if -- we found the deer.

With every hour of arduous searching, I felt more and more guilty. It was hard to accept the loss of the deer because of a less-than-ideal shot. I told Dad that if we didn't find it, I would hang up the bow until I was really ready.

"Don't do that," he replied, "It takes woods experience to get better with a bow."

"But this isn't supposed to happen to me' I said.

By 10 a.m. my hope was evaporating with the dew. But then Dad stopped and bent over.

"I think we have blood here," he said.

I froze and suddenly burned with hope again. Chills flew up my spine and my cheeks numbed as I plowed through thorn bushes and briars to my dad.

"Where? Where? Where?" I asked. I put my nose to the ground and scoured every leaf, but I still couldn't see any blood.

Then dad pointed to a small opening beneath some low-hanging crab apples, where my deer lay. It appeared to have fallen in mid-stride.

I fell by the deer's side, stroking its soft October coat. My fingers seemed to absorb the deer's magic, a magic that crept up my arms and into my young hunter's heart. From then on, I knew I would always be a bowhunter. My vision blurred, and I tried to speak, but I just couldn't.

This new bowhunter hunts near home in Butler, Pennsylvania.

COPYRIGHT 1999 PRIMEDIA Special Interest Publications
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group