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The long, familiar walk to position myself for an opportunity at a whitetail deer was different this time. Typically, I’d wiggle my pack onto my shoulders followed with my loaded firearm over it. Also, a usually necessary part of the gear was a pair of hearing protectors that were wisely employed during the solitary march in the event my Ruger American rifle were to be employed on the way. The low-power variable scope would be dialed to 1.5 power to maximize its field of view. But, this time I needed no hearing protection, because the gun was unloaded for the short journey.
I had passed on numerous bucks during the archery, regular firearms, and most recently the muzzleloader seasons. All of the excitement and visions of taking an extraordinarily antlered deer were behind me now. It was our late antlerless season and there would be no quick, off-hand maneuvers to take one; I saw to it by carrying an unloaded gun to my hideout. I thought that I’d get one under more controlled circumstances and simply enjoyed the December trek.
No doubt that the combined seasons were special. In fact, I had seen more bucks – even a few good 8-point examples – than any previous hunting season. And, there with my pal, Joe, in a portable blind just weeks before, was a sizeable 8-point buck a mere 57 yards from the muzzle of my bolt gun. I’d guess probably 95 percent of Michigan deer hunters would have taken it, but I had seen this brute before and thought ahead to next year and its potential; I passed once again.
With no regrets I was now after some organic meat. In a matter-of-fact mindset, I waited for the inevitable. Several does entered the danger zone well before sunset. However, when a shot rang out nearby, I knew I was not alone and voices later confirmed why the deer scampered out of sight. When other deer appeared following a quiet spell, they never presented me with the perfect shot I wanted.
The west wind the following day found me in another blind set into a hill where I had a perfect rest for my firearm and the short, mounted bipod. A group of six bald whitetails materialized and I lined one up for a fatal blast. Off the group ran but the telltale rear-leg kick of my targeted animal told me I had done my job.
With about an hour of light remaining, I checked where the small group vanished and found fresh blood on the bare ground.
That’s all I needed to see and abruptly ended the search, because Joe’s blue tick hound, Junior, was ready and waiting with him. On the scene, the dog was leashed according to the regulations for tracking dogs and Joe led him to the trail. The roles became reversed, as the young hound roared by me and directly to the prize, tugging hard all the way.
It was a fitting end to what had become not only a most memorable year but what the prospects held for the future.
