Rack Magazine

Creature from the Green Lagoon

Creature from the Green Lagoon

By Kenny (and Bryce) Fulton

How to cure, or at least forget about, a sore throat.

The drive home was surreal. I kept checking and double-checking my rearview mirror to make sure it was still back there.

I called my son when I pulled onto Interstate 35 just south of Salina, Kan., and told him the news.

“The antlers are sticking up over the tool box,” I said. “You’re not going to believe this!”

Four hours later, I pulled into the driveway and knew immediately that word had spread. All my buddies jumped off the front porch and rushed out to see the deer in the back of my truck and to shake my hand.

And to think I almost didn’t go hunting that day!

A bit under the weather the previous morning, I’d sipped my coffee slowly, letting it trickle down my sore throat. As the boys were readying their gear and discussing who was heading to which stand, I was in the corner, quietly considering going back to bed.

But with only two days left to hunt before I had to be back at work, I told myself, You’re not going to see them if you’re laid up in bed. So I grabbed my boots and refilled my coffee mug. An hour later, I was in what we call the Pocket Stand, watching a bobcat in search of breakfast.

At lunchtime, when we all met back at the house, I snuck off for a nap.

I was almost convinced I didn’t want to go back out that afternoon. The morning was mostly dull, I did not feel well, and a considerable north wind had kicked up, which had me wondering if the deer would even be on their feet.

But the Pocket Stand is sheltered, a perfect place to be when the wind is blowing. It’s 16 feet up, in a timbered pocket beside an oxbow off a river.

Out front is a cut milo field, and the water is behind the stand. A steep wooded hill rises up on the port side, and the terrain drops down into a deep ravine on the other, home to a slough of stagnant green water. Our trail cameras had photographed some nice bucks in the vicinity.

But while the thought of remaining indoors was tempting, I once again headed for the Pocket Stand.

Most of the afternoon, I watched squirrels playing. I also saw the same bobcat botch a chance for a turkey dinner.

Just before sunset, when the light was softer, things grew eerily quiet.

Seeing a fawn at the edge of the milo field was a pleasant surprise. She was staring uphill to my left, and I could tell she knew something was going on up there. She took a few steps in my direction, and then stopped to look again.

Eventually, a doe swiftly topped the hill and ran down through the thicket at a half-trot, stopping right under me. She and the fawn stared at each other for a long moment before both gazed back to the hillside.

No dummy, I clipped my release to my bowstring’s loop.

The doe looked once more at her fawn, and then she took off down the river bank.

When I looked back up the hill, I saw the buck coming down after her. That first shot of adrenaline was wonderful. I got a look at his rack as Romeo cleared the thicket, and my eyes grew as big as silver dollars.

When the buck came nearer, I had three possible openings. When it passed the first one, I drew my bow faster than I have ever pulled one back in my life.

The second possible shot was between the next couple of trees and allowed for a window of about 3 feet. But the deer was also through it in a split-second.

My last shot opportunity was at a deadfall that created an obstacle, which slowed the deer.

Creature from the Green LagoonI had ranged a tree just beyond the fallen one at 24 yards, and I held steady. The wind had quit blowing earlier, and the squirrels were gone. I will never forget how quiet it was as I stood waiting for my moment.

When the buck eased into the last lane, I released the arrow, which struck it high in the left shoulder before angling into the animal’s boiler room.

The deer spun around hard to run back uphill. I watched it tear through the thicket, carrying the arrow. I could see about 8 inches protruding. When I lost sight of it, I could still hear it thrashing atop the hill.

Man, that is one BIG 11-pointer! I thought.

I hung up my bow, turned around and sat down, while my bones melted. It was dead quiet again, too.

By the time the boys arrived to help me locate my buck, it was dark. We lit our torches and set out, not expecting to find a blood trail since the shot was high and the arrow didn’t pass through.

After an hour of wandering around on top of the hill, Brad, my local hunting buddy, yelled that he’d found a piece of my arrow — 10 feet down a cliff at the ravine. I hurried over to him, looked down the cliff, and soon began sliding down to the ledge below us.

I picked up my arrow and shone my light out toward the slough. Below me was another cliff that dropped another 10 feet to the water’s surface.

I walked along the ledge, looking out into the nasty water, knowing the deer had to be close. Suddenly, Brad yelled from the top of the first cliff, “There he is!”

My eyes followed his light out beyond the second cliff. There, in the slough, next to a fallen tree, was part of a rack sticking out of the pea soup.

We waded out into the bog and discovered the buck had fallen from the cliffs and slid down under the tree. We wrestled him out from under it and stared at him in astonishment.

“I thought you said we were looking for an 11-pointer,” Al said

This, clearly, was no 11-pointer. I obviously hadn’t seen all the extra points festooning the antlers. The rack was wide, too, and the deer’s body was tremendous.

Brad stood there for a long time, saying over and over, “That’s a 200-inch deer … That’s a 200-inch deer, man!”

In shock, I could not say anything for a long time.

Four of us could not get the deer up the cliff. We had to call another buddy with a UTV and a winch to come help us.

By the time we got him out of there and loaded in the back of my pickup, it had been dark for nearly five hours. We drove back to deer camp after that, and the partying commenced.

My Kansas buddies listened well into the night as, more than once, I told the story.

Hunter: Kenny Fulton
BTR Score: 201 6/8
Compound Bow
Irregular

– Photos Courtesy of Rockhouse Motion

This article was published in the July 2014 edition of Rack Magazine. Subscribe today to have Rack Magazine delivered to your home.

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