More than three decades of writing about deer hunting has taught me that nine of every 10 hunters who punch their buck tags on public lands shed a lot of boot leather. They wander far off the beaten path not only to avoid humanity, but also to discover where whitetails are most apt to weather the onslaught.
Ben Still, 49, is among the 10% with a lot of tread still on his soles.
In early November, Ben and some buddies rented a seven-bedroom house near 1,130 acres of public land in northeastern Ohio. They knew little about the area before driving up from Florida.
Four of them arrived Nov. 7 to get a feel for the place.
When Ben and two other guys from the crew arrived at a parking area the following afternoon, their first time to hunt there, they discovered a line of horse-drawn Amish buggies.
The trio started out following a hardwood bottom between a cut cornfield and CRP. It was impossible to miss the rub line that included 30 to 40 ravaged trees, 10 yards apart.
Soon after Ben and a buddy jumped an 8-pointer, Ben attached his climber to an oak tree. From his 30-feet-high perch, he could see the parking lot.
When he was aloft and situated about 3:30, he hung an Ozonics unit overhead.
It was a little cold, but sunny and almost windless. Ben was happy as a clam until his phone rang less than an hour into his vigil.
“It rang at top volume, announcing my location to every deer in the county,” he told Gita Smith, who’s writing his story for Rack magazine.
He missed the call, but he made sure that wouldn’t happen again.
“Not five minutes after that, I looked back toward the truck. I could see the roof,” he said. “I’m thinking, Nobody in his right mind would have chosen this spot. That’s when I decided to try a snort-wheeze. I blew the call only once.”
The next time he looked toward the parking lot, he saw a buck a mere 30 yards from it, coming his way. Soon, he saw a drop tine.
The animal hit two rubs before giving Ben a chance.
The wide-eyed hunter stopped the buck with a mouth-bleat before firing his crossbow’s only bolt. The quiver holding the rest was at the base of his tree.
The unsuspecting whitetail hit the dirt hard upon impact, but it managed to regain its feet and scamper out of sight. Not content to bide his time with crossed fingers, Ben came down the tree immediately to get his quiver.
As soon as he picked it up, he realized he’d left the cocking string in his bag 30 feet above him. Rather than go back up, he cocked it by hand.
Risking the tearing of his biceps was for naught, however, because the buck had collapsed 60 yards from where it originally fell. Nevertheless, Ben sent a second bolt behind the immobile deer’s shoulder.
The deer hasn’t been scored yet.
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