On a cold and frosty Sunday morning, Nov. 3, 2013, I decided to hunt one of my favorite stands about 40 yards from the edge of a half-picked, Indiana cornfield. I was aloft 20 minutes before dawn.
Shortly after daybreak, I decided to start things off with an aggressive rattling sequence – to paint the deer a picture. I grunted three times, paused for probably 30 seconds, and then added a snort-wheeze. Next, I grabbed my rattling horns and clashed them together to simulate two bucks really doing battle.
About 10 seconds into my rattling sequence, a 125-inch 8-pointer came charging across the partially picked field toward me. It cut into the woods on a logging trail that passes my stand at 40 yards.
The 4x4 stopped in an opening and gave me time to range him at 38.5 yards. Confident I could make the shot, I drew my bow, settled my 40-yard pin on the deer’s heart and released my Muzzy-tipped Easton.
Right before my arrow arrived, the buck spun to run. My heart sank when I saw it strike its neck, the kind of shot that rarely results in a high-five.
I waited an hour before getting down to check my arrow. I found some hair and lots of bright red blood at impact, and I followed the trail for probably 50 yards to the back half of my arrow. I continued along the trail for another 500 or 600 yards before it stopped.
Even after exhaustive grid-searching, I came up empty-handed.
On my way out of the woods, I came across a large rub on a thigh-sized beech tree. The trunk was absolutely shredded with tine marks up to my neck (I’m only 5 foot, 9 inches tall).
I headed to Mom and Dad’s to tell my ol’ man what happened, and I was still sick to my stomach. I was so depressed that I was ready to hang up my bow for the rest of the season.
But my family and girlfriend told me to stay positive; that I couldn’t get a deer by sitting on the couch.
My cousin, Josh, came over to the house that evening, wanting to go deer hunting with me. I asked if he wanted to go to his place or to mine, and he couldn’t decide. So I said, “Let’s just go to my place.”
He decided to hunt back in the oak flat, and I returned to the same stand I’d climbed that morning. I got settled in around 3:30.
About 4:00, I saw a 140-inch 10-pointer run across the partially picked cornfield. Ten minutes later, two combines arrived to finish collecting the corn.
I watched them pick that whole cornfield and never saw a single deer, which bummed me out a little. While they were leaving, I stood to stretch my legs. I was looking behind my stand when I heard footsteps and turned around to see legs through the brush.
I could tell they were attached to a deer, so I grabbed my bow and got ready. It was heading for the logging road, the same one the 8-pointer had traveled that morning.
When it stepped into the open, I saw the buck’s headgear and my heartbeat kicked into overdrive. While the whitetail was coming down the logging road, I started having flashbacks of what happened earlier. This deer, however, veered on a trail that wound in front of my stand at a mere 18 yards.
I was breathing like a thoroughbred after racing in the Kentucky Derby!
Tree limbs prevented me from shooting, at first. Eventually, the buck stopped behind a big white oak tree, which allowed me to draw my bow.
It was like a dream come true: It stepped into a shooting lane, broadside to me at 18 yards, and then looked the other way. I couldn’t have scripted a better scenario.
I settled my pin behind its shoulder, squeezed my release, and watched my arrow disappear into the deer’s chest. At the smack, the buck mule-kicked and ran about 30 yards to the edge of the woods. It stood there for maybe 10 seconds, and I was hoping it would fall.
Instead, it ran into the corn stubble between a sinkhole and the edge of the woods and disappeared.
I sat down and tried to text my dad, but I was shaking too violently.
I waited an hour before getting down and retrieving my blood-covered arrow. Because the light was fading, I walked straight to the sinkhole to see if I could pick up the trail closer to where I’d last seen the buck.
When I gave up searching that night, I went home and told Dad that if I didn’t find that buck, I was giving up bowhunting. Dad told me to calm down and offered to take off work to help me continue looking.
As we pulled out into the cornfield the next morning, we saw buzzards circling.
“That’s a good sign,” Dad said.
As we got closer to the sinkhole, Dad said, “What’s that lying right there?”
I throttled the gas so hard, I almost dumped him off the back of the four-wheeler!
When we reached my buck, I was in shock. I’d figured it for a 150-incher. I had no idea the rack has 15 points, nor that I’d underestimated its size by more than 20 inches. Its BTR composite score is 170 5/8 inches.