MY FIRST BOW DEER

MY FIRST BOW DEER

Circa: Late October, 1984

Marble Falls, Texas

David, a good friend I met in college back in the mid 70’s had purchased 25-acres of prime land that he and his wife could raise their son and horses on after graduating. It was smack dab in the middle of the Texas Hill Country, famous for its vast expanse of huge oaks atop rolling hills, sprinkled with cold, clear streams and creeks which flowed from the Edwards Plateau. After completing their home the following year, he invited me down for a bowhunt. Fortunately, his land contained a couple of fingers of woods that extend well out into the horse pastures. Originating from their neighbors property, which just happened to be a huge wildlife refuge bordering the chain of lakes, the deer and turkey were plentiful.

The afternoon I arrived we previewed the property with him showing me his stand placements, and let me pick my site for the following morning. Strangely, I wound up choosing the “Tree House”, an actual tree house that he built for his son in a large oak in the middle of a wooded finger not far from the fence line. It was a boy’s dream club house, and although rustic, it was just like you always wanted for yourself. Complete with a roof, this weather proof haven was a place to get away from mom & dad, dream about Tom Sawyer adventures, and fight the bad guys beside John Wayne in pretend play. David insisted that deer regularly passed by the tree house on the upwind side. After questioning his judgment, I inquired how I was going to get a shot off my recurve thru the small window which faced the trail. Laughing, he said I would sit on top on the roof, not inside! I did feel a little foolish.

After a fun evening of reminiscing and catching up on the last couple of years we turned in for a fine sleep, for it was unusually cold that weekend. The morning broke clear and crisp, with a hint of frost glistening across the meadows under the bright moon light sky. David, in his ever conniving strategies insisted he wake his wife so she could drive us to our stand sites, with only a short walk of maybe 100-yards from each drop off point along the caliche drive. His reasoning was that since they regularly were up long before daybreak tending to their horses and chores and driving out before sunrise, the deer would think it was just a normal day, instead of us walking to our stand which would be abnormal. Made sense to me, but it certainly didn't please Jan getting her up an hour earlier than “normal”. Being the good sport she is, Jan agreed to our plan. Of course, there would be some pay back involved, which usually incorporated her great sense of humor as expressed thru her well executed practical jokes.

It took some doing climbing up that big old oak and then up on top of the tree house. I never heard of a “pull up” rope before, twenty years of hunting whitetail with a 30-30 off the ground left me quite unprepared that morning. I had to sling my bow over my head and across my shoulder and stuff my coffee thermos into my shirt and button it in to free up my hands to climb. Other than the bowstring digging into my Adams Apple and pinching my skin, the ascent went well. The 15 foot perch offered quite a view from what I could see in the dark. The old 5-gallon plastic pail wasn’t too uncomfortable either, once I got my backside situated over that sharp, pointed, plastic, remnant, thingy left over from the injection molding process. It was sticking out the bottom of the pail. As hard as I tried, I just couldn’t break it off, and my knife was in the pickup. Oh well.

Once settled, I looked at my watch and determined I might as well enjoy a cup of coffee and a smoke while waiting for dawn to crack in 45 minutes. Just like my first smoke, I extinguished the second butt on the sole of my shoe and flicked it out on the downwind side. Wasn’t too worried about being winded, heck, I had killed many whitetail and mulies over the years while enjoying a smoke. Figured if you hunted the wind it didn’t matter. What I failed to realize this time was that my hunt site was ten times smaller than my rifle toting forays, and a deer within bow range on the downwind side is going to smell a cigarette butt on the ground even if he couldn’t smell you above him! Good thing the deer came down the trail in front of me, not behind me.

Within a few minutes after dawn cracked movement along the fence line caught my eye. Not only was it a deer, it was a buck! Wow, I thought, this bowhunting is awesome. As I slowly began to stand, the roof floor creaked and cracked beneath my feet. No matter what position I put my feet in, or how I shifted my weight on them, I couldn’t get up without creaking the plywood roof. I figured if I stood up really fast when the buck wasn’t looking, it just might do the trick, reasoning that the creaking noise was kinda like ripping off a Band-Aid instead of slowly tugging it off one hair at a time. When he looked behind him, I sprang up on my feet flat footed to distribute my weight, and it worked! He did look my way, but not up at me. Shortly afterwards, he continued his morning commute, stopping every few steps along the way.

Finally, the young 4-point made his way within range, eventually a mere 12-yards out and facing my direction, and clear of any brush between us. When he stopped and lowered his head I focused on the depression between his shoulder blades, seemed like the best place to put my arrow. If I hit him in the spine, he’d drop in his tracks. If I missed the spine my arrow would go through his chest and out through his brisket. Before I knew it, off he bounded with only the bright yellow fletching sticking out between the shoulder blades, appearing to be waving goodbye as he fled. I couldn’t believe it! My first morning out on my first ever bowhunt for deer, and my arrow found it’s mark! What a rush it was.

My left leg began to shake, violently. Nothing I could do to stop it either, so I sat down to keep from falling off the tree house. Funny thing, my left knee. It’s always done that. I’ve never got the shakes before the shot, ever. I’ve never froze up, or blacked out, or anything else associated with buck fever before the shot. It’s always been the same since day one back in 1965 when I killed my first deer, the left leg shaking the left knee, doing the “Elvis.” After a couple of more smokes I was settled down enough to gather my wits and climb down. I dropped the thermos into a brush pile and slung my bow back over my head and somehow managed to make my way back down that big old oak without hanging myself.

Upon investigating the hit site and following the buck’s prints in the hard mud as far as I could, I started to worry about not finding any blood along the way. With a broadhead sticking out its underside, how was that possible I thought. After about a hundred yards of perilous tracking, I had to get David for some help. Looking at my watch, I realized David wouldn’t be back for another two hours, so off to the house I went. Needless to say, Jan knew something was up as I sprinted up the steps and onto the porch so early in the morning, the sun had just came up! Graciously she listened to every word that poured from my lips before she asked if I’d like a cup of coffee. She offered to go get David, but I declined, not wanting to ruin his hunt. However, when I saw him walking across the pasture toward the house I did jump into my pickup and go get him. I wished I had a photo of his face when I told him I arrowed a buck! He just couldn’t believe it.

It took us almost three hours of looking for that deer, crisscrossing the woods in a 20-yard grid pattern expanding out from the other side of the fence. The buck had jumped the fence and headed into the refuge. Of course, we left my bow behind so as not to get into any trouble should we be confronted by anyone. I bet David asked me a dozen times if I was sure I hit that deer. Eventually, David's piercing whistle broke the late morning silence, and there he lay, a good 300-yards from the tree house. The arrow passed between his left shoulder blade and spine, through one lung and barely clipped his heart as the arrow passed through and out the left arm pit. Why he didn’t spill blood is beyond me, but he didn’t spill a drop in the course of his escape.

As you can see, my photo taking abilities weren’t much to speak of back then. I had nothing but an old insta-matic camera, and didn’t consider the contrast of the dark shade from the tree against the bright, cloudless sky. This is the best of three photographs we took. But, I was satisfied none-the-less after getting the film developed. I still am. For in that photograph is the truth. Me, as a brand new big game bowhunter shooting a recurve instead of a new fangled compound, wearing only a bright red cotton union suit for warmth, blue jeans, a plaid cotton shirt, an old sheep skin lined blue jean jacket, and a pair of cowboy boots, could kill a deer. Of course, no one said I couldn’t, so I didn’t know any better. Yes, that’s right, that’s face paint I’m wearing. I wouldn’t have even worn that except that David told me that the human face stands out like a sore thumb in the wilderness, and every deer in the area would see me. He insisted I put it on that morning. I never removed it after the hunt, kept in on for five hours just for the photo session! Thank you, David. The memories are priceless. -Zano

Zan D. Christensen
www.huntrecorder.com