Arizona Mule Deer Hunt - The Tea Party

The tea was poured for my imaginary party. I had my pinky up in true form, pulling my first sip through tight lips to keep from burning my palette when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. My pity party was rudely interrupted by an uninvited guest. Well he was invited but his arrival couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Minutes earlier I plopped down on a rock in disgust with the morning. I wasn’t getting my way and I wanted everyone to know it. A few mulies had been seen, but nothing to my liking. The ailments of a first world hunter.

I looked down at my bow laying next to me warming itself like a cat in the mid morning sun. Passing up the four arrows perfectly lined up in my quiver, I reached down to the one laying on my rest and plucked it off the string.

“My fingers are filthy.” I murmured to myself. It was true, six days in the backcountry and every surface and crevice that wasn’t covered in clothing looked like it had taken a mud bath.

Ten minutes into my spa day and I had finished nine digits of my manicure. God damn I was looking fine.

As I dug into my last finger that’s when my guest decided to make his appearance. Now this honestly shouldn’t have come as a shock to me. For the previous six days I dreamed up vivid stories in my head how one day I was going to be that guy where sheer dumb luck was going to set a giant animal into my lap.

You know the story. Some dipshit in sweatpants and a Packers jacket that stumbled off his four wheeler half hammered draws his wife’s bow back and takes the state record… that sort of story, although perhaps less bitter. This was that day.

“Hello dipshit.” Came the voice of a well racked mule deer.

“You gotta be kidding me.” I don’t dare mumble as our eyes lock.

He had beelined it towards me on a path I must have missed during my sulking session. He didn’t pretend to know I wasn’t there, but he also didn’t know exactly what to do with me either. I mean he obviously had a rendezvous with some sweet little thing further down the trail and if I wasn’t going to make a move, well then he aimed to keep that appointment.

I kept telling myself not to move my eyeballs. Stay still and let him make the mistake. Well, that was part of my brain telling me to do that. The part that never wins.

The bigger part of my brain (maybe that should be read “smaller”) saw myself doing a forward roll, scooping up my bow, loading the arrow (oh, and finishing my manicure mid flight) and launching myself horizontally through the air as I drew back, blew a kiss to my endearing fans while my arrow split his heart in two.

What actually happened was none of the above. I tried to sit there still, but the deer didn’t need a sixth sense to know that I was up to no good.

He spun on his hooves and started his trot to the outskirts of the field.

“Well sitting here looking stupid isn’t gonna help the situation.” I coached myself as I reached for my bow and sunk the arrow into place.

I saw the arch he was on and had a good idea where he was going. If he stayed on the same trajectory he would be within shooting range in a few seconds.

I reached for my rangefinder and pre-ranged the spot I expected him to appear at. The grass was tall and made for a bit of a guess job as to where I actually had the crosshairs.

Sixty-seven yards. Doable if he did the typical mule deer thing and froze when he saw me again.

Just like I had hoped for. He crossed the aforementioned spot, slammed on the brakes and looked over at me. He froze like he was looking at Medusa herself.

Bingo.

I slowly dialed my sight in. Sixty seven on the dot.

My shot sequence went off without me knowing it. The pin was centered.

“Squeeze your back man. Pull through the shot.” I thought, trying to keep that rack out of my peripheral.

My draw arm flew back indicating that the shot was off.

I watched through my housing as the arrow increased its revolution, screaming towards the course I sent it on.

Crack!

“That didn’t sound good.” I mumble to myself as I watched the mule deer high-tailing ass out of the country.

I looked at my bow as if demanding an explanation.

“What gives?” I ask it, feeling betrayed. I was dead on and rock solid on the shot, this I knew, but the arrow sailed over his back.

With no response forthcoming, I got up and walked over to where the buck had been standing only moments before.

Turning around and ranging my backpack which was making my shooting location and this genius had the mystery of the century solved.

“Fifty four yards you say?” I said as I shook the rangefinder, figuring this would fix whatever was wrong with it.

I re-range it, with the growing fear of my stupidity.

“Yup, it’s official, you’re dumb.” Is all I could say to comfort myself.

After collecting my arrow that was a perfect 10-ring in a tree, I walked over and grabbed my gear.

I looked at my watch.

“Shit, your late for your next tea party.” I said as I walk off to find another place to sulk.

// Fred Bohm

 

Bow Hunting Whitetail in Nebraska

There’s an awkward moment of silence. Neither party is willing to speak.

Finally the sheriff decides to make the first move. I guess they are more accustom to these types of situations.

“Sir, are you still on the line?” I hear her ask.

“What do you mean “No”?” I stammer into my cell phone.

“I’m sorry sir, but that’s just what he said to me, no.” She replies.

“ I see. Uh… well that’s heartbreaking.” I reply, followed by more silence. “I thank you for your time.”

And just like that I have my answer.

No.

Hours earlier I had been hunkered down in my stand, not willing to move. The forest was still in that desaturated phase of pre-dawn. There were deer flowing past my stand like the currents of a calm river.

I looked to my right out of my peripheral. A monarch of a buck was staring through me. How he saw me only God knows.

He walked off, almost nonchalant. He knew it was too dark for me to try my luck at him.

As the dimmer on the earth’s light source was increased, the deer started to dissipate into the shadows. They had this timed perfectly. They knew when it was safe to be seen and when it would cost them their life.

I let out an exhale to push the morning’s events aside. There would be more.

I peered over at my backpack, wondering if it was safe to pull out the canister that held my lifeblood, the thick black water that would keep me wired for the morning sit.

“Better hold off.” I thought to myself.

Wise choice in hindsight. Moments after my internal battle for immediate gratification with the coffee I hear a rustle in the distance.

“Time for a little rattling.” I said as I grabbed the monsterous mule deer racks I use for rattling.

After a short session where I managed yet again to smash a finger, I put down the headgear and grabbed my bow.

The far off rustling steadily grew. He was beelining it for me. He wanted in on the action.

I positioned myself as best I could for the window I was hoping he would stop in.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye which immediately set my heart into overdrive.

“He’s small, he’s small. It’s not a big deal Fred, just a small little buck that you might as well shoot while you’re here.” I chanted to myself.

God I must be dumb. Somehow over the years I’ve been able to convince myself of my own lies.

He was huge.

He moved in like he was hooked and being reeled in by a market fisherman.

Just like I had planned, he stopped in the tiny window carved out of the trees at a spot I had sprayed with synthetic piss.

He sniffed.

I shot.

Blood sprayed in all directions. He made his final death sprint, thinking the further he was from the spot that caused him pain, the safer he would be.

I sat back in relief, playing the whole sequence back in my mind to burn the time. The shot was right where I requested it to be, but out of respect for his will to live, I gave him time.

A half hour later a climbed out of my stand and walked towards the scene of the incident.

It was a murder scene.

I followed the blood, trying not to slip on it.

Fifty yards later I came to a barbed-wire fence. The one direction I prayed that he would not go and he did.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the places you could have run…” I muttered to myself as I looked over the fence to what might as well have been North Korea.

Private property.

No problem, hop on your OnX map, find the landowner’s name, call him up, recover the animal, take pics of your accomplishment.

Simple enough strategy in my mind at least.

Several hours later after attempting to call the owner, going to visit his house, talking to the local game warden and finally talking with the sheriff to see if they could get a hold of the guy I was sitting dumbfounded in my truck.

It would be like the a toddler kicking a beach ball into the neighbor’s yard by mistake then the neighbor refusing to let him retrieve it. Oh and then stabbing the ball with his pocket knife and taking a dump on it (maybe I got a little carried away there).

I was heartbroken. How could I have been so dumb. I knew you were walking a fine line by playing so close to private property and I got burned. Worst of all I knew that there was going to be a rotting carcass lying on the other side of that fence that I had caused.

Hunting isn’t clean. Hunting isn’t always pretty. Hunting can be heartbreaking.

//Fred Bohm