A Bowhunter's Heart

A Bowhunter’s Heart
By Ralph Scherder

It was unusually warm for the second week of October. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet smell of ferns and acorns. Fall was on its way, but it sure was taking its good old time.
I got on stand at about four in the evening, anticipating three solid hours of hunting. Two hours and fifty-five minutes of that time was spent watching gray squirrels chase each other and chipmunks scurry through the leaves. Finally, they decided to call it a day and retired to their dens. I wondered if I should do the same.
So far, my first bowhunting season had been much like the weather – very dry. It was frustrating trying to figure out bedding and feeding areas. I was used to rifle hunting, so it was a new ordeal trying to get deer within twenty yards. All I could do was wait for the evening when everything would click.

As I debated whether or not to make the long walk home on that October evening, a dry twig snapped on the other side of some brush. Instantly my hands twitched, knees knocked, and beads of sweat dripped faster, even though it was starting to cool off. Shuffling leaves grew louder, following the trail I had chosen to watch. Two deer passed through my shooting lane only fifteen yards away. Before I could think to draw, they were in brush again. I grunted a few times and waited.
My heart thumped madly. My hands were cool and clammy, my mouth dry. I closed my eyes and silently whispered over and over, “Please come back. Please!” And for no reason, the smaller of the two deer stepped back into the narrow opening.

Using all the willpower I could muster, I drew, settled the pin on the deer’s chest and touched it off. The sound of the arrow passing through the deer seemed to echo down into the river bottom. Leaves and dirt scattered as the deer sped down the hollow, and my ears strained to hear the fading sounds.
I clambered out of the tree and ran to where the deer had stood. My arrow was stuck in the ground on the other side of the trail, covered with steaming blood. With darkness coming fast, I left everything lying there and ran home to get my dad to help me trail.

After trudging through endless corn stubble and across wheat fields, I stumbled into the house. My family sat at the dinner table staring at me strangely as I gasped for breath.
“Get one?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
“Buck or doe?”
“Button-buck,” I squeaked.
“Good hit?”
“Seemed like it.”

We retrieved flashlights from the basement and headed for the woods. Picking up the blood trail was rather easy. Large puddles of dark red blood went for about fifty yards. Gradually, however, the drops became smaller, turned to specks, then stopped altogether. The hit wasn’t as good as I had thought. We probed the ground like opossums seeking a late-night snack, but we didn’t find any more drops of blood, and at midnight we decided we’d best return in the morning.
Daylight came none too soon. The sun was merely a promise and the dew still thick upon the foliage when we re-established the trail the next morning. We found no more blood and began making sweeps through the woods looking for clues. Fortunately, temperatures dipped into the low thirties during the night and the meat would be just fine when – if - we found it.

With every hour of arduous search, I felt more and more guilty. It was hard to accept the loss of a deer because of a less-than-ideal shot. I told Dad that if we didn’t find it, I would hang up the bow until I was really ready.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “It takes woods experience to get better with a bow.”
“But this isn’t supposed to happen,” I said.
My hopes evaporated with the dew as the ten o’clock hour neared. Countless times we circled through the brush with no new sign. Shortly after ten, Dad hesitated, then stopped and bent over. “I think we have blood here,” he said.

I froze and suddenly burned with hope again. Chills flew up my spine and my cheeks numbed as I plowed through thorn bushes and briars to my dad. “Where? Where? Where?” I asked. I put my nose to the ground, scouring every leaf, but still couldn’t see any blood. Then dad pointed to a small opening beneath some low-hanging crabapples where my deer laid, fallen in mid-stride.
I fell by the deer’s side, stroking its soft October coat. My fingers seemed to absorb the deer’s magic, a magic that crept up my arms and into my young hunter’s heart. From then on, I knew I would always be a bowhunter. My vision blurred, and I tried to speak, but I just couldn’t.