When a Whitetail Meant Everything

When A Whitetail Meant Everything

By Ralph Scherder

Around noon the snow began to lighten up. The wind died down just a bit and – dare I say – the afternoon was almost pleasant. But I still couldn’t feel my fingers, nose, or ears. I poured a cup of hot chocolate and the steam thawed my cheeks. As I reached for a sandwich, I spotted movement to my right. Before I could gently set the cup aside, eight deer climbed out of the deep ravine and bolted across the mountain flat I’d chosen to watch. Hot chocolate splashed everywhere as I tossed the cup aside and leveled my rifle just in time to see spikes on the last deer, but too late – they’d made it to the brush.

All I could do was sit there and contemplate the missed opportunity. Hunting pressure was heavy. Chances at another buck would be few and far between. I cursed as I replaced the empty cup on the thermos. No more hot chocolate for me. It seemed every time I reached for my thermos a deer came by and caught me off guard.

My Uncle Joe shot a six-point that morning and told me to sit in his spot the rest of the afternoon. The cold weather kept the hunters moving, which kept the deer moving. Every half-hour or so deer popped up out of the ravine and crossed the open-woods flat. The flat was a whitetail highway, but I had no rifle rest – any shooting would be offhand.

I waited intently. Cradling the .257 Roberts, I sat perched on the large tree stump while the snow resumed falling. It was now late afternoon and the woods was becoming dim. Time was running out.

And then it happened, as it always happens, when you least expect it. A deer moved across the flat to my right. I saw his yellowed rack before I even raised the scope. I hurriedly centered the crosshairs on his chest, swung with him and squeezed off two rounds before he ducked over the edge and disappeared into the ravine.

I sat there a moment, hands trembling like aspen leaves. I gripped the rifle stock tighter to calm them. A wave of adrenaline spread through me. I don’t remember leaving my stand, but the next thing I knew I was at the spot where I’d last seen the deer. There were so many tracks in the snow I couldn’t tell them apart. I was young and inexperienced, helpless. Where to begin?

I looked up and noticed Uncle Joe plowing toward me in his Orange Man suit. He’d been sitting with my grandpa around the hill when he heard the shots. His eyes were wild and excited. “Was that you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Great!” He hurried to me and immediately saw my frustration. He knew I wanted a deer more than anything. “Do you think you hit him?” he asked.

“Yes...no,” I said. “I’m not sure. It was an off-hand shot, there were trees.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I might have.”

Uncle Joe rubbed his beard in thought. He glanced back at where I was sitting and then at the trail curving down into the ravine. Without a word, he studied the snow, step by careful step. We came to a spot where a single set of tracks veered to the left. They were large tracks and we followed them along the hill. Uncle Joe paused at one place, blinked, and looked closer as if double-checking what he saw. “Blood,” he pointed.

The adrenaline rush came on again as I leaned beside him and saw the pinhead drop of dark blood on the cotton-white snow.

“You hit him, buddy!” he said. He pumped a fist. “These are his tracks all right.” He slipped on a pair of gloves and gave a monstrous grin. “Let’s go!”

We continued on and entered a thick stand of hemlocks. You couldn’t see more than twenty yards in any direction. We stalked slowly, pushing aside the branches, creeping as quietly as possible.

Uncle Joe stopped abruptly in front of me. “There he is!”

Less than twenty yards away, the buck lifted and turned its head toward us. I froze. In that brief instant, every detail of his horns and coat were branded in my mind. Eight points, spread almost the width of his ears. One side of his rack had longer tines. He looked majestic, the old monarch that had eluded hunters until finally meeting its destiny at the hands of a fourteen year old. When he jumped up I noticed two white blotches of fur at the base of his neck. I noticed the distinct color patterns on his face and brisket... And I realized he was running away!

Uncle Joe dropped to the ground and yelled, “Shoot!”

I pulled up, centered the crosshairs on the deer’s chest, and fired twice, furiously working the short bolt of the .257 Roberts. The hemlocks were so thick, though, I knew I’d missed. We hurried to where he’d bedded and found large puddles of dark blood. If it had been any day other than first day of buck, we would’ve let the deer bed down again and pursued him the next morning. We went after him now because there were so many other hunters around and we knew it was only a matter of time until the deer stumbled past one of them. Also, with snow falling, tracks and blood would soon be covered.

The excitement flared in Uncle Joe’s eyes. I’d never seen him so fired up. He wanted this buck as much as I did. It was no longer just my deer - it was our deer.

“We’re gonna get this one, buddy!” he said, slapping my shoulder. My insides twisted with uncertainty. “Come on,” he said. But he didn’t have to tell me to follow; I was already on his heels, plowing through the dense hemlocks.

The deer moved slower now. I could barely see its outline stumbling through the snow-laden branches ahead of us, but he never offered a clear shot.

We followed the tracks deeper into the ravine, which by now I was convinced was bottomless. I heard the rushing stream not far away. We descended further, over fallen trees and through thick brush. The tracks passed within twenty feet of another hunter in the pines. The hunter said he’d seen nothing all day. Without explaining what we were

doing, we continued to the creek. The tracks ended there.

We scoured the banks for more tracks. Nothing. Then Uncle Joe grabbed my arm. “Listen!” he said. I listened. I heard the faintest splashing of water, like someone walking in the stream. Uncle Joe spun me around. “There!” he hollered.

About fifty yards upstream, the deer trotted away in the middle of the creek. I shot just as he leapt up onto a high bank.

When I fired that final time, I didn’t feel the recoil or hear the roar of the gun. My breath bellowed before me in a frosty smoke cloud. I could only hear the snow falling through the hemlocks and see the buck reach the top of the bank, and then tumble backward into the rushing stream. Ice water sprayed in a great crystalline wall and then settled around the motionless deer.

Uncle Joe clapped me on the back and I breathed again. He gathered me in a giant bear hug and let out a whoop that I can still hear in my sleep when I dream of that hunt - and I often do. “You got him!” he hollered. He let me down and then hugged me again, squeezing the tears out of me.

We rushed to the deer and for a moment I simply watched as the water flowed around him. I grabbed him by the left antler and tugged him to shore. As I filled out my tag and began field-dressing the buck, the woods suddenly came to life. Hunters poured in around us from all directions. They talked and laughed and asked to hear the story.

I let Uncle Joe tell the condensed version of the tale.

Finally, the hunters dispersed into the pines for the remaining hour of light and it was just Uncle Joe and me. “Well,” he said. He rubbed his sweaty beard at the thought of dragging the deer up the steep slope. The many fallen trees and brush piles made it look twice as steep. We’d have to lift the deer over each of them individually. He grabbed the right antler and flashed that same fiery glance of determination. “Ready when you are.”

I shouldered the unloaded rifle and took hold of the left antler. I smiled and nodded, and we began the long climb out of the ravine, tugging and grunting, and tugging and grunting some more. “Dandy buck you got there,” he said, heaving the deer over a fallen tree.

I grinned at Uncle Joe. No, I thought, dandy buck we got.

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This story is an excerpt from the author’s book “The Taxidermist’s Son”.

To order, contact the author at nightanimal@hotmail.com or visit www.ralphscherder.com.