Memoir

Buck Fever

My opportunity is there looking at me, broadside. Blood rushing and adrenaline pumping, I stare in disbelief. For a moment it seems as if time has stopped, I can’t hear anything nor can I talk.         

It’s a clear winter morning, the coffee pot is rolling and my dad is racing around the house getting his stuff together. To be completely honest, my idea of a good day is not waking up at four thirty in the morning. I would have been more than happy to go back to bed, but my love for hunting overrode this action. So, half reluctantly I get dressed, make my coffee, load the jeep up with our guns and gear, and head to my friend’s house to pick him up and go hunting. Michael packed his stuff and climbed in the jeep.

Finally, we arrived at our hunting spot (thirty minutes away from my house). If only I had known what a hell filled day lay ahead of me, I would have never gotten out of bed. So we set off on our adventure, hoping to bag that big buck. We’re in a thick part of the woods, the air was silent, the snow filled ground crackled with each step we took, and it seemed as if we could hear each other think, all in all, the atmosphere was eerie.

At last we arrived at where we would be sitting for what I thought was the whole day. After two hours of no deer and listening to Michael eat subway from three hundred yards away I would realize how wrong I really am.

Hunting has always been a big part of my life. I’ve been a hunter ever since I can remember. When I was five years old, I remember going out on the boat with my dad duck hunting using my cap gun. This hunting season is a whole lot different from the rest. Finally, Pennsylvania passed the mentor hunting program which allows hunters under the age of 12 to shoot a deer if accompanied by a licensed hunter/mentor (my dad).

            As we sit in our spot and no deer in sight my dad says “alright, fuck this we’re leaving” and we’re off again, walking around the woods looking for that perfect spot to sit in. We arrived on a bench (a rest on a hill), this is where we sat Michael for a big chunk of time. Unfortunately my dad and I never came across that “perfect spot”, well according to his standards anyway. This meant two things for me, a whole lot of walking and asking myself “Why the hell did I even wake up this morning?”

            The majority of the day was spent walking around “looking for deer”, my dad may be doing that, but I can tell you right now, the last thing I’m thinking about is deer. What I care about is when the hell we are going to stop walking. [For what seemed like forever, finally was coming to an end.] We went, got Michael, and then headed for the jeep.

            I’ve hunted/worked with my dad all my life and if there’s one thing I should know is this, it’s never over when you think it’s over.

            There is only an hour left till dark and my dad decided we should stick it out until then. My first reaction is “Wow, sure, why we would we go home right now? That would be stupid, I’m not tired at all”. Who am I kidding, I was completely drained, both mentally and physically. It never occurred to me until that day what a specimen my dad is. He is forty eight years old, a wounded Iraq war veteran who had two discs that were herniated and compressing his spinal cord causing spinal cord damage, two titanium replacement discs in his neck which causes limited movement, and he acted like this was another walk in the park. Then there is me, twelve years old, “full of energy” and “NEVER TIRED!!!” trailing fifty yards behind him every step of the way. I also came to the conclusion that my dad wasn’t human, but instead some species from a foreign land that didn’t feel pain and traveled like a Camel (which can walk twenty five to thirty miles a day).

We’re on a power line and my dad gave Michael the choice of what side of the hill he wanted to watch for the remainder of the day. Of course, he picks the side in which he has virtually no walking to do. We on the other hand, had to walk a good half mile. After walking roughly six miles that day, a half mile seemed so far.

            Had it not been for Michael calling me the night before to go hunting two things would have happened. My dad’s hunting license became unhooked and fell of his jacket, he was oblivious to this as was I. Thankfully Michael saw his license and picked it up. Also, the choice of who got what side of the hill would have never happened and I would’ve simply picked the side Michael chose.

Surprisingly, I made it up the hill, and I sat myself down on the ground, exhausted. We are on a bank right off the main path of the power line, looking at an old logging path in the midst of numerous hemlock trees. There are about forty five minutes left of sunlight and I’m counting down every minute. I did my routine complaining to my dad saying “let’s just go home”, but he insisted we stay till dark, he then continued on to hit his raddle bag (a bag of sticks, that when you rub together imitates the noise of two bucks fighting with their antlers). “SNAP”, we hear a twig break, he said “get ready Mitchell”. I sat up and had my gun ready to shoot, no longer than two minutes after I sat up did a deer come out of the woods. Right when I spotted it I said to my dad, “Dad it’s a deer”. . . “Dad it’s a big deer”. All the while he is saying, “Shoot it then”. Remember, this is the first deer I’ve seen in the woods that I was allowed to shoot. I tried to get this deer in my scope, but I was amazed by the size of this deer. It had at least a 25 inch spread, the tines were no shorter than 10 inches, and there was no less than 14 points. Basically this buck was a cow with horns. I had buck fever and my dad knew it. The last thing I remember is those massive horns sticking out on each side of a tree taunting me, without a shot, I go home with only a story that nobody believes.

            My dad is a man who is good at everything and “never messes up”. So you can imagine what he was thinking after I didn’t shoot. That shot would have been just like any other for him, as he has an impressive amount of deer under his belt.

            Here comes the onslaught of questions and obvious statements as we walk back to the jeep, “Why didn’t you shoot”, “That was such an easy shot”, “Do you realize you didn’t get a shot off at one of the biggest bucks I’ve ever seen?” When we get to Michael he is in regret as I tell him my story. Had he picked the other side and had us sit where he sat, Michael would have bagged this monster (so he says). This walk back to the jeep was dreadful and annoying. It consisted of Michael saying “Wow I’m so dumb, I should have picked that side”, and my dad reminding me every five minutes how big that buck was.

            My dad eventually settled down and it soon turned into a joke. When we got home, he picked up the Ridgway Record, which held the Big Buck Contest, and pointed to every deer and said “Yup, you would have beaten that one, that one, oh this one, oh yeah definitely this one”. This made me more disappointed than anything, had I shot that deer I would have been famous in my area for shooting a record setting deer.

            I really don’t know what prevented me from shooting that deer. Was it pure shock? Or was it indeed the tree that “disabled” me from shooting? I may never know but if I took anything away from this experience it’s “Good things come to people who wait and are patient”. Yes, I did wait all day to shoot a deer, but did I really deserve to shoot that deer?