I can’t sleep the night prior to the opening of any deer season, it makes no difference whether its archery, gun, or doe season.  I wait to go to bed until I’m almost exhausted. When my head hits the pillow my brain reengages and begins turning over strategies as I visualize stand placement, possible directions the deer will approach from, rising to my feet, drawing back the bow and anchoring, the exact placement of the sight pin in relationship to the deer’s posture, and my finger as it whitens, tightening against the trigger release.  I’m like a little kid full of sugar from eating handfuls of Christmas goodies laying in bed waiting to hear sleigh bells, the clatter of hooves, or the soft rustle of Santa’s outfit sliding against the bricks in the chimney.  My eyes are squeezed tightly closed hoping that I’ve been good enough to be rewarded come daybreak.

The opening day of the 1990, Pennsylvania archery season found me wide awake, as the bright-red numbers of the alarm counted down to the moment I would arise from my sleepless night, take a shower to make sure I was descented, dress for the ride to the woods, remove the stand from the bed of my truck, and begin the quiet trek towards my chosen tree.  Before the alarm could awaken the household, I crawled from between clean sheets, quietly snicked off the alarm, and stuck my head out the front door hoping the weatherman had been wrong, and that it wouldn’t rain this morning.  He was right, a light rain was steadily falling and I knew I was in for a cold, wet, foggy morning.

Showering, I visualized how cold I would be today, and in spite of the hot shower I could almost feel the cold rivulets of rainwater running down my back.  Dressing lightly for the ride, I walked barefoot to the enclosed shed where my tree stand, bow, and quiver were snuggled in under an enormous pile of leaves raked from the area we would be hunting.  Grabbing the feed sack in which I had entombed my camo-clothing in still more leaves, I made my way to the front porch to await the arrival of my hunting partner.  Minutes later, sipping a hot cup of coffee, I saw Bob Miller’s headlights illuminate the pine trees in the lower yard as he made the turn up the driveway.  This was Bob’s second year hunting with a bow.  Laughing to myself I hoped he would have better luck than last year’s opener.

Last year I had placed him on the edge of a little valley near an old apple tree.  The deer use the little grassy draw all day as a travel lane, and frequently stop and munch partially fermented apples as they go about their daily routines.  Just after daybreak a doe and a yearling had stopped almost underneath Bob’s stand.  The big doe’s body was hidden behind a crabapple tree, and the yearling was chewing an apple standing broadside for a picture perfect shot.  While Bob was thinking about taking the yearling, I was about 50 yards away watching a little 5 point meander down an old grown over logging road, directly toward Bob.  The little buck wasn’t what I had in mind for a season still young, so I let him keep walking toward Bob.

I couldn’t see the doe and the yearling from my stand, but this is how Bob described the events as they unraveled.  Bob had decided to take the yearling and just drawn his bow and anchored when he heard the sound of the little buck approaching from directly behind him.  Turning his head toward the sound, he was surprised to find he and the buck were staring eye to eye as the buck was even with him on the side slope.  Having seen Bob’s head move the buck skidded to a stop, cocked his head, snorted, and ran back up the hill directly toward me.  When the buck snorted, both the doe and the yearling took off for parts unknown.  Bob had come up empty on his first encounter with whitetails, but that was last year.

After settling my gear in the back of Bob’s station wagon and climbing into the front seat, he handed me a cup of coffee and we drove off into another season of unknowns.  Watching the raindrops dimple the partially fogged windshield, I reflected on the fact we had worked hard to prepare for this season.  We’d spent the last several months shooting uphill, downhill, cross-slope, and from tree stands at 10-30 yard distances. Having scouted the area where we were hunting, we knew an enormous, non-typical buck, and several lesser bucks were frequenting the area near our stands. Twenty minutes later we pulled off the road and listened as the rain beat a steady rhythm on the car’s roof.

Bob had been fighting off the flu all week, but despite the rain he was eager to get started.  Opening the tailgate we set our stands in the grass and began dressing for our damp, drizzly vigil.   Dropping over the slope we forded the rising creek and made our way uphill toward the saddle where we’d split up.  Stopping in the darkness we shook hands and wished each other good luck.  I watched him blend into the night as he crossed over the saddle, while I turned toward the right and paced of the distance to my morning stand..  Thirty feet above ground I finished dressing, rechecked my safety strap for tightness, pulled up my bow, nocked an arrow, and settled back to await the arrival of daylight.  The maples surrounding my stand had dropped their leaves during the onslaught of the rainy night, and the ground was littered bright-yellow when dawn extended it’s pale, gray, overcast hand.

Thirty minutes after daybreak I caught movement about 45-yards away, and watched as a doe and her yearling approached my stand.  I knew Bob had a doe tag, and wished they’d appeared under his stand instead.  The little yearling moved past my stand and began climbing toward the top of the ridge behind me.  The doe had discovered something she liked, and for the next 45-minutes she alternately fed and scanned the surrounding area for threats.  Whenever she’d put her head down to take a bite, I’d come to a full draw, and hold the pin on her chest and then let down, counting coup.  Thirty minutes into her morning meal, the little yearling returned to mom, and I could make out the little buttons atop his head.  Next year, I promised him, and laughed as he tried to nurse with a mouth full of leaves.  A big fox squirrel bounced his way near the two deer, and after giving him a glance, both deer turned and walked along the trail the little yearling had taken earlier.

At ten, my clothes were soaked; I could feel water starting to trickle down my back, and within minutes I was sitting in a puddle warmed by my own body.  Despite wearing felt-pacs, my feet began to get cold.  Looking at my hands I noticed my fingers were all pruned up, and so stiff it became painful to move them.  When my watch said 11:30 I stood up and began to pack my gear.  I was shivering so bad I had a hard time taking my stand apart.  Moving back toward the car I gingerly crossed the swollen creek and made my way up the berm.  Peeking through the branches I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the first one to quit.  When I stepped into the open Bob jumped out, grabbed my stand and said, "I was wondering how long you could hang in this weather.  I just got here myself."  Laughing, I asked him, "If you just got here, how is it that you’re completely dry?"   With his big German grin and a sheepish look on his face, he confessed that he’d been out of the woods for an hour, and had been sitting in the car all toasty and dry.  Listening to him cough and sniffle, I knew the rain hadn’t done him much good, but I asked him whether he was up to listening to my afternoon game plan, or if he just wanted to call it a day.

Pulling into the driveway we removed all of our wet gear and headed for the warmth of the kitchen.  Watching the bedraggled, well-doused duo heading up the walk, my unsympathetic spouse greeted us with a wry smile, and two steaming-hot cups of coffee.    Walking into the back room I threw our clothes into the dryer.  Grabbing a pair of old sweats, and a clean towel, I threw them at Bob ordering him into the shower to get warm.  While Bob showered I removed the inserts from our boots, wrung them out as best as I could, and placed them on the water heater to begin drying.

After I showered I told Bob that we would kick back until our clothes were dry, then we’d head to a new area I’d hunted the previous year, and scouted just the week before.  The previous season I’d almost taken a shot at the largest 10-point I’d ever seen.  He had been standing above me looking in the direction of a tarsal gland I’d placed next to a thick crabapple blow down.  When he started moving downhill toward my stand I’d just moved my hand to begin my draw, when a gray squirrel who happened to be at the same height as I was, began fussing and gave away my advantage.   Not only was the rack of this buck impressive, but his body was thick, and absolutely huge.  The six-point standing beside him, looked like a kindergartener standing next to an NFL lineman.  The buck did give me a broadside shot at 27-yards, but the weather report had called for late afternoon rain, and the sky looked like it open up any minute.  The last thing I wanted was to take the shot, then have to trail the buck as the rain washed the evidence away.  I passed on the shot.  As the buck turned to walk away with the six-point trailing him, the pitter-patter of raindrops told me I had made the right decision.

The alfalfa field we’d be hunting was T-shaped, and back in the woods about a mile from the nearest road, only a tractor path made the field assessable to a vehicle.  When I’d been out there, I’d discovered only one rub in the area, and that rub was leading into the field.  Past experience told me that this rub was along the trail the bucks used to enter the field just before dark.  Warm and dry, fortified with several cups of warm soup and hot coffee, we left the house about 2:30.

As we dressed to go into the woods, I explained to Bob where I thought I would place him, the direction the deer would come from, and where my stand would be.
We always hunt in overwatch positions so that we can see each other and signal when we see deer, and inform each other of their direction of travel.  One of us almost always gets a shot, and usually, when the deer run, the other hunter also gets a shot. Slipping and sliding as we made our way down one side of the steep valley, and pulled each other uphill tree to tree toward the field.  Our legs were quickly soaked to the skin, but at least the rain had stopped.

The terrain in this area is unusually steep, and two or three breaks are required to get to the top of the other hill without sounding like a steam locomotive trying to climb the Rockies.   Sneaking up to the edge of the field we scanned the area for deer.  Seeing none in the field or on it’s edges I pointed him in the direction he was to go, while I moved across the field and into the left-hand corner of the "T," where I’d discovered the rub.  I’d picked out the perfect tree on my scouting mission, but the rain combined with the smooth bark of the tree, prevented my stand from climbing more than six feet before sliding back down the trunk.   Moving away from where I wanted to be, I discovered a straight, rough-barked tree about 40-yards away from the U-shaped opening where the bucks were entering the field.  When I finally settled into my stand it was 4:30.

I watched the chickadees, and nuthatches walking down the tree trunks feeding. Cardinals added color to the gray day, as the blue jays chased away boredom, yelling, "Thief!  Thief!"   A little hawk landed on the branch beside me as I sat rigid like the tree itself.  Slowly turning my head I blinked at him hoping he’d relocate before the deer arrived.  Opening his eyes wide, he gave flight and moved to a new location in a tree along the field’s edge.  As I watched him land I noticed movement just inside the tree line.  Looking closely, I watched as the big buck I’d passed on the year before, moved steadily toward me just inside the tree line at the field’s edge.  Bending his neck he began rubbing on the same tree that I’d spotted the week before.   Turning, he began moving through the U-shaped opening into the field.  Grabbing my grunt call, I tried talking him into coming closer.  He hesitated, looked my way, turned and began moving directly toward me.  Moving my hand, I checked to make sure the arrow was still nocked tightly, and awaited his next move.  He moved to within 20-yards, but a crabapple tree screened his vitals.  Raising his head into the air, he licked his nose and tested the wind, his wide, white antlers well outside his ears; he shook the water from his fur, like my Springer Spaniels after a bath.  Failing to scent another deer, he turned toward the opening again.  Three times I called him away from the opening, and all three times the same crabapple tree prevented a shot.

The fourth time I tried to call him, he ignored me and moved into the field.  What happened next surprised me entirely.  From his right a beautiful eight point broke from cover and charged the big buck.  The big buck lowered his head and the two sets of antlers crashed together, and the eight-point slipped to his knees and was shoved backward.  Breaking contact the eight-point scampered aside, while a little six point tried on the big boy for size.  No match, the little six made one attempt and sprinted off to one side.  A little 4-point broke from cover, took one look at the big guy, and changed his stance communicating, "Uh uh, I don’t even want to try."  The big buck just stared at him and shook his head.

Catching a flash of white in the distance, four more bucks ran across the field toward the big buck.  Another eight point charged, and with a flick of his massive neck the ten point flipped him over on his back, got ready for the next buck, a seven point.   The next thing I know there are eight bucks fighting in the field in front of me less than 40-yards away.  I was helpless.  I wanted to get down and approach them while they were distracted, but the noise from my stand would have sent them scampering into the next county.  All I could do was wait and watch.  Hooves were kicking up clods of alfalfa and mud, antlers were clashing together, and I was the only witness.

I pondered solutions, and for a few minutes all I could do was to wait and watch.  Remembering how I break up flocks of fall turkeys, I took my grunt call and blew into it not caring what it sounded like.  Bucks broke in every direction, with most of them racing deeper into the field and turning towards the right where I had placed Bob in his stand.   I couldn’t see Bob, and I didn’t know what tree he’d decided to climb, but this is what he said he saw.

He heard the bucks fighting up along the "T" where I was, but since he’d never heard bucks fight or grunt before, he was clueless as to what was happening.  He’d had the flu all week, and the morning hunt, combined with the dampness of the afternoon, had left him feeling hot, feverish, and a little dizzy.  Deciding that thirty feet up an oak tree was not the place to be when dizzy, he’d just lowered himself to the ground when he heard deer running.  He’d been twenty yards inside the tree line, with great shooting lanes in all directions.  When he heard the deer running he looked up to see an 8-point running directly towards him.  As he raised his bow to shoot, the deer spotted him, made a hard right hand turn, and sprinted by him less than 10-yards away.  Bob said that when he released the arrow, the speed of the deer, and the direction of the arrow created an optical illusion, making the arrow seem like a big breaking ball.  He missed the buck by 15 feet.  Running deeper into the woods, the buck stopped about 20 yards from Bob and stood there snorting, unsure of what it had just experienced.   With no clear shooting lanes, Bob just stood there helpless.  Four more bucks were out in the middle of the field looking in the direction of the snorting buck Bob had just missed, but the density of the crabapple and raspberry tangles surrounding the field made shooting impossible.  Looking towards the buck he’d just missed, Bob could do nothing more than watch it walk away.

Still up in my tree, I still didn’t know where the bucks had gone, but I heard a deer snorting, and wondered if Bob had perhaps gotten off a shot and killed one of the bucks.  Listening, I could hear the deer snorting continuously, and when the snorting stopped, I could hear a deer running in my direction.  Getting to my feet, I looked in the direction of the approaching sound and tried to draw my bow.   Having been cold and wet all afternoon, I didn’t notice it but I had again become hypothermic.  When I tried to draw my bow, I couldn’t get the cams to roll over.  Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I saw a buck running toward me and beginning to slow to a walk.

Having unsuccessfully attempted to draw my bow, I consciously thought, "Oh God, what do I do now?"  Then a little voice in my subconscious replied, "Well if you want the buck, you’ll try drawing again."  When I tried to draw the bow, it rolled over as smooth as butter, the previous attempt having restored circulation and warming the muscles.  The only problem was that the arrow had dropped off of the rest and was lying across my index finger.  Using my finger, I rolled it back up on the rest, and as my hand anchored at the corner of my mouth, and the bright-fluorescent sight pin came to a stop, the deer stopped broadside 13-yards away with the pin centered perfectly on his chest.  When I released the arrow I watched it fly straight and true, and watched as the fur fell away from the hole the arrow had just made.  There was no doubt that the shot had been the best I have ever made in my life.  I watched the deer crouch, and then leap zigzagging through the crabapples.  As I reconstructed the shot, I heard the sound of running hooves and watched as the 5-point I’d seen earlier, race into view and stop exactly where the 8-point stood only seconds before.   Grinning behind my headnet, I watched him sniff the ground and turn and run into the field and out of sight.

Happy, hypothermic, and giddy, I lowered my bow to the ground, and although it was still light out in the field, darkness had fallen inside the tree line.   When my feet hit the ground, they were so stiff I could hardly stand, but I needed to find where the buck had been standing when I had hit him.  As I walked toward the spot where I’d shot him, I’d forgotten to take my bow off of the pull up rope, and my feet had become tangled up, and I fell to the ground like a trussed up calf in a rodeo.  With everything that had happened that day, I lay there laughing like a loon.  When I finally got my feet untangled, I remembered my little flashlight and walked up where I thought the buck had been standing.  Thick gouts of blood covered the ground, and loose hair indicated that I was close to where he’d been, but I couldn’t find my arrow.  Placing my fingers in his prints I looked back towards the height my stand had been, and judging the height of the deer I moved my head into the zone where I supposed his chest had been.  When I turned my head to the right, the arrow was right at eye level sticking in a tree.  Using the arrow to mark the spot I returned to my stand and remove the roll of toilet paper wrapped in plastic and marked the beginning of the trail.  I’d moved a mere 20-yards when the flashlight went dead.   Wrapping toilet paper around the closet trees to mark the spot where I’d been forced to give up the search, I proceeded into the field and toward Bob’s location.

As I turned the corner of the field I saw the big-buck standing off in the distance, and I watched as an arrow came from the edge of the tree line arching toward the big buck’s chest.  The trajectory of the arrow seemed perfect, but at the last second the arrow passed just underneath the big buck.  Bob had missed.  The buck had been watching me and had forgotten about Bob, but when the shot slapped into the wet field underneath him he whirled and disappeared into the tree line at the base of the "T."

When we met up at the edge of the field, both of us were talking so fast and so loud we must have sounded like a murder of crows telling all the other crows about a just harvested field of corn.  It was quite some while before we calmed down enough to gather our gear and make our way toward my stand to look for my buck.  Using Bob’s flashlight, we tracked the buck another 10-yards before his flashlight also went dead.  In retrospect we blame the cold, wet weather for the dead batteries.  It was decided that we would return to my house for Coleman lanterns, and help in dragging the deer.  As we made our way off of the hilltop and through the valley and up the other side, Bob said I was sprinting.  I guess perhaps I did have a little bit of an adrenaline problem, but poor Bob’s flu was kicking in again, and a day in the wet Pennsylvania woods didn’t help him much.

We found the buck later that night about 50-yards from where I’d shot him, only twenty yards from where the last flashlight went dead.  The arrow had just grazed the back of both front legs, centered the heart, and passed through both lungs.  It was a picture perfect shot.  We finally got out of the woods and home with the deer at 12:00 midnight Sunday morning.   Bob’s flu got worse and he lost two weeks work.

We still hunt together several times each year.  The last day of archery season this year I again put him in a stand.  Shortly before dark, at twenty yards, he missed the largest non-typical buck he had ever seen.  Bob said, "When I saw that big buck I started shaking so bad that I could no longer breathe.  The arrow remains in the tree beyond where the deer was standing.  Two weeks ago when gun season opened, he shot his buck out of the same tree I had taken my buck in during archery season.  Last weekend I was 30-feet up in a tree just a little way away from where he missed the buck, at 11:10 the big non-typical stopped in front of me at 35-yards.  See you next archery season big boy.