Public land deer hunting is full of highs and lows, and sometimes the woods teach you lessons whether you’re ready for them or not. This is a raw, honest account of a February WMA hunt that started with frustration, shifted into a simple squirrel scouting trip, and ended in one of the most unforgettable buck encounters the hunter had ever experienced.
A Rough Start to the New February Season
The first year they implemented the 10 days of season in February I had a rough year. I shot a large buck on a ridge not far from here with a single shot .243 as he was chasing does and I watched him go down. I was on the other side of a small but deep creek and had to get down and walk 200 yards or so to find a ford. By the time I got back to where he was supposed to be, he was gone without a trace.
I was disgusted. So disgusted I sold the gun the very next day.
The next time I had a chance to hit the woods I was still licking my wounded pride. Doubt lingered as to how well I had hit the deer, and I’d spent a lot of sleepless nights replaying the shot. I was frankly sick of deer hunting — especially the grind that comes with public land deer hunting. I decided to just grab my $50 single-shot 20 gauge, hoist the canoe onto my ’97 GMC Suburban, and go shoot a few squirrels and scout a place I hadn’t been to that year.
A Change of Plans in the Swamp
On the way out the door, I had the nagging thought that it was still deer season, and that on the property I was hunting it was legal to harvest a buck with a firearm that day.
I put 2 slugs in my breast pocket.
The woods were wet from a rain the night before, and it was a little warm and muggy. Squirrels were scarce. I didn’t have any clear idea of where I was headed, but out of habit I crept my way about half a mile from where I had dragged my canoe ashore to an old Indian shell midden. I had killed a few pigs there before and bumped a few deer off of it. This midden wasn’t on the edge of the water like many. It was on the edge of where dry ground met the river swamp, several hundred yards off of the main channel. Palmettos grew thick on it, and it formed a sort of dry island surrounded by tupelo swamp. Anything bedded on it could watch the dry ground for danger and quickly dematerialize into the swamp if an intruder stumbled through the area.
There was a large red oak that grew on the edge of it. As I got closer to the midden, I concocted a theory that maybe it would hold a few squirrels in its crown.
The Buck That Appeared From Nowhere
I slipped to about 40 yards off of the midden and sat down with my back to a small bay magnolia, figuring I’d sit for 10–15 minutes and rest and plot my next move. As I sat, I kept replaying that miss in my head.
As I indulged in rueful recollections, a buck materialized on top of the midden. You always read about an ear flick, or hearing footsteps. Not this time. It wasn’t there, and then all of a sudden it was.
For a second I was in complete shock. Out of instinct I sat very still and tried to get a read on his body language. He looked around, and then turned to lick his hindquarters like a dog.
My thoughts turned to the slugs in my breast pocket. I was able to oh-so-slowly retrieve one, and with baited breath and tensed muscles, ease the action open without it making a click.
Excitement built. I just might make this happen! The slug entered the chamber. The stock found my shoulder. The buck continued to groom himself. The hammer came back. The bead found the deer.
He was quartering hard away from me. My point of aim was not far forward of his hip. For a brief second I considered that I had never fired a slug from this gun, and that I had only a single bead as an aiming aid. Last week’s hunt loomed in my mind.
I fired.
Shock, Doubt, and Waiting in the Quiet Woods
He didn’t fall. He didn’t dash. He walked slowly away from the midden up a hill towards a patch of yaupon and titi bush.
Somehow the second slug found its way into the breech and through the air.
The deer kept walking and was quickly out of sight in the brush.
I sat beneath the bay magnolia in a mix of residual shock and the by now familiar feeling of disgust. Why didn’t I wait for a better shot angle? Why didn’t I bring my rifle? How long should I give him?
My back began to cramp. Oddly, the only time it has ever done that was in the minutes after shooting a big buck. I guess it’s a combination of muscle stress from holding a position and adrenaline fading out.
I laid down on the ground and closed my eyes, intending to rest for a second. A crash brought me straight back up. I listened to the unmistakable sound of a deer expiring in thick brush.
Recovery, Reflection, and the Canoe Ride Out
My dad slipped away from work to help me drag him back to the canoe for a picture. It was the biggest buck either of us had personally seen come off of a WMA, and it remains the biggest I’ve killed on that property. Both slugs had found their mark, making him the most thoroughly gut-shot deer I had ever had the pleasure of cleaning. He was also the first buck I ever paddled out in a canoe, which may explain my fascination with that method of access from there on out and how it shaped the way I approach public land deer hunting today.
