Black Monday

Ask me when I won my first bass tournament, and I'll give you the month and year. What was my worst tournament? June 28, 2009. I remember my wake up text, the Boston Creme doughnut, the sunrise, the fact that no bass would even look at a green pumpkin senko when 24 hours ago they were lining up around the shoals of Oneida Lake for a chance at that alluring soft bait. You never remember all the fish you caught, but you never forget the one you did not. Hunting is no different. I remember my best hunt because it was with in the last calendar year. The deer that I did not harvest, haunt me in my dreams for years and years. I was hoping this year would bring me good memories, achievements, and accomplishment. It still may, the season is young and the rut is rapidly approaching. One thing the early season has given me is another date I will never forget.

Monday, October 5 2015 was going to be a memorable day. The previous Saturday's hunt was inspiring to say the least. My pattern of my two target bucks, G2 and The 9 was spot on. I felt I could not wait till next Saturday to get back in the woods, so I made arrangements at work so I could leave early to get a rare Monday evening sit in. The temperatures were cooling off and it was the second day of high pressure after a weekend cold front blew through. On top of that, I had a light WNW wind that is perfect for my stand location. The table was set. As I walked to my stand I was filled with anticipation. There was no doubt in my mind I was filling my Pennsylvania Buck tag tonight.

I was not in my stand for 10 minutes when I heard a buck grunt faintly to my right. I noticed a doe appear 15 yards behind me. She was hurried out of the brush looking anxiously over her shoulder. With that, she walked into the open and G2 emerged right behind her. A mere 15 yards stood between  me and my top targeted buck. And a 40' chestnut tree. I watched as he made a scrape at the edge of the brush, gave one more glance in the doe's direction, than bounded out of view. What an encounter. He never presented me with a shot, but he was closer than ever. It wasn't even 4 pm and I had a solid buck sighting. I knew I was going to get an opportunity tonight.  

An hour and a half had passed and I noticed some movement in the brush about 25 yards away. I could see antlers shaking the saplings, coming my way. If this deer continued down this trail, when he entered the clearing he would be down wind of me. I grabbed my bow and readied for a shot. As the buck came closer, I could tell it was The 9. He was very cautious, repeatedly sticking his nose high in the air trying in vain to catch my scent. As he ducked under the last pin oak I came to full draw and focused on my target. There he was, 18 yards away, slightly quartering to. I put my pin behind his left shoulder, exhaled, and released my arrow. Upon impact I recall seeing my lighted nock glowing red behind his shoulder, exactly where I had aimed. The 9 did an about face and raced back into the thicket. I checked my watch, 5:35 pm. I hung my bow confidently on its' hook, beyond satisfied with my shot. I texted some friends to help me track my trophy, and celebrate a successful hunt. I had created a great memory tonight, or so I thought. 

It was close to 7 pm by the time the cavalry arrived. I reenacted the shot for everybody, and we inspected the arrow which had passed completely through, Mike, who has 25 years experience in tracking deer took one look at the arrow and said, " That's a dead deer." As we tracked the first 30 feet, the blood trail was widening. We were all giddy with anticipation, but at the same time I was trying to temper my expectations. Call me a pessimist but I have seen this before. I could not breathe easy until I had my hands firmly around The 9's chocolate rack. By the time we lost the blood trail some 300 yards later, my fears were becoming a reality. We decided we should resume the search in the morning. Tiered eyes and dimming flashlights had did all they could. Hopefully the daylight would lead us to The 9.

After a sleepless night, Mike and I resumed the search. We followed the blood trail from the beginning, nothing. We crisscrossed through the thickets on our hands and knees, nothing. We walked the perimeter of the property, and through neighboring properties, nothing. In all we spent 6 more hours walking in circles trying to forensically retrace The 9's last steps. In the days that followed, I tried to drive around the area looking for any signs, hoping to see turkey vultures in the sky circling the carcass that would give me closure, but nothing. How could a day that started out with so much promise turn into such a nightmare? I had no answers, only questions that may never be answered.

My final assessment? The 9 is dead. Somewhere. When the brush dies down and the woods thin out, I may find him. When I search the property for sheds come February maybe he will turn up. The worst feeling a hunter can have is feeling that he or she wounded an animal. I feel terrible about this, but I do not believe that The 9 is wounded. All indications point to a fatal shot. The arrow, the blood trail, my recollection of the shot itself. I pray some day I will find The 9 and give this story the proper ending it deserves. Until than all I have is questions, and another date that I will never be able to forget.