I had my rifle loaded by 5:45 a.m. on Wisconsin’s opening morning. I was warm from the walk in, and my feet were still on fire from the HotHands I’d stuck in my boots, but I knew the drill: Cool down quick and then zip back up before you get cold. I had my gun propped up on the stand’s rail, and with my headlamp switched off, I was blind in the darkness.
It was still a while before daybreak when I heard a deer blow so close I’d bet it was no more than 10 yards away. There is no better feeling to a hunter than knowing deer are near your stand before you can even see. It’s confirmation that you picked the right spot, and that you don’t smell (too much) like a human.
The morning had begun at 4 a.m. I had no trouble waking up, knowing I had just one day to hunt before I headed back to the South. It was also a special day for my friend Jake’s 10-year-old-daughter, Morgan, who was about to hunt deer for her first time. After an early-morning shower with ScentKiler shampoo, I found my cousin frying some eggs in the kitchen. I was annoyed at first because of all the scent coming from the skillet, but my empty and edgy stomach welcomed the free-range eggs without complaint.
Stepping outside, we could feel it was warmer than we’d liked for this highly revered day. But it was still a crisp 25 degrees. Jake and Morgan headed for a spot we call “the duck blind” — a perfect spot for inexperienced hunters because it’s a ground blind. The property is 140 acres, but since we only hunt the back 40, you always know when another hunter shoots. And the duck blind was so close to the stand I’d chosen to hunt that I worried one shot from either direction would likely ruin the other’s chance at a big buck.
Keeping these concerns to myself, I’d started the dark and treacherous walk down a ravine and back uphill to where the stand was perched. Without my little red light beaming in front of me, I wouldn’t have been able to see a hand in front of my face as I took one silent step after another. When I arrived at the tree stand, I gave myself a mental pat on the back and then climbed the ladder, trying not to worry about the rattling sounds I made. After hoisting up my Savage .270 with a rope, I quietly loaded three bullets. Historically, I’ve only needed one, but I always load an extra round or two just in case.
As soon as the sun peeked over the trees, I saw movement. It was a group of seven does on their morning stroll, and they seemed to be doing a figure-eight as they walked through the woods in front of my stand. One was frail and gray and clearly older than the others, and I could tell she couldn’t smell or see me. But we don’t shoot does on opening morning. I watched as a young 6-pointer came in trailing the group, and I stayed as still as possible while my eyeballs searched the surrounding trees and brush.
It was around 7:15 a.m. when I first saw him. I’d caught a glimpse of his rack in my peripheral, and pretty soon the buck was just 75 yards away, bowed up and looking right at me. I could tell this was a mature buck and not one to pass on, and then I realized how close he was to the fenceline. If he crossed that fence onto the other property, I’d never be able to get a shot. It was only a matter of seconds.
With both of his eyes still on me, I carefully reached for my gun and turned my body into shooting position. As soon I got a rest on the stand’s railing, the buck was on the move again. I put the scope’s crosshairs right where I anticipated he’d step next, and after one deep breath I was holding on the vitals. Without a second thought, I pulled the trigger. The 270-pound deer jumped, leaping right over the dreaded fence, where he then laid down within seconds.
The moments immediately before and after a flawless shot on a big buck are what many of us live for. Heart-pounding adrenaline was taking over my body as I watched that deer hit the ground. Then I remembered Morgan’s first hunt. And before I could finish the thought — I sure hope my win didn’t turn Morgan’s first hunt into a loss — I heard a shot echo through the woods from the direction of the duck blind. I silently prayed that she’d connected as well, and then I sent Jake a text.
“Yep. I have an extremely happy girl over here,” he replied. “It was perfect! Your shot stopped the deer we were watching and gave Morgan the chance to shoot.”
On my long walk back to camp, I ran into my dad. Deer hunting has always been a tradition in our family, and there was no one else I wanted to see more. I quietly explained my concern about the buck jumping the fence, but he assured me that his neighbor wouldn’t mind if we retrieved the deer on their property, since it was shot legally on his.
The only thing better than retrieving my own buck was seeing Morgan, who’d just taken her first deer with one well-placed shot. We spent the rest of the morning taking photos and dressing our deer. Looking at those pictures today, I’m still thrilled with my Wisconsin trophy. But there’s nothing quite like seeing a 10-year-old girl smiling from ear to ear in bloody camo. I can’t wait until next year. And neither can she.
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