As the teacher wrapped up his lecture, I quickly packed up my bag and shuffled out of the classroom. I raced to my dorm room, where I picked up the bags I had packed earlier that day. As I drove to the Milwaukee airport I could only think about one thing, the opening day of deer season in Missouri. Where I come from opening day is something that hunters live for. It is a day filled with great expectations of killing a good buck, and hunters telling stories of past successes and misfortunes. On opening day every hunter thinks they are going to be the next hunter to tag a Boone and Crockett sized buck, but many of them come back from the woods empty handed. For me opening day was more than just the start to another deer season, it was my deer season. As I boarded the plane I realized only five hundred and nineteen miles stood between me and my only chance to take a good buck. The day would prove to be more than just another hunt, instead it would bring about a realization of who I was, where I came from, and where I belong.
The next day started very early. I woke up at 5:19 AM to the pounding of my brother’s fist on my bedroom door. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the clock, “are you kidding me? It’s 5:19 in the morning?” A few minutes went by before the pounding on my door started again. “Okay, okay,” I said, as I dragged myself out of bed and started getting dressed for what I knew would be a very cold morning. I pulled on layer after layer of clothing because I knew I would be cold if didn’t. On my way out of the house I snatched up my rifle and my favorite hunting hat.
Just as I had guessed, the outside air was cold. The mid-November wind was chilling to the bone, even with all those clothes on. As I rounded the corner of the house, I found my brother, Stuart, waiting for me in his truck, ready for what would be an interesting day to say the least.
All my life Stuart and I had been at odds, he was the older, more mature one and I was the spoiled, younger brother. On Saturday mornings he helped my dad on the farm and I watched game tape from the football game the night before. He always wore boots and Wranglers and I wore Nikes and sport shorts. We were complete opposites in almost every aspect of our lives, but we could agree on one thing, hunting. We both enjoyed the thrill of seeing deer in the wild and the prospect of having a nice buck come within our killing range. We liked to make hunting a competition between ourselves to see who could kill the first deer or who could kill the nicer buck. Having killed a nice nine pointer a couples years prior, he held the upper hand. This year would be different though, I couldn’t describe why, but I could just feel it. This season would be my season.
On our way out of town we stopped at the gas station and grabbed a quick bite to eat. As we got our food and headed for the door we were greeted by many other fellow hunters, and exchanged wishes of good luck. The ten minute drive to our hunting property seemed like it took for hours, and when we arrived we found our friend, Phil, waiting on us. Phil never took hunting as serious as the rest of us. Having been a stellar football player and baseball player in high school, he rarely had time to enjoy the outdoors like we did. However, he loved opening day just as much as any other hunter in the state of Missouri.
After quick deliberation we decided that Phil and I would sit in a double stand that was nestled in a tree lined overlooking a clover patch and small timber. Stuart would be approximately three hundred yards to our east in a tripod stand overlooking a CRP field that bumped up next to a corn field. The walk to the stand was a good quarter mile, and the sound of crunching leaves beneath our feet sounded like cannons going off in the quiet morning hours. Once Phil and I reached the stand we took turns making our way up the ladder and getting situated. Around 6:30 AM the sun’s first rays of light peaked over the trees on the horizon and all of a sudden the woods came to life. Birds were chirping, squirrels were scurrying back and forth looking for acorns, raccoons were making their way back to their beds, and we began hearing shots being fired in the distance. We were set; all we needed now was a little deer movement.
Shot after shot after shot rang out, but we weren’t enjoying the luck those hunters were enjoying. We sat in the stand until 9:30, but to no avail. For some reason our honey hole wasn’t very active that morning, and we saw a grand total of one lousy deer. Three hours in the stand and all we had to show for it was a couple of bright red, wind burnt noses and a new high score on Pac-Man. Something had to happen if I was going to get a deer on my only day of hunting. Phil and I decided that this spot wasn’t doing the trick and that we needed to get down and try something else. I called Stuart and told him what we were planning, and he agreed to meet us at the truck. When we met up, Stuart told us that he had passed on a really nice ten pointer right before the sun came up. “There wasn’t enough light to see through the scope,” he said, when I asked why he didn’t shoot. Since time was of the essence we decided to hop in the truck and head over to a spot where Phil’s dad had seen some nice bucks running around. Little did I know my luck was about to change.
To be continued...
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