muddy
Well-Known Member
The buck known simply as G3, named after his split G3, stepped onto the food plot
and into the spotlight on a hazy July dawn - into a story that would dominate my
life for the rest of the year.
Already heavy with wood, his head seemed a real burden to carry on that first
morning as he crossed that food plot. His summer neck seemed to be exaggerating the
width of his headgear and his 10 points and rough heavy beams could not hide behind
the heavy layer of velvet bark that fed the wood below. In the blink of an eye, he
was mine, captured by a tree with eyes. Now, I had to have him. He would be mine. He
WAS mine. I had TOUCHED him! At least in a sense I had. I had just counted coup on
this magnificent animal with the help of my Moultrie Trail Cam.
Iowa Bow hunting season arrived without delay and the itch was definitely here. But
the advent of the season comes with a plethora of problems we bow hunters have to
deal with. Warm weather, too much foliage, bugs, body odor, too much corn still out,
and sluggish deer movement to name a few. Now, throw in a healthy mix of hunting
pressure coupled with scent contamination and you have a recipe for a lackluster
start to the upcoming rut.
A recipe so wrong even Rachael Ray couldn't fix it.
My bow hunting partner and nephew Mike (a.k.a. School Boy) and I, had contemplated
this problem for quite some time, and made the arduous decision to fore go any early
season bow hunting in order to gain a better edge in the field. To lay low and wait
for pre-rut - THAT was the plan.
Now comes the last week of October and its GAME ON!
Sleepless nights, high ambitions, proper planning, equipment checks.. we are ready.
G3 was still continuing to make appearances on camera; his velvet rack now polished
to perfection with a 24" neck now supporting the whole affair.
Many bucks came and went during the rut. I passed so many great deer I lost count. I
was preparing for the day I knew would eventually come. I knew with patient
persistence, extreme caution, along with a carefully planned and executed scenario,
he would fall to my arrow before the season came to its final end.
Countless times I would come close and countless times he would slip away. I would
change my stand location. I would try to cut him off. He was always one step ahead
of me. I would move closer to his bedroom, a large depression in a wooded draw
roughly 100 yards wide that ran uphill in the middle of a field of switch grass. My
life was becoming a nightmare. I was losing sleep at night.
Always something wrong; Too far for a shot. Brush in the way. Slip out the back door on me. Random routes to and from his bedding area. Going nocturnal. Swirling winds. Bad thermals.
This was the scenario I reviewed over and over in my dreams:
I was seeing him now, almost at will. I could, on any given day, with favorable
wind, take myself to within 100 yards of him and watch him have his way with his
latest girl. For several weeks I would watch him mornings as well as evenings.
Sometimes he would come to within 50 yards of me, to the edge of his bedroom, put on
the brakes and literally break my heart. He was totally safe in this spot and he
knew it. Here he played safe from my arrows, safe from death, and he did it with
abandon!
The mounting frustration of the past 5 weeks found me in a funk on the morning of
Nov. 30th. I was overcome by grief and on the verge of panic. There was a real sense
of dread knowing this was the last day of bow season until AFTER shotgun season.
Would he survive the upcoming onslaught? Would he be there when I returned on the
18th of December for the last half of Iowa Bow season?
Pushed over the edge, I decided to move 20 more yards into his bedroom. I knew it
was a gamble and if I failed I might never see him again. You see, I actually know
myself pretty well..I had been to casinos before.. and that's what bothered me!
Breath poured from my mouth and nose like smoke from a chimney. The morning air was
sharp and the ground was still spotted with snow. Shaking, I stood behind the only
cover I could find. A small fallen tree that wouldn't hide a squirrel. My situation
was pathetic. I had arrived on time but he was early. Caught on the ground, climber
in hand what could I do? Yep, I froze behind the only cover I had in front of me. I
knew the situation was dire but he hadn't seen me yet. I knocked an arrow and
waited. My only hope was to stay still and as he passed me undetected I would draw
and release. His breathing was raspy and he made guttural sounds as he came. He was
passing my pathetic location at 12 feet when he suddenly turned and came straight
toward me! NO! What will I do now? Things were suddenly complicated. His head went
down to cross a two foot wide ditch that separated us so I started my draw.
BUSTED!!! He caught my movement, stopped and stared me down. Having no shot because
of a few branches and having only a frontal shot, we were at a stalemate and neither
of us were giving any quarter. As my arms started shaking I realized the
hopelessness of my situation, and once again I found my heart broken as my arms
failed and he trotted off.
It's opening day, 2nd season shotgun, and the latter part of the day has found G3
alive and well. He is working a scrape line about 300 yards in length that follows
the timbered edge of a wooded creek bottom. This creek bottom borders a large field
of Switch Grass. G3 is methodically working this line in an attempt to mark his
territory in hopes of finding a new girlfriend. A large oak has fallen along the
scrape line and the path around it takes him out into the switch grass.
Mike is on stand, he is hidden atop a ladder stand situated in a wooded fence row
that is attached to a large Black Locust tree. Disc Elite at the ready, his heart
pounds with anticipation as he watches G3 move closer and closer. The stand location
is one we had assigned the greatest potential to with respect to gunning down G3,
and that potential was about to pay off........ for Mike.... NOT for Spit!
No doubt, 148 yards is a long shot over a make shift rest. But when coupled with
trying to blink ice daggers from your vision.it becomes a REAL challenge. Mike was
up to that challenge, and straining through the Bushnell 3200 he said, "If it was
meant to be Lord, it will happen", and sent the 200 grain Shockwave to its resting
place, deep in the heart of G3. Taking several steps, he staggered, and then met
the ground with thrashing regret.
A perfect shot, from the perfect rifle, into a perfect deer, by the perfect hunting
partner.
What a perfect day!
Story and photos by Jim Adam
and into the spotlight on a hazy July dawn - into a story that would dominate my
life for the rest of the year.
Already heavy with wood, his head seemed a real burden to carry on that first
morning as he crossed that food plot. His summer neck seemed to be exaggerating the
width of his headgear and his 10 points and rough heavy beams could not hide behind
the heavy layer of velvet bark that fed the wood below. In the blink of an eye, he
was mine, captured by a tree with eyes. Now, I had to have him. He would be mine. He
WAS mine. I had TOUCHED him! At least in a sense I had. I had just counted coup on
this magnificent animal with the help of my Moultrie Trail Cam.
Iowa Bow hunting season arrived without delay and the itch was definitely here. But
the advent of the season comes with a plethora of problems we bow hunters have to
deal with. Warm weather, too much foliage, bugs, body odor, too much corn still out,
and sluggish deer movement to name a few. Now, throw in a healthy mix of hunting
pressure coupled with scent contamination and you have a recipe for a lackluster
start to the upcoming rut.
A recipe so wrong even Rachael Ray couldn't fix it.
My bow hunting partner and nephew Mike (a.k.a. School Boy) and I, had contemplated
this problem for quite some time, and made the arduous decision to fore go any early
season bow hunting in order to gain a better edge in the field. To lay low and wait
for pre-rut - THAT was the plan.
Now comes the last week of October and its GAME ON!
Sleepless nights, high ambitions, proper planning, equipment checks.. we are ready.
G3 was still continuing to make appearances on camera; his velvet rack now polished
to perfection with a 24" neck now supporting the whole affair.
Many bucks came and went during the rut. I passed so many great deer I lost count. I
was preparing for the day I knew would eventually come. I knew with patient
persistence, extreme caution, along with a carefully planned and executed scenario,
he would fall to my arrow before the season came to its final end.
Countless times I would come close and countless times he would slip away. I would
change my stand location. I would try to cut him off. He was always one step ahead
of me. I would move closer to his bedroom, a large depression in a wooded draw
roughly 100 yards wide that ran uphill in the middle of a field of switch grass. My
life was becoming a nightmare. I was losing sleep at night.
Always something wrong; Too far for a shot. Brush in the way. Slip out the back door on me. Random routes to and from his bedding area. Going nocturnal. Swirling winds. Bad thermals.
This was the scenario I reviewed over and over in my dreams:
I was seeing him now, almost at will. I could, on any given day, with favorable
wind, take myself to within 100 yards of him and watch him have his way with his
latest girl. For several weeks I would watch him mornings as well as evenings.
Sometimes he would come to within 50 yards of me, to the edge of his bedroom, put on
the brakes and literally break my heart. He was totally safe in this spot and he
knew it. Here he played safe from my arrows, safe from death, and he did it with
abandon!
The mounting frustration of the past 5 weeks found me in a funk on the morning of
Nov. 30th. I was overcome by grief and on the verge of panic. There was a real sense
of dread knowing this was the last day of bow season until AFTER shotgun season.
Would he survive the upcoming onslaught? Would he be there when I returned on the
18th of December for the last half of Iowa Bow season?
Pushed over the edge, I decided to move 20 more yards into his bedroom. I knew it
was a gamble and if I failed I might never see him again. You see, I actually know
myself pretty well..I had been to casinos before.. and that's what bothered me!
Breath poured from my mouth and nose like smoke from a chimney. The morning air was
sharp and the ground was still spotted with snow. Shaking, I stood behind the only
cover I could find. A small fallen tree that wouldn't hide a squirrel. My situation
was pathetic. I had arrived on time but he was early. Caught on the ground, climber
in hand what could I do? Yep, I froze behind the only cover I had in front of me. I
knew the situation was dire but he hadn't seen me yet. I knocked an arrow and
waited. My only hope was to stay still and as he passed me undetected I would draw
and release. His breathing was raspy and he made guttural sounds as he came. He was
passing my pathetic location at 12 feet when he suddenly turned and came straight
toward me! NO! What will I do now? Things were suddenly complicated. His head went
down to cross a two foot wide ditch that separated us so I started my draw.
BUSTED!!! He caught my movement, stopped and stared me down. Having no shot because
of a few branches and having only a frontal shot, we were at a stalemate and neither
of us were giving any quarter. As my arms started shaking I realized the
hopelessness of my situation, and once again I found my heart broken as my arms
failed and he trotted off.
It's opening day, 2nd season shotgun, and the latter part of the day has found G3
alive and well. He is working a scrape line about 300 yards in length that follows
the timbered edge of a wooded creek bottom. This creek bottom borders a large field
of Switch Grass. G3 is methodically working this line in an attempt to mark his
territory in hopes of finding a new girlfriend. A large oak has fallen along the
scrape line and the path around it takes him out into the switch grass.
Mike is on stand, he is hidden atop a ladder stand situated in a wooded fence row
that is attached to a large Black Locust tree. Disc Elite at the ready, his heart
pounds with anticipation as he watches G3 move closer and closer. The stand location
is one we had assigned the greatest potential to with respect to gunning down G3,
and that potential was about to pay off........ for Mike.... NOT for Spit!
No doubt, 148 yards is a long shot over a make shift rest. But when coupled with
trying to blink ice daggers from your vision.it becomes a REAL challenge. Mike was
up to that challenge, and straining through the Bushnell 3200 he said, "If it was
meant to be Lord, it will happen", and sent the 200 grain Shockwave to its resting
place, deep in the heart of G3. Taking several steps, he staggered, and then met
the ground with thrashing regret.
A perfect shot, from the perfect rifle, into a perfect deer, by the perfect hunting
partner.
What a perfect day!
Story and photos by Jim Adam