With every passing day, my anxiety grew – the rut was quickly ending, but my buck tag was not filled. All my “can’t-miss” schemes had ended in shambles, close calls replayed in my mind, and several previous mishaps haunted me every time I walked into the woods. I had even considered hanging up my bow for the season just to end the miserable year.
As the last week of rut hunting commenced, I knew I had to change my approach, but I had tried every logical setup of which I could think. Each time, success had just slipped out of my grasp, causing me to seem rather discouraged and desperate for anything other than tag soup. Hunting trips had begun to seem more like scouting ventures, and each failed attempt at filling my tag had shaken my confidence.
One such evening, as dusk began enveloping the woods, I crested a small hill and scanned the draw before me. My eyes caught movement in one of the thickest areas, prompting me to lock my attention on the movement I was sure I had seen. As I peered into the draw, white antlers caught my attention. I stood motionless, observing that the mature buck had not yet detected my presence. While he slowly approached a group of does on a hill across the draw, I crouched and began to slowly walk away from him; but I had only taken a few steps when the does (that had been watching me the whole time) snorted and bounded away, taking the buck with them. I straightened and watched as they ran off, wondering if there was some way I could come back and hunt that buck.
Returning from the hunt, I began to assess the situation. Common hunting sense told me the buck wouldn’t return to that exact same area, especially considering that it had been virtually inactive during the rut. My setup options were limited as well, and I had no history of the area’s activity. To hunt that hill meant I was desperate, willing to trade some of my better spots for this blind venture. But I didn’t have much to lose, so I decided to give the hill one try the next time I hunted. Sure, the odds that the big buck would return were slim to none. But he had been there, a piece of the puzzle I had been missing in many other supposedly better areas. I would risk it all in that hunt, but that was a chance I was going to take.
The next time I was in the woods was a gorgeous, bluebird afternoon, and I soon found myself sitting in a cherry tree on the very hill that the buck had approached a few days prior. The wind was perfectly in my favor, and, from my perch in the climber stand, I soon found myself enjoying the hunt – something that had been absent the past few troublesome weeks.
Hours elapsed before I spotted the first deer. As a few more deer joined the first one, they began to meander throughout the draw. Unbeknownst to them, their presence was setting the stage for a good hunt. If they would stay in the draw, hopefully that would attract the attention of a buck – ideally the one I had seen before.
As sunset approached, the does, that by this time were only 20 yards in front of my tree, attracted the attention of a young buck. He began following a straggler doe, initiating a small chase that, to my excitement, was slowly drawing unseen attention to the hill. As more does filtered through the draw and up the hill, turning my spot into a beehive of action, I found myself excited, yet surprised at the activity. It had been my understanding that the area was simply a travel route, and a fairly inactive one at that. But now, before my eyes, the hill had erupted into post-rut chaos, steadily increasing in action.
Just as I began to realize that time was the enemy, my eyes caught movement in the draw. I turned all my attention to the movement, anticipation rising within me. A mature buck was steadily moving up the hill, his nose frequenting the trail on which the does had previously walked. My heart leaped, because that very trail led right past my stand. As I quickly analyzed his antlers, I recognized him as the buck I had seen earlier. He had come back.
But a dilemma now faced me. Does surrounded my stand, hovering about the trail that the buck was following. I needed to stand up in order to shoot the buck (due to the climber frame obstructing a sitting shot), and doing so would risk spooking the does. But as the 11-point closed the distance between us, I knew I would have to take the risk in order to have a chance at the reward. Quickly sending a prayer heavenward, I slowly stood up and straightened my posture. Several does began to stamp their feet, but the buck was already locked in a doe that stood 30 yards from my tree. My anxiety was mounting, knowing that the agitated does were a time bomb that could go off at any second. But if the does would hold off snorting for a few seconds more, the 11 point would be in range. Drawing my Mathews, I followed the buck’s movement and prayed that the does, who were continuing to grow uneasy, would not run. The buck circled behind the doe and paused 25 yards from my stand to sniff the ground where the doe had been standing just moments before. I knew my opportunity had come.
Thoughts flew through my head. Visions of past mishaps returned and bow shooting techniques pummeled my brain. But with the buck completely unaware of my presence, and my eyes focusing on a singular point behind the buck’s shoulder, I distinctly remember that the emerging thought was this: “This is it. I got you.”
As I touched the release, time moved in slow motion. The surrounding does crouched to take off as the arrow flew towards the buck. He had been so unaware of the imminent danger that his reaction was delayed. But as he began crouching to spring forward, it was already too late. The arrow zipped through his body, and, finally, my tag was filled.
Looking back on that hunt, I am still amazed at how the entire scenario unfolded. Up until that day, I had never hunted whitetails on that hill, specifically because I had never seen much action on it. It was my understanding that I had many other better options; therefore, I had been hunting them hard. But success had been very limited in comparison to years past. Because I was in the best area of which I knew, my plan B was to stick with plan A. To go to worse areas seemed foolish to me, a recipe for disaster. Looking back now, I’m very glad I was foolish enough to hunt that day in a seemingly worse spot.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from that experience, it would be this – adapt to the situation. Often, it can be difficult to acknowledge the need to change from plan A to plan B; doing so feels like we admit to defeat. But thinking realistically, our go-to approach rarely is without flaw. Even the slightest miscalculation in our plan can lead to continual missed opportunities. And while different scenarios call for different approaches, sometimes the biggest favor we can do for ourselves is adapt to the situation.
As previously mentioned, a given scenario may merit something other than a change. Remaining optimistic in your approach, at times, is the best option; resting your setup for a time may be ideal in other scenarios, and the list goes on. But I have found that, more often than not, changing the approach produces the most success.
Every deer season is dynamic. What worked for you one year may be a total waste of time the next. Therefore, you need to be dynamic as well. Learn to adapt to any given situation, and make sure you always have an “escape route” if your plans do not produce the expected results. When you master the ability to adjust, success will never seem unreachable, regardless of what the season throws at you.