The First of Many

It has been over thirteen years since I first set out into the woods to stalk my first deer. I remember that day vividly.

I was lucky enough to accompany my uncle, Rick Vaaler of Gateway Feathers, on my first Colorado archery hunt. He had arranged for me to get a lightweight compound bow which ironically turned out to be an Indian (Xi). My first lesson was not to get caught up in all kinds of fancy gizmos. I was equipped with a finger tab, a plastic armguard and my sight was a match stick. However, my arrows had really sharp broadheads and to a fourteen year old kid shooting into a bale of hay, 170 feet per second was like warp speed.

After hours of practice, we were off in search of big bucks. I can still see the look on that 3x3's face when I realeased my first arrow. I was so excited. It was the first day, the first morning, the first ravine and the first deer I saw was three point buck. The deer ran up a side hill and stopped broadside to me looking back in my uncle's direction, at less than twenty yards. I drew back slowly, took a deep breath and let my first shaft fly. As the saying goes, "straight as an arrow," it flew right into an aspen tree, six feet above his back.

Some years later, I found myself hunting just a mile or so from where I had made that first miscalculation. Hundreds of days scouting, hiking, spotting and pursuing game had passed and many more mistakes and subsequent changes had been made. One such change was to hunt elk, as well as deer, in bow season.

It was the third week in September and the temperature was just high enough to keep the snow at bay which meant pouring raining instead. The only positive factor to the downpour was how quiet stalking would now be. The previous day we had remarked about how it was like walking on potato chips.

I was leading the way down a dark trail, my brother and a friend in tow. We had just reached the bottom of the valley when a faint bugle rang out. I stopped and turned to see if anyone else had heard it. Both of them were frozen staring into the trees and the three of us agreed it sounded like a young bull.

Without hesitation, each of us placed a diaphram call in our mouths as we proceeded to the edge of the meadow. Only two or three minutes had passed when I finally returned a loud squeal. We listened and watched for several minutes. All we could hear was the persistent sound of rain hitting the aspen leaves and pounding on the grass at our feet.

Knowing that the bull could travel as quietly as us in the rain, we decided to stay put for a while. We placed about fifty yards between us as we spread apart in the trees, at the edge of the open meadow. I periodically squealed as my cohorts continued to emulate cow and calf calls. This continued for ten minutes or so. Finally, I stood up and motioned them to come over to where I was standing, under a large evergreen tree.

As we put our calls away, we discussed where each of us would be heading from there. The rain was obviously loud enough to cover our voices, because out of nowhere a dark brown body appeared, walking less than sixty yards out. It was a spike. He was looking back and forth as if trying to find his relatives he'd heard only minutes before.

Three arrows were nocked in a manner of seconds. The bull just kept walking slowly through the dark timber right past us. Like the three stooges, we all looked at each other and then back at the opportunity passing before our eyes. When the naive bull passed behind a short but enormously fat pine tree at thirty yards, I ran straight at him and stopped on our side of the tree. As I peered through the branches, I could see his eye blinking as his head continued to turn from side to side.

He stepped beyond the pudgy pine and was a mere ten feet away, yet I didn't have any good shooting lanes. I decided to draw anyway, in case he turned or moved into the open. I was only a few inches into my draw, when an arrow ripped through the damp air in front of me. My eyes were as big as those of the first buck I missed as I watched the spike wheel and run.

I looked back down at my brother and friend both kneeling with grins from ear to ear. They could see that after my quick assault to the tree, I had created quite a pickle for myself. When I didn't draw immediately, my friend decided to try taking a shot, which for him was about thirty five yards.

Even in that never-ending rain, a blind man could have followed that blood trail. It was probably a hundred and fifty yards to where the bull had fallen. A shot to the brisket had left a red stain three feet wide the entire way. It was his first bowkill and the first I had ever witnessed.

The excitement quickly faded. Afterall, it was not my tag that had been filled. I was extremely happy for my hunting buddy, but I still had hills to climb. In the next days, I ran into several good bulls as they bugled their way across the mountains. I challenged them with my calls and even had a few come in relatively close. But as the season drew to a close, I was once again without meat in the freezer.

Finally it was upon us, the last day of archery season. In years past, I hunted one species with bow and the other with a rifle. I prided myself on the fact that I had filled at least one tag every year. As I rolled out of my bunk and slid on my cold boots, all I could think was that I wouldn't be getting my antlers this year.

"Who do you think you are?" I asked myself. I wondered what had possessed me to hunt only with a bow that year. Did I actually think that I would just fling a couple of arrows and sign two carcass tags like some undiscovered Fred Bear? These were the thoughts that filled my head as I set out again with my same two companions. We crossed a flat section of trees out to an open sage brush hill only a few hundred yards from the tent.

Just as we reached the edge of the ridgeline, I motioned for everyone to stop. I heard something running through the sage. It sounded like it was headed in our direction. I knelt down and watched intently ahead for any signs of movement. A pair of 4x5 antlers crested the hill and the silhouette of a large muley buck stopped right in front of us. I nocked an arrow and stood facing the deer. As I drew my bow, he turned his head and looked at me. I asked my brother, "How far out?" He thought forty five yards and my lucky friend esimated fifty. I guessed the distance to be slightly further and placed my fifty yard pin right on his spine.

I touched the trigger of my release and watched my arrow arc above the bucks back and then drop back down. He buckled like a truck hit him and hopped forward a couple of steps before turning out of sight. I dropped to my knees, shaking from the surge of adrenaline flowing through my body. "I hit him. I hit him good," was all I could think.

We marched off fifty-three steps to where the buck had been standing. My arrow had pierced his liver and travelled another twenty yards before burying in the dirt. The deer himself had only travelled about the same before he too hit the dirt.

I have made a countless number of mistakes in my pursuit of big game. Though undoubtedly the biggest error thus far was my loss of faith in my own abilities. I deserved to get that buck from the years of hunting, the poor shots I had avoided and the animals I had passed over the years waiting for something just a little better. However, I am not sure I deserved to tag a buck, on the last day of the season, after I had given up all hope.

Stories like this aren't new and we've all heard them. My cousin was out on the second to last day of whitetail season in Wisconsin, when he shot a Pope and Young eight pointer. My point is that maybe they happen more often than not. So, remember, the next time you get discouraged because the sun is setting a little earlier each day and you think all the big bucks have been shot or have already gone into hiding, it's not over until it's over. In Colorado, it's not over until 31 minutes after sunset on the last day of the season. You can bet I'll be there.

Author
Drew H. Butterwick

Special thanks to: Gateway Feathers, Browning and Barrie Archery

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