Bowen Bucks. 1/18/2020

I hunted this little block of citrus wood and sugar sand last weekend. It seems like deer are starting to rut in this part of Florida. On my walk in, a barley visible white rump pranced in front of me, stopping momentarily as I scrambled to get a better view from my scope. I could see the crease of the shoulder clearly but could not make out any horns, obscured by a gloomy skyline. I didn't shoot. It probably wasn’t legal shooting light. Maybe not even a legal buck.

To head him off, I scurried around a small cypress head full of Virginia creeper and decades of trash. Trying to prolong the encounter in an effort to gain more light. He never showed. The rest of the morning i sit. High hopes trailing off like a twilight buck. My heart jumps momentarily as cows saunter over useless barbed wire and through the grove. Sandhill cranes catch my eye, A body that resembles a gray deer and the mannerisms of a turkey cross-wire the predatory brain. I kick myself for being a law abiding citizen a few hours earlier. It was probably a buck. I saw his neck. I have seen very few does on camera.

I killed a nice buck out here last season. To show the grower my appreciation I gave him some venison. He asked to see a picture, of course I obliged. He is not much of a hunter, but apparently his son-in-law is. Now this 35 acre block is adorned with a network of trail cameras, a ladder stand, a feeder, a few mineral licks and some kind of scrape dripper machine. Not to mention some guy in a yellow shirt who keeps deleting my trail camera pictures.

I put in some time last season. Many hours driving and sitting. I killed that buck without any bass-pro attractants. Just time and luck. I took my camera down and wiped it clean of grubby fingers. Ah, the politics of private land hunting. Last year I learned the deer where almost completely nocturnal. A few cold snaps prompted them to start rutting, occasionally passing through the grove around first light late in the season. I think I will stick to my plan and let the deer drain his feeder every night. Judging by the tracks they don't seem to interested in it anyway.

So far this season i have a lot of windshield and scouting time into deer season. A few public land hunts and several grove hunts have resulted in no dead deer. Every season, I scramble to get any legal deer into the freezer. As beautiful and adrenaline inducing as they may be, I don't care about killing a giant buck too much. I am sure that the lust will grow with time, but right now I just need a legal buck that's made of venison.

I sit under this old navel tree just as I did last year, In protest of the stand and feeder on the other edge of the block. The world is blue in moonlight and the first sliver of sun. Thermacell mist gives a foggy picture of my scent trail.

Before I can settle in a buck breaches the cedars and steps into view. He stares at my profile through a dead citrus tree. I see horns, but we both need a better look. Rifle is steadied by calm breath and pepper tree limb. He hesitates, but takes another step to get a better look at this lump of camouflage.

A shot echoes down citrus rows and floods all corners of surrounding pasture. Behind the muzzle flash i see a quick kick and the buck run off. I hear a chord of barbwire, followed shortly by a snap of tree limbs and the rustle of dead leaves. I pray the latter was him crashing.

I mark the small helping of pink mashed potatoes with my rifle rest shoved into sand. I have been waiting for this all season, but there is no joy or celebration. Mind and body alternate between excitement and anxiousness, the inevitable inner dialog begins.

Don't get excited until you find him.

He’s dead you heard the crash.

What if blood dries up and you never find him?

You shot him at 40 yards he couldn't have gone far.

What if your scope was off?

Schizophrenia carries on for 45 minutes exactly. I follow the blood trail up to the fence- almost. I circumnavigate the trail camera security system and slip through loose barbed wire. After a few minutes of walking around like a shore bird I pick the trail back up. I lay my hat down to mark the few drops of blood. Hands on knees I systematically search every blade and leaf for red. conscious of every step as not to contaminate evidence. Given the choice I would have a deer drop in his tracks every time for obvious reasons. But God damn it, trailing blood is exhilarating. Stakes are high. A freezer of venison - or the worst feeling in the world. I am not finding a lot of blood, but each spec brings me closer. Schizophrenia continues.

What if it drys up?

At least know he was right here.

By each drop I lay my hat. Search for the next drop, and repeat. I find a bigger splotch of blood. Another, and another. Each smear brings me closer to a small stand of 12 oaks jutting from open pasture. I stare down at red goop about 15 yards from it. I remember the crunch of leaves and what I presumed to be his final crash. My eyes leave red to scan the modest hammock- there he is. My heart wells with relief and excitement, thwarted by urgency to get back across the fence.

A small six point with a large body. The entry wound is right about where I thought it would be. A damn tough buck. He ran about 65 yards after a double lung shot. Swathes peeled from his coat by the barbed wire. Antler in hand, I drag dead weight to where I can get the truck. On the walk back to the front gate I smile and notice the unruly cows have torn down the feeder.

For some reason I put enormous pressure on myself to scrounge up at least one deer for the freezer each season. Between public land pressure and private land politics it is never a sure thing. The long drive home is full of mixed emotions and Led Zeppelin I. Accomplishment. Relief. Excitement. Dazed and Confused. I am high. I killed a deer. I can finally get on with my life. Hell, maybe I'll even go to the next baby shower without bitching.

Well, maybe i look for one with bigger horns.

Close Encounters. 12/06/2019

The last three trips out here, I have yet to lay eyes on a deer. All three morning hunts, the latest of which resulted in two downed hogs. partially for meat and partially to further gain good graces from the land owner. I am offered a spark of hope by the irrigation manager, who claims to have seen a buck after shutting off a pump one afternoon last week.

There are no trees on this property, other than citrus. Which are not well suited for a tree stand. Most folks who hunt citrus groves do so from a truck. As I did for many years. I plan to hunt the afternoon this time. I set up on the far end of the grove along the barbed wire border. I get there early to walk the fence line and examine each wallowed out crossing. Looking for the freshest and most used trail. There is a dozen or more down the hole stretch, coupling ranch and grove for game. Between the lack of rain and the over abundance of hogs it is hard make sense of anything. Too far for a rifle shot from end to end.

After overly excessive deliberation, I settle in on the grassy dike. I figure the most likely crossings are in range from my nest. The furthest crossing is quite a poke for anything less than a perfect shot. The closest, is a little close for comfort. About 20 yards in front of me. a definitive edge of pine and palmetto scrub runs right into the fence, continued by a raw dirt path, under the fence and across the dike. I nuzzle my left side to the over grown fence line. Slumped over a rifle wedged into my Brazilian pepper tree limb. To my right I can see clear down a tree row. Directly behind me, I have a view of the opposite border of the grove. Although I don't anticipate much traffic behind me.

Once my over-analyzing is done I can settle in and breathe in the scene. The rut is on the down trend. Its hot. Even as a native Floridian today does not scream deer hunting. I have never claimed to be a great deer hunter. I consider myself to still be learning. I find it hard to hunt deer in groves. There's not much to rub on, and an infinite amount of potential licking branch for scrapes. My past few seasons hunting has more or less come down to intercepting deer in parcels I have permission to hunt. Examine crossings, estimate the time of day they are around, and wait. At times it seems impossible that I will happen to be there when a deer passes through. And even less likely that it will be a buck.

90 minutes left of legal shooting light.

A handful of cows and a barred owl announce their presence. Beauty berry shadows grow, furthering my concealment. A loud shriek gives away the position of a large pack of hogs. trampling through the citrus. I try to keep my eyes looking down the dike, but its hard not to watch these morbidly unmajestic creatures. They eventually cross onto the ranch. I make note of the time, just in case the fear of no venison this year manifests into reality.

45 minutes left of legal shooting light.

I have a bad habit of living for the next trip, or the next shot. Even if I bump a deer, my mind will immediately start decoding changes, planning for the next endeavor. With the added fuel of knowing how close I came to success. Maybe this is a blessing, always having something to look forward to. Sometimes I feel it stifles me from living in the moment and giving everything I have to the day at hand. The only fear worse than having a deer blow and run off would be to unknowingly bump a deer. Learning nothing from an unknown mistake.

30 minutes left of legal shooting light.

Crunching saw palmettos rattle my cochlea and rip me from the redundant inner dialog about an amateur’s virtues of deer hunting. It’s close. It’s probably the hogs from earlier I remind myself. Trying to sooth my racing heart. With a still head I stare through the overgrown barbed wire, eyes darting from blowing spiderweb to wriggling grass seed, in search of any movement. Begging fate for it to be a buck. The setting sun breathes cool on my sweaty palms. After a few minutes, intensity subsides, and the palmetto crunching trails off.

10 minutes left of legal shooting light.

The shifting of weight from knee to hip to ankle becomes more frequent. Back muscles burn. Thoughts wander consistently to standing straight up and stretching arms behind my head. I force myself to sit for the last 10 minutes. As I always do. Hope is lost. The mosquitoes are not, Keenly aware of my knuckles and any other protruding skin.

In between wining of insects I detect a gentle sweeping of the broomsedge. I slowly turn my head until the white necks and snouts of two young bucks jump out at me. A tall six point is followed by a spike, about 35 yards away. Marching fearlessly through the ranch grass and toward the grove. Right at the fence line I sit. Right at me, more specifically.

My shaking hands manage to dial my scope down to 3x, and shoulder my limb propped rifle into shooting position. If he jumps the fence, I will be ready. I have no choice but to remain completely still. He reaches the fence with the spike in tow a few yards behind.

He stops and stares through my soul at eight yards. bobbing his head back and forth, with alternating feet. Man and beast’s eyes are wide with fear. He tilts back his modest rack to lift his nose. I know it’s over. A quick blow and both ungulates prance out 40 yards to watch me. An easy shot, if they weren't on the neighbor’s property. My heart rate returns to normal as I begin mentally cussing my choice of location.

But hey, there's always next time.