AppId is over the quota
AppId is over the quota
Lou Champa lives in southern Ohio. His favorite sport was deer hunting. He wouldn't miss the deer season for any reason. He usually buys several non-resident licenses so that he can hunt deer in as many states as possible. Late last fall, he hunted in northern Wisconsin, and that's where this incident occurred.
It was not one of Wisconsin's best seasons. Lou, in several days of watching and waiting, had seen only a few nervous does. However the neighbors to the east of his hunting lease had a fairly large cattle ranch with approximately 300 acres much of which was planted in fall silver queen corn. It was harvested a few weeks before the Wisconsin deer season, but had plenty of loose niblets and cut corn cob laying on the bitter cold soil. For the last week, the Pattersons would enjoy their morning coffee in an enclosed heated patio and were welcomed by an old friend. Early in the morning at the crack of dawn, a very old and mature white tail buck would enter the corn field but browsing only by the edge of the planted tree line. They had seen this deer several years ago as a young button buck. That was six years ago and he had grown to become a large 12 point mature buck with a 20 inch spread. Almost looking like a large mule deer. Throughout the year they very seldom saw the deer that because of the hunting pressure became leery and very cautious during daylight hours. Most of the time he went nocturnal.
On one bitterly cold morning, Lou found a set of very large deer tracks that virtually shouted "Big Buck". The deer tracks were fresh. I decided, Lou told me later, "that my best bet was to follow that animal no matter where or how far it went."
By noon, my friend had gotten no glimpse of the monster whitetail - but the unhurried hoof prints continued across a thin blanket of snow. All this time, he was wondering if indeed he was in pursuit of the deer that has called the "Patterson Farm" home for more than six years. Stories of this magnificent deer have been heard in every caf? and bar in this small northern Wisconsin town. School children would be glued to their classroom windows during recess in hopes that they may get a glimpse of this majestic and or mythical creature. The deer tracks would indicate that this trophy whitetail deer seemed to be wandering aimlessly, but then they led Lou to a highway. Instead of crossing, the giant buck had turned sharply west, directly into a wind that seemed to grow stronger by the minute. Lou was thoroughly chilled but kept pushing ahead, knowing that the odds had suddenly changed in his favor. The trophy deer would be unable to scent his approach, and the howling wind would blot out the crunch of his boots in the snow. Even the buck's vision would be impaired because the cruel wind was now laced with driven snow.
Lou followed the deer tracks down a thicket-covered slope to a small stream at the bottom. In the damp earth, not yet frozen, he noticed how deep the hoof prints were. He could be sure that the buck was a very heavy deer.
Next the deer tracks led around a hillside toward a small swamp where Lou had bagged venison the year before. Maybe the buck would bed down there. Instinctively, Lou checked the safety of his.30/06 Remington Model 760 deer rifle. He felt a fresh surge of excitement - or call it what it really is - Buck Fever.
Lou slowed his pace still more so that he'd be ready for anything. Suddenly the snow erupted not twenty feet in front of him, and the giant trophy whitetail buck jumped up from a perfectly concealed bed. For a second or maybe longer, the hunter and the deer stood still facing each other. Then the buck broke, and Lou swung his Remington. "The monster buck was so close" Lou told me, "that I just couldn't find buckskin in the scope. By the time I did, the deer was well into heavy cover only twenty-five or thirty yards away. I took the only shot that I had, and pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening and the thrust of the recoil twisted my upper body. A split second later, after I gain composer, I realized that I missed the Boone and Crockett buck as the bullet slammed into a sapling, and that was that.
He came to the realization that he had a chance to fill out his deer tag by bagging the largest trophy whitetail deer for the short Wisconsin deer season. Tired and dejected, he retraced his steps toward his hunting lease. What seemed like miles to return to his camp, Lou recounted the events over and over in his head, thinking how this hunt could have ended with him ending up with the grand prize.
As he approached the camp, a cold wind whisked through his sweat soaked clothes, wet snow clung to his ankle high boots giving him a chill that resonated from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Knowing that he has reached the end of his hunt, he started to unload his deer rifle, grimacing at the sight of one empty cartridge and that since he was unable to bag his trophy, had hoped that his prey went unhurt. Sliding his weapon into a worn leather gun case that he has had every since his father took him on his first deer hunt, a brisk wind bellowed up the light powdery snow, looking like a dense fog rolling in over London's Big Ben. He gazed into the field and noticed a strange figure that he couldn't make out.
As the snow settled down upon the chilled soil, he recognized the image of that of that mythical creature he had just hunted. The buck's big eyes piercing at me as if to say - better luck next time. The old monster buck slowly turned and headed toward the dense forest behind him, his head held high, as if he was trying to see what lies ahead in his outdoor kingdom. I then knew that he also had survived the ordeal and was there to live another day.
Paul Stradford enjoys writing about white-tail deer and all facets of deer hunting. To learn more about white-tail deer hunting, visit The Hunting Warehouse.
