My region of South Carolina has an extraordinarily long deer season. From August 15th until January 1st, we can pursue bucks with rifle or shotgun. The rifle is called "still hunting" here, even though genuine still-hunting means you have boots on the ground and walk stealthily, meeting deer on their own terms. In actuality, there is not much opportunity for that; given the flat terrain and safety issues with a rifle, most rifle hunting is done from a fixed position in an elevated stand. Ground hunting is done with shotguns and buckshot, with drives using hunters and/or dogs or horses.
I had wanted to join my local club so I could have access to all of their hunts this year, but we didn't have quite enough money for that. I did, however, get a very nice birthday present, a sturdy two-man ladder stand, roomy and solid enough for hunts with a son or daughter. Last year, I got to know my land very well, and I knew a good place to put the stand. My husband and older daughter helped carry it to the hardwood bottoms in the back of our property, and it took the three of us "walking the ladder up" to place it against a sturdy and wide pine tree. After it was secured, I went about clearing saplings and vines from a few shooting lanes. Later, I added a military surplus rubber camouflage net to help conceal our movements so as not to be seen from below.
The following Saturday, I was in my stand well before daybreak. Right at dawn, I heard some movement, and saw the outline of legs. It took a while for the two antlerless deer to come into focus, since this was only the first week in September; the woods were still rather dense. They stopped for a few minutes in the shooting lane, then I watched them casually feed as they made their way down into the normally swampy part of our land. This year it was bone dry, due to the severe drought, but apparently the deer still felt safe and comfortable enough to bed down in there. Three more deer followed, and I thought perhaps one had tiny velvety antlers, but I could not be certain, so I just watched as they moved on.
One evening the following week, I decided to hunt my older, single, ladder stand farther back in the woods, closer to the bedding area. I took my daughter's .243 since it was easy to carry and had a sling.I carried it, unloaded, on my back, but just in case I saw some deer during the 100 yard or so trek into the area, I carried my shotgun with buckshot, which I left at the foot of the tree while I sat. There is no way I wanted to shoot a rifle from the ground, as there are so few safe directions to shoot here, but I also didn't want to lose an opportunity if I saw a buck while on the way to or from my stand, with no solid backstop of ground behind him.
I stayed in the stand until it was getting quite dark in the woods, but there was still plenty of shooting light for my walk home after I unloaded, climbed down, and picked up my shotgun. I got no farther than ten yards from the base of the tree when I heard something coming out of the dry swamp. I caught a glimpse of a high-held, newly polished rack above the brush. As the deer passed behind the tree which held the stand, I swiveled around and raised my shotgun in one motion, waiting for him to appear. He had a large body compared to most deer I had seen here, and although his antlers were not huge, they still were impressive to me, since I had never shot more than a three point, despite years of trying my best.
I couldn't believe I was this close to a rack buck in an open season, and he had not even seen me! I put the bead on him and was ready to shoot when I thought of all the buckshot horror stories, including a few of my own, of solidly hit deer with no blood trail. I had no tracking dog to help me find him in the dark, chigger-infested bottomland. The weather was hot and muggy. As much as I wanted him, I dreaded losing the meat, dreaded the sinking feeling of a long, fruitless search in the dark. I let him walk. He got downwind and started snorting, so I froze until he was out of sight, and exited the woods carefully in another direction. I could still hear him snorting as I walked the sandy road beside my new stand. He would be in easy shooting distance of that stand, and I hoped not to alarm him so much that he would not return.
September 15th marked our antlerless season, and I had my tags ready. Not wanting to be totally skunked, knowing how smart and scarce the deer get during shooting hours once the season is hot and heavy, I decided to take the first deer I saw. Then I could just have fun after that, hunting that buck. We had a gentle rain during the night, so the walk to my stand was a bit easier, as I did not have to worry as much about making noise on dry, live, oak leaves which still littered the late summer ground. I had my .30-06 this time, and carried it up in a soft gun case, which served as a seat after I removed the rifle. I loaded the gun and sat quietly as the dawn broke and the squirrels and birds began to forage. About a half hour after dawn, I heard something to my left. I saw the gleam of a compact, but erect, set of antlers. I recognized their shape. It was the swamp buck!
My heart was beating so hard and so loud, I was certain he could hear it! He was not very far, but there were lots of trees in the way. I brought my gun up slowly and heard a "clink" as I accidentally hit the metal rail. The buck stopped, looked around, and continued walking slowly toward one of my shooting lanes, where he again stopped to browse. He was still behind some small trees, but I was sure I could find a spot, or he would move, so I raised my gun and rested it on the rail. I looked through the scope and saw only black. My eye relieve was skewed at this angle! For what seemed like an eternity, I tried different positions, hanging the barrel way over the front until the deer came into focus. His body was still behind those saplings, but his head was in the clear. At only about thirty yards, any false move on my part, and he would spot me and be gone. I finally found a small triangle of his boiler room which was clear, and I carefully squeezed off a shot.
He took off at a dead run, and I took some time to compose myself and allow for him to lie down if he was still alive. I unloaded my gun, put it in the case, and climbed down to go look for blood. There was not one single drop! My heart sunk immediately; I could not believe this was happening. I went over the area repeatedly, and still found no trace. I had watched him turn toward the dry swamp, so I resigned myself to a long search. As I followed the path he took, I scanned the tall grass under the hardwoods. There he was! I immediately ran over, laughing and weeping at the same time, thanking God for my best buck yet. I finally did it! I got a buck I could be proud of! Sure, any deer is a trophy to me, but I had always felt that I was somehow not a very good hunter because I could never get a rack buck. Whether it was lack of experience, time, opportunity, hunting land, or the health needed to put all my efforts into a season, it just never came together for me. My six point swamp buck was a real trophy in my eyes, after all those years of hunting.
He was a good weight for a southern deer, probably 125 lbs, and I let out a couple of rebel yells as I proudly dragged him halfway home. My son was out milking the goats, and I called across the treeline and pasture to him, told him to have Lisa come and help me. She came out and brought the tractor. We loaded my deer into the bucket, took him over to the swingset/meat frame to hang and skin him. We chatted about past hunts together, and whether we should have him mounted. "No, you'll get a bigger one. Let's save the money for that!" When we skinned him, we discovered there was no exit wound, due to the angle of the shot. That explained the lack of sign. He had expired almost instantly, even though he ran about fifty yards or so.
Well, I did not get another deer this season, despite trying very hard, but I did get very close to another nice buck, and let him walk. I was on the ground, having just come down from my stand, and had only a rifle. Had he moved to the left with dirt behind him, he would have been mine. He did not. I had to watch him leave, but I had the satisfaction of having another close encounter that could have ended differently had I just stayed a few more minutes, or had I just brought that shotgun. No deer is worth a shot that might travel too far in this flat terrain. Perhaps he survived through the season. If he did, I can have another chance next year, and he'll be even bigger!
