This was the first time I’d be hunting without him. I parked the truck on the edge of the tree line and briefly glanced at my phone. The home screen showed my Dad and I, proudly sitting in front of a ten point buck we’d taken together.
His smile, partially obscured by a bottom lip filled with chewing tobacco, flashed at me before I put the phone down. He had given me that same smile just before getting into his car that awful night. It was the last time I saw him alive.
“Let’s do this, Dad,” I whispered and then stepped out of the truck. It was snowing gently, and I threw on an extra layer just for reassurance. I then reached into the truck for my gear bag. After that, I withdrew my wood stock Remington 700 rifle from the case and slung it over my shoulder. I tapped the Glock 20 pistol, nestled in a holster on my side, and then locked up the truck.
Five minutes later the snow was crunching under my thick boots as I hiked the trail. Dad and I had hunted here a dozen times or more in the past. This huge property was owned by an old family friend, and deer had been eating his farm crops for years. Now that the leaves had fallen, it’d be easier to see them in the woods.
I examined the corn pile, already set up by the farmer’s son. There were deer droppings around it already. Perfect.
I moved to the tree stand about 75 yards away, before hoisting my gear to the top, climbing it myself and then preparing everything. I set up the binoculars, the rifle and made sure my sightline was clear. Peeking through the optic, I swept over the corn pile and then took a deep breath. Now began the wait.
The snow continued to fall lightly, dancing about in the crisp winter air. I caught a few snowflakes on my gloved hand and briefly examined them. I used to catch them on my tongue as a kid while my Dad and I waited for a possible catch. I shook the flakes off and decided to tuck into a protein bar.
About an hour after eating, the sun was in its descent. I hadn’t been able to get out here today as early as I would have liked. Truth be told, not going with Dad just felt strange, and I had been slow to get ready this morning because of it.
The owner of the farm had told me the deer had been running rampant, but there was nothing to be seen here. I grabbed the binoculars and looked around, confirming that observation. There wasn’t a hint of movement besides snow falling from bare tree limbs.
And it was quiet. Startling quiet. Snow is a powerful natural sound absorber, and the quiet was all encompassing. It was a deafening silence… the way the void pressed on your ears.
I snapped my fingers and the sharpness of it, after hearing nothing, made me flinch. A frosty breeze then blew through the tree stand and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck raise. At that moment, I thought I heard something. Like a long slow inhale.
I grabbed the binoculars again and looked around but saw nothing. I sighed and leaned back. My nerves were getting to me. First time out by myself after all. I withdrew my phone and started scrolling through old pictures of my Dad and I. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but it made me feel better. I eventually settled down a little bit and couldn’t help but to smile at the memories.
Five hours after arriving, and right as I was about to call it over for the day, a deer stepped out of the trees and approached the corn pile. He nuzzled a few kernels, then began to eat. I steeled myself and then leaned forward onto the Remington. I pressed the butt into my cheek, making sure there was a good weld, and then silently pulled the bolt handle back, chambering a .308 round. Peering through the optic, which was sighted for 75 yards, I rested it just below the deer’s shoulder. My heart skipped a beat, it was a 12-point buck.
My finger touched the trigger.
“For you, Dad.”
I remembered a moment with my father, when I took my very first deer.
“Go ahead, son. Shoot,” he had whispered to me in encouragement.
I fired. The report of the gun shot was like a bomb going off in this stillness.
The buck jumped and took off into the snow, disappearing in a flash.
I looked through the scope again and saw a small blood splatter on the corn pile. A blood trail led to the north, deeper into the woods. I laid the rifle down and leaned back… I did my old man good today. We’d be eating venison for Sunday dinner.
And then I heard something faint cut through the stark silence. It sounded like…
*inhale*
“Lung shot. Not bad,” the voice of my father whispered through the trees.
I nearly fell out of the tree stand. Gathering myself, I gaped around wildly, not believing what’d I’d heard.
“WHO’S OUT THERE!” I screamed, but only silence answered back. Pure silence can sometimes make people hear auditory hallucinations, but those words had been so clear…
I pulled out my phone, seeing my Dad’s face and tried to call the owner of the farm, but grimaced. I knew there was no reception out here… how could I have forgotten?
I gritted my teeth and grabbed my rifle, before climbing down the stand. My heart was hammering, and I felt like I was being watched.
“Screw this,” I muttered, and started down the trail back to my car.
A bitter wind blew through the trees again, and the cold stung my face.
*inhale*
“You’ve got to put him out of his misery.”
I drew my pistol and turned to the direction of this voice, back at the corn pile. I knew that voice so well. There could be no denying it.
“Dad?” I asked. But there was no response. I waited for movement. I must have stood there for five minutes, my finger on the trigger of my 10mm Glock as I waited for something, anything. But again, I was only met with silence.
Frightened, but also curious, I stepped toward the corn pile.
The blood spatter was pink and frothy. The voice was right, it had been a lung shot. The blood trail led deeper into the woods and away from the trail.
*inhale*
“Go get him.”
I jumped again. The voice was distant now, though I couldn’t locate the exact direction.
I glanced up at the sky; the sun would be setting soon. I turned back at the trail, knowing I should leave. The stress and isolation had gotten to me. I needed to go home and rest. I could come back tomorrow with the boys maybe and find the deer with a clear head.
Dad’s smile flashed in my head.
No. Dad was always adamant about finding your kill and if necessary, putting it out of its misery. I couldn’t let that deer get away. This was my first hunt by myself, and I was going to do it the right way. I wasn’t afraid.
I turned towards the blood trail, shouldered my rifle and headed deeper into the woods.
The blood trail continued for a couple hundred yards before ending all together. I got down low to the snow and was able to make out a few drops. The path continued deeper in the snowy trees. Every twenty yards or so, I hung a Hi-Vis ribbon from a tree, so I wouldn’t lose my way. I followed the tiny blood spots painstakingly, for another thirty minutes, until they had fully disappeared under the snow.
Dammit. I looked up and winced. It was nearly dark now and the snow was coming down harder. And I was long way from the trail to the car. I sighed… there was no way I’d be able to find the buck today.
I reached into my bag and marked the nearest tree. Tomorrow, at first light, I’d come back and find it.
*inhale*
“You’re not done. You know what to do.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I needed to go back. It wasn’t safe. But my Dad never went back on a kill. He’d always go after it until he found it. One time we were out until 1am in the dark looking, and then we found it…
“You’re right, Dad,” I whispered.
Using the marked tree as a starting point, I began fanning out to the right side, at least 100 yards, marking the occasional tree for reference. The sun set and night fell. The temperature dropped and I pulled my gator up over my nose while clicking on my shoulder fastened flashlight. I was looking for the smallest hoof track or even perhaps some drop of blood.
An hour into this, I finished the right side. That just left the left. I began the search, and the snow grew heavier. It was getting difficult to pull my booted feet through it. And I hated to admit it, but my toes were cold.
“I’m not done yet. Don’t give up on me, Dad.” I whispered through gritted teeth. Family and hunting. That was all my Dad ever cared about. I wasn’t going to fail him on my first solo hunt.
I checked my watch. It was nearly eight now and my stomach was growling. It was at least an hour back to the corn pile and another twenty to the car. I wiggled my toes and spat angrily at the ground. I was running out of time.
“Okay…” I sighed. I was going to go just five more minutes and then if nothing, I was heading back. It wasn’t worth losing my feet over it. The weather had turned into a blizzard. I braced myself against the cold and continued onwards.
I stepped around another tree, being careful to not fall into a possible tree well. I checked my watch again. My five minutes were done. I had failed.
With a heavy heart, I turned to go back. I trudged through the snow towards my marker tree. After ten minutes I was still going and hadn’t found it. Meanwhile, the cold continued to seep in.
After twenty minutes I felt panic creep in. My toes were freezing now and every step was painful. Where was the marker tree?? I had to have walked more than 100 yards by now. I stopped and squinted through the blizzard. The snow bit my face and scoured my nose.
There was no denying it; I was lost. I pulled out my handheld compass, but the glass was frozen over and I couldn’t make out which way was North. My stomach dropped to the floor and my mind blanked. I saw my face, whiter than porcelain, frozen in the snow.
I started running. My feet howled at me in pain but I didn’t stop. I had to get out of these woods. I was not going to die in this snow.
And then I saw it.
Fresh hoof tracks. A ton of them. My flashlight illuminated them all in front of me.
“Can’t be,” I whispered. It couldn’t be the same buck. That buck was long dead by now.
And then I heard a rustling behind me, splitting the heavy silence and making me jump. I whirled around, pulling my sidearm out and aiming it at…
Out of the swirling icy inferno emerged the buck. It stared at me, cocking its head to the side as it did. A few clumps of fresh snow drifted off his antlers as he considered me.
My arms felt like jelly. The pistol wobbled in my hands. I looked at the buck’s side, where the gunshot wound lay, now nothing but a scar. He drilled his gaze into my eyes, and I was ensnared.
He blinked and then his gaze lowered to the pistol in my hand.
His lips parted, and my father’s voice came out of his throat.
“Go ahead, son. Shoot.”