Hunter ‘saves’ doe in hopes of seeing bucks later
Three does entered the clearing about 45 minutes before sunset.
They came on Monday, my first muzzleloader hunt of the season. I was in a stand where I killed a mature buck on the same day exactly one year ago, and where I missed a mature buck on the same day exactly two years ago.
I had grown accustomed to the pattern and anticipated something good to happen on Monday, as well.
The forest is closing over my lanes. I used to plant small food plots here, but now it’s too shady. I need to trim back the edges and remove the hanging limbs.
On the other hand, deer like this spot better in its present condition. Deer like to stay in cover, and it is not coincidental that I see more and better bucks here since
the cover has grown thicker.
I punctuate these musings by snatching a few glimpses of a book, A Speck in the Sea, by Anthony Sosinski and John Aldridge. It’s a story of Aldridge’s struggle to survive in the North Atlantic off Montauk, N.Y., after falling out of his lobster boat en route to his fishing grounds. He went overboard without a life jacket at about 3 a.m. while his crew slept.
Though not a strong swimmer, Aldridge mustered the strength and determination
to swim a long distance to a fellow lobsterman’s buoy. Unable to climb atop the buoy, he cut it free and pushed it a long distance to another buoy. He fashioned a cradle between them in which he could rest out of the water. Airborne rescuers noticed two bright buoys so close together, and Aldridge was rescued. Most people in that situation are not.
If you don’t drown, you are likely to be eaten by sharks, as gruesomely illustrated in Indianapolis, about the sinking of the cruiser USS Indianapolis near the end of World War II.
Why some live and some die in dire situations is one of the great mysteries of the universe. Is it a matter of odds? If 900 people are suddenly cast into the ocean, does a certain percentage automatically perish?
Is it Providence? Justice? A cosmic toll?
The book strongly implies that Admiral Ernest King sacrificed the Indy’s skipper, Capt. Charles McVay, to protect high Navy brass whose commands knowingly sent her alone into harm’s way and then failed to notice that she was missing.
I raise my head at the sound of rhythmic movement. In the fading light I see the bright bald heads of two deer approaching through the thicket.
There are actually three. Two are young does that walk straight to my corn feeder. The third is a mature doe. She enters the clearing very near my stand and inspects the premises closely. I duck my orange-clad head below the wall panel as the doe glares at the stand.
Satisfied that she and her
fawns are safe, she stands broadside and inspects the feeder.
I center my scope on her vital area. I made a perfect shot like this at roughly the same distance on my buck last year, but he ran a long way into thick cover, and I didn’t find him until morning.
A neck shot will drop her where she stands.
A nearby camera has taken many photos of this doe over the last three years. She always has twins, and she brings them here frequently.
The doe turns and walks up the hill to join her fawns. They circle the feeder, nibbling contentedly at the grain on the ground.
My scope is still on the doe, but conflicting expectations prevent me from reaching for the trigger.
A buck could arrive at any
moment, but it won’t if I shoot the doe.
I am also certain that this is the same doe that a mature buck chased in front of a nearby stand during the first week of the 2017 modern gun season. She’ll come into estrus soon, and a buck will surely come calling.
She’s more valuable to me alive than dead right now.
Both of the fawns are does, and the young ones are better to eat. Shooting might run the mature doe out of the country. They’ll be around later, after the rut.
They leave at dark, in the direction they came.
It is a curious feeling to have the power of life and death.
I shed no blood today, not from altruism or compassion, but from a purely mercenary calculation.