The Buck of Circumstance

The Buck of Circumstance

 

Hunting has always been a tradition in my family, but it was one I came into much later than other members of my family. My decision to hunt was a result of many things: Tim pushing me to hunt so I could truly experience nature and the outdoors; my own drive to become self-reliant and see what I was capable of; and most of all, my desire to share a family tradition and follow in the footsteps of the strong women in my family who were known to be excellent marksmen much like my great-grandfather. There are several other reasons, but it was these that were fulfilled in my first—and quite possibly greatest—hunt.

 

My first day of the hunt was uneventful. We walked the badlands the rest of the day, but blowing snow and harsh winds drove the deer deep into the coulees. It was a challenge chasing up even a few does. I wasn’t expecting to shoot my buck that first day, but I had at least hoped to find a good buck to hunt. We drove to our motel in Beach, ND, tired and a little disappointed.

 

We were reluctant to stay in Beach since it was a longer drive to the badlands. We would find out the next morning, however, that it was a blessing in disguise; if we would have stayed anywhere but Beach or decided to camp, we’d have never seen my buck. This would be the first in a chain of events that would lead me to my buck of circumstance.

 

The next morning was calm and clear, a stark contrast to the day before. We decided to go back where we’d left off, near where Tim had found his trophy the weekend before. Those plans changed as we moved north glassing adjacent fields. Among the does stood three large bucks: two large four-by-fours and one clean five-by-five. Any one of those, said Tim and Dad, would make a superb first year buck. We sat, waiting for them to bed. 

 

It was turning out perfectly. The deer were moving toward school trust land open to the public, and the terrain was more suitable for the warmer temperatures expected than the sloppy clay buttes we’d trudged up and down the day before. Those plans, however, came to an abrupt halt when two pickups of overbearing hunters took claim to the same deer. The deer spooked, retreating onto private land. We left, albeit, reluctantly, and cursed our misfortune. In just moments, however, we would be thankful for those hunters’ interference.

 

Dad and I saw them nearly at the same time as we crested the next hill. In the distance, several does and one noticeably large buck ambled down a coulee. Dad laughed excitedly as he looked through his binoculars. “That’s a big buck!” He turned to me, already whispering, “Tessa, that’s a shooter!”

 

He was indeed a shooter. The mass and girth of his antlers was visible to the naked eye even from several hundred yards out. A closer look in the spotting scope revealed eight points, browtines and palmated forks on each side giving him character I rarely saw in a mule deer.

 

But before we could claim him, we’d need access. Luckily for us, he was on land Dad had permission to hunt antelope just one month before. The landowner remembered us and finally, at 8:30 a.m., the hunt was on.

 

We watched the deer, hoping they’d bed down, but the rut made them restless. We decided Dad and I would slide along the coulee and wait for them to come to us. We were wrong. Just as we’d reached the bottom, they bedded down. We were forced to try another approach.

 

Next, we approached a small knoll looking as though it would put us right on top of the buck. As we crawled, we found the terrain actually afforded little cover forcing us to drop to our bellies to sneak closer. Still, it was not close enough. We couldn’t spot even a single doe and an occasional glimpse of a single antler was our only confirmation that the deer were still there. We laid there for several minutes weighing our options: we risked spooking the hidden does if we moved closer, but it was still a few hours before they would begin their evening transition. We decided to try yet another approach. This time we would go to the ridge on the other side of the coulee and hope for a better vantage point there. We crawled back out and started the long trek around the coulee and two hills while remaining out of sight.

 

Finally at the top, we crawled toward distant sage brush to glass the coulee, but again, no view of the big buck. Tim doubled back for another angle while Dad and I waited. Tim signaled. The buck was there.

 

In preparation, Dad and I adjusted a bipod on my rifle. Tim was about to crawl back and wait with us when he motioned me forward. My heart gave a jump. They had already begun to move.

 

I crawled forward and began to set up. The buck was only about 150 yards away, headed for a nearby clearing. I struggled to get my bipod and rifle level, and my scope ready before he entered the clearing, but, instead he veered south toward the does, remaining in the trees. “Of course!” I thought. “He’ll follow the does and trees will obstruct a clean shot!”

 

But instead he turned away, seemingly disinterested in the does and headed for another clearing. Once again, I scrambled to get set up. The buck was moving quickly and only paused briefly when Tim and Dad struck his curiosity. Before I could get set, he was already behind another bush. I readjusted for the next clearing, sensing frustration—even panic—as the buck stared back at his does. I pleaded with him to keep coming, and finally, he did.

 

The buck moved too quickly for me to follow him steadily with the bipod, and sensing my frustration, Tim and Dad yelled again to make him stop. He paused. I aimed, breathing deeply toregain my composure. He took a few more steps. Do it…now! rushed through my mind. The rifle kicked, the deer lunged, and a sigh of relief escaped my lips. I sat shaking from the adrenaline.

 

“You just got one big buck, Tessa!” yelled Dad and Tim between excited laughs, and I became aware again of everything else around me. For a few split seconds, it seemed as though it was just me, the rifle and the deer. With a slap on the back I was brought back into full consciousness.

 

“Yep, you just got one big buck!”

 

***

 

I’ve been told that my first buck will likely be my biggest. That’s probably true. They ask, “Now what are you going to do?”

 

I never expected to shoot a buck of this stature, and though I realize most hunts may never give me that again, they will always present new challenges and, more important, new memories to share with my family and friends. So what am I going to do?

 

The answer is pretty simple: Hunt.

By Tessa Sandstrom

What a great story and memory!  Thanks for posting!

Awesome