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I woke up to the first snowfall of the year. Not enough to make walking difficult, but more than enough to track sleepy whitetails to their beds. It has come rather late this year, but is most welcome as deer season is almost over and my freezer is still empty.
I quickly dress in layers and head for the door. Instead of picking up my recurve, I reach for my Granddad’s ninety-year-old .303. Over the years I haven't shot the rifle much, but I remember well Granddad’s stories of the wolves, bear and moose that have fallen before it. More of a tool than a weapon, it has earned the name Ol’ Crowbar from the family it provided for. Yet for all its storied life, Ol’ Crowbar has never killed a deer. Deer were rare back when Granddad first homesteaded the home quarter; moose were not. Now the opposite is true.
I step out into the cold morning air and head west. It takes me about twenty minutes to reach the west field. My footsteps are muffled by the cushion of snow and there is little noise to betray my arrival. And as expected, there are no deer to be seen; they know to head for the trees at first light.
I head for the field’s northern edge as the bright morning sun crests the tree line to the east. My destination is the bush line where Crown land begins and the field ends. On the way, I cross countless sets of last night’s deer tracks. One in particular catches my eye. The tracks are of good size but more importantly, they are alone. Perhaps made by a buck or dry doe. Either one will do.
I follow the tracks through the last of the field and into the woods. Once in the trees, I pull off my glove and lick the index finger of my right hand but detect no noticeable wind. The woods will be silent today. I wonder if that is for the good or the bad. I am still considering this as I take up the track. Besides a few instances where the track crosses paths with others, it remains alone. I take my time and maintain a constant lookout for the deer I know must be somewhere ahead.
Seconds turn into minutes and minutes into hours. Slowly and quietly I place one foot in front of the other, mindful of the brittle undergrowth that litters the forest floor. I would think these woods were uninhabited if not for the song of the chickadees and the lonely “quark” of a raven. More than once I remind myself that the tracks at my feet do not lie.
It’s near 11:00 am by the time I reach the tall grass of the beaver slough. That means two hours have past and still no sign of the deer I am following. But the slough is in the open, so I lift my binoculars and begin to search. I see no sign of the deer, yet its tracks show that it has left the security of the trees. Perhaps it has already crossed to the other side. I raise my binoculars to see if any tracks are visible on the far bank. But before the glass reaches my eyes, I notice something out of place in the grass directly ahead. What were once twigs in the tall grass have become antler tines.
I load a round into Ol’ Crowbar while keeping my eye on where the bedded buck lay. But something isn’t right. The round fed but the rifle sear hasn’t engaged. I try again with the same result. In desperation, I try one more time and finally it engages. My eyes snap forward, wondering if the noise I made working the action has alerted the deer. It probably has, but the buck stays bedded. I slip my index finger behind the trigger to prevent the sear from releasing. Will Ol’ Crowbar fire when I ask it to? This question is fresh in my mind as I bring the rifle to my shoulder and take another step towards the bedded buck.
He has known I was there the whole time. No doubt, lying as still as could be, hoping that I would pass him by. But my last step is one step too many, the buck tears from his bed and heads for the cover of the forest. I don’t remember aiming or touching off, just the report of the rifle and a last look as the deer dives into the nearest patch of spruce. I stand still for a few minutes, letting my excitement settle. Then I follow the tracks to the buck’s bed and from there to where he disappeared.
I am ten steps into the spruce before I see blood, lots of blood. Encouraged, I continue with eyes glued ahead. I don’t have to wait long. The buck has fallen not more than a hundred steps from where he made his last bed. I tag the deer and set about dressing him, noting with satisfaction that the bullet has passed through the buck’s heart.
It is a long drag, over three hundred yards to the nearest spot where I can reach him with Granddad’s quad.
By the time I get back to the farmhouse, it is just after 2:00 pm. I am tired and bloody but happy. It has been a good day. Yet the best part of the day is not the successful stalk, or the venison that is destined for my freezer. No, the best part of today will be the look on Granddad’s face when I tell him, “I killed a buck with Ol’ Crowbar.” ■
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