A man and his ‘misses’
A man and his ‘misses’
By Tyler Frantz
Another blur of Pennsylvania deer seasons has come to pass, though the memories of hunts still linger. The window to pursue whitetails is a relatively brief one, considering the length of time we’re left dreaming about them, so hunters must make the most of their opportunities while they last.
I was fortunate to kill an incredible archery buck in mid-October this year- a blessing to my family in more ways than one. My wife always appreciates a tag filled early, since a partially stocked freezer removes a little pressure and allows me to spend more time at home. The key words, however, are “partially stocked” freezer.
Since Erin and I rely on venison for the majority of our meat supply, one deer per year is adequate, but two makes us more comfortable. I’m not one to encourage taking more deer than necessary, so two is my annual goal, but I’m still happy with one- especially when it’s a full-bodied 8-point buck.
I just love being out there, though, so I selectively ventured forth on several occasions with high hopes of adding a “bonus deer” to the frozen reserves with one of my three remaining antlerless tags for various locations in the state.
Each of those tags ultimately could have been filled- during three different seasons, with three different weapons, in three different wildlife management units- but they weren’t, because I missed. I’ll admit I hunted haphazardly for the remainder of the early statewide archery season, passing on an adult doe with two young on several occasions behind my house. I didn’t feel a dire need to disrupt this young family group, sensing I’d have more opportunities in subsequent weeks anyway- but it wasn’t quite that easy.
A New York inline muzzleloader hunt proved as fruitless as my fall salmon fishing trip, confirming the Empire State must’ve had my number this year.
Then, on the first Saturday of PA firearms season, I hiked a mile and a half back into WMU 4C public land, where I still-hunted within range of what turned out to be two young bucks I couldn’t shoot.
Staking out the area through mid-morning anyway, a lone doe eventually ran along the base of the hillside I overlooked. As bad luck would have it, she ran right through a large opening despite my best efforts to stop her.
When she did stop, a large tree completely concealed her vitals. My .308 waited for one big step that never came. Instead, she took off again, forcing me to take a running shot. At the rapport of my rifle, I witnessed the sunny side of a maple sapling explode, but the deer escaped to parts unknown.
During a cold, dreary late-season evening hunt, I was perched in a triple trunked walnut tree in WMU 5B. The stillness in the air invoked a sense of the woodlot breaking wide open at any moment.
Soon, a flintlock blast across the street did exactly what the eerie quiet foretold. Within minutes, a racket of footsteps approached and materialized into a herd of seven doe. With more eyes to elude than I would have liked, I slowly raised my bow and came to full draw.
Two of the doe caught my movement and began back-stepping as wise deer often do. Instead of continuing into the lane I anticipated, they angled left, so I carefully eased my bow around the nearest limb to settle my sight pin on the vitals of a big old unsuspecting nanny. When I released, my arrow caught the bottom of the walnut branch I had just negotiated around. Though my sight picture was clear, my arrow clearance was not, and it cracked like dynamite. Needless to say, the deer didn’t stick around.
Flash-forward to the extended shotgun season in WMU 5D, when my last deer hunt of the year provided one final opportunity. After doing drives all day, my friend and I sat off a hollow for the remaining two hours of daylight.
Forty minutes in, a spike buck chased a doe right past my tree at 70-yards. Rushing to get my scope on the edgy doe pausing on the opposite hillside, I foolishly freehanded the shot instead of securing a solid rest. The errant slug sprayed dirt in the soil just below the doe’s vitals, and I was too dumbfounded to even attempt another shot.
Sometimes you’ve got to admit when you’ve been beaten. Maybe I used up my luck on this year’s archery buck. Perhaps I need more discipline and composure under pressure or require more time at the range. Potentially, it’s all of the above.
But maybe it’s just part of the game, too, and that’s why I enjoy it so much. Sure I’m beaten, but my passion endures. Even when a man misses, he still can’t help but love getting after those whitetails.
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