It was hard watching the sun finally set on the deer hunting season.
I shouldn’t even have had to pull the muzzleloader out of the gun cabinet. And, as it turned out, the extra two weeks of hunting served only to further magnify a sense of frustration and disappointment.
For me, 2016 will go down as The Year of the Flinch.
The season began on a high note as my older son, Will, harvested his first deer on Nov. 16. I was there to share in the joy of his successful hunt.
He got an opportunity and he cashed in on it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to do the same.
Six days later I visited a favorite hunting spot in Newburgh, an opportunity made possible through the continued generosity of Len and Nancy Price. I chose a spot near a stand of cedar trees and sat on a flat rock that was half-obscured by the sparse branches of a small pine tree.
I unleashed a sequence of buck vocalizations with my grunt tube, then waited. Perhaps 15 minutes later, after munching on a nut bar, I saw a buck emerge from the dark growth, walking slowly — directly toward me.
It appeared to be an older buck. I’d piqued its interest. I was downwind, but worried that it would see me before I had a clear, broadside shot.
When it got within 30 yards, the deer turned slightly to its left. I let out a “bleat” and the deer halted, its head and neck obscured by some firs. I aimed behind the right, front shoulder and pulled the trigger.
The buck spun back to its right and bounded straight away from me, back into the trees.
Every deer I’ve shot previously has fallen precisely where it stood, presumably because I had hit them high in the back or in the neck. But we’ll get back to that.
I didn’t wait long before walking to the spot where the buck had been. There were hoof prints, but no blood or hair. I retraced its exit path — and literally didn’t stop searching for the next five and a half hours.
I was worried from the outset, but my anxiety rose with every step. Had I wounded the buck? Had I missed altogether? My mind was swimming, and fearing the worst.
It was unthinkable that I wouldn’t have even cut a hair at such a short distance. My Savage .30-06 is equipped with a Leupold scope and Will made a perfect shot with it, from 65 yards, the week before.
My thoughts turned to one of my first experiences target shooting with fellow hunting enthusiast Terry Farren. As we took turns, he asked me if he could take a look at my rifle.
He handed it back to me and told me to shoot again. I pulled the trigger — and my head — in anticipation of the bang. There was none.
“I thought so,” said Farren, who had made sure the spent casing remained in the chamber. “You flinched.”
Now, several years later, I feared my old habit may have cost me a nice buck.
As I continued my search, the loud snap of a breaking branch thrust me back into the moment.
The unmistakeable sound was a deer bolting, I presumed, across the small adjacent stream. I pursued, sneaking through some bushes and wading quietly through the brook and into the dark growth.
Within two minutes, I spotted a left antler and ear, low to the ground, behind a tree. It was apparent the deer had lain down and was breathing heavily.
Confusion consumed me. The antler I was seeing had much thinner tines than those I had seen earlier. Or did it?
Was this the same deer, forced to lie down so soon after leaping away because it had been wounded (by me)?
I made a bad decision and tried to sneak around to get a look at the buck. I didn’t make it 10 yards before it sprang to its feet.
I had a shot and lifted my gun, but hesitated. Within three seconds, the deer made its first leap away from me.
I feared that the first deer, if this wasn’t it, lay dead nearby. An accurate shot this time would have sealed the deal but I couldn’t, in good conscience, risk killing two deer.
The buck, showing off the species’ grace and agility, bounded up a small ridge, into the oak trees and disappeared. I’d missed one buck and passed on another within 90 minutes.
Expecting, hoping, to find a blood trail, I followed the deer’s path. I found no sign that its health had been compromised. And I never saw it again.
Eventually, I went back to ground zero and restarted my search, still refusing to admit I could have missed. Some three and a half hours later, with darkness descending, I walked back to my vehicle more discouraged than I had ever been after a day in the woods.
I know all too well that for a hunter there is no worse feeling than fearing you have wounded an animal and can’t find it. Having replayed the scenario over and over in my head, including the realization that I saw the buck’s “flag” as he ran away, I am convinced I missed.
Flinched. Pulled instead of squeezed. Choked.
I can live with that. But I won’t forget.
Next summer, I’ll be doing some shooting. I’ll learn how to keep my head down, my face buried in the stock.
I’ve been fortunate during my 10 years of deer hunting to see numerous deer and harvest three, but the 2016 season was a lesson in humility. For most of us, opportunities are too few to let them slip away because of carelessness, cockiness or a lack of preparation.
As responsible sportsmen, we must strive to make a sound and sportsmanlike shot whenever possible.
Let’s hope the winter doesn’t take too heavy a toll on the deer herd and that those who pursue the elusive whitetail next year fill their tags and can share a success story, rather than one of frustration.