I had waited patiently, until the absolute end of legal shooting time on the next-to-last day of muzzleloader season. The doe finally appeared, just as I had hoped.
The shot felt good. The deer came from the west, along a trail that took it directly in front of me. I was standing downwind, maybe 35 yards away and slightly uphill, tucked among three small trees.
With only seconds to spare, I couldn’t be too fussy about the shot. The deer was quartering toward me slightly, so I aimed behind the right, front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
The muzzleloader rang out with its expected pop-bang — a welcome development after what had happened earlier in the day. The doe spun to its left and jumped into the air before heading downhill toward the stream.
Knowing that it would be pitch dark soon, I wasted no time heading over to where the deer had been, hoping to see signs of an on-target shot. There was no hair or blood, only bounding tracks in the snow.
I put on my headlamp and began following the tracks. The deer had run for perhaps 75 yards before it slowed down and eventually resumed walking.
It was difficult sorting things out in the dark, with numerous other tracks to decipher. It appeared as though the deer simply headed back in the direction from which it had come.
I backtracked and then looped down toward the shallow stream. I canvassed the edge, but the iced-over water was undisturbed.
After returning to the end of the bounding tracks, I began doing circles, just in case. There were no signs the deer had been injured: no blood, no faltering steps and no falls.
I had somehow missed from close range. Either I pulled off and missed high, or the muzzleloader scope had been bumped out of alignment.
Finding no evidence of a hit, I headed home with the intention of returning in the morning.
For a moment, it appeared as though a long, frustrating hunting season had ended on a positive note. And the 11th-hour shot had been my second of the day.
I arrived in the afternoon. The temperature was in the low 20s, but a relentless west wind drove the wind chill into the single digits.
The wind helped cover the sound of my boots crunching in the snow. I appreciated the help as I looped around from the northeast into some thick firs.
I crept along slowly, seeing plenty of tracks and three different beds. The cover helped buffer the wind, but the maze of blowdowns made it difficult to move around easily.
A small knob littered with fallen trees, overlooking a bunch of beech whips, provided a spot to sit. I soon decided to keep moving.
As I descended, I looked up to see a beautiful mature doe. The scene would have made a beautiful photo: the deer standing beside a large tree, staring directly at me, partially obscured by bushes.
I pulled up and aimed at the base of its neck, the best target I had. When I squeezed the trigger there was a pop, a hissing sound and a dull, hollow noise.
The muzzleloader had misfired, barely spitting out the bullet. It reminded me of the cartoon gun that shoots out a small flag.
The deer disappeared, startled but untouched.
Clearly, the Triple Seven pellets didn’t ignite completely. It was a costly mistake.
A short time later, I walked over to my ambush spot for the last 45 minutes of legal and the ill-fated ending.
The next morning, I went back. I was certain the deer was off enjoying its normal daily routine, but I had to be sure.
On the short walk in, I encountered a friend who I had met in the same location two years earlier. He had arrived early and was headed home.
Jack graciously offered to help me search, but I didn’t want him to waste his time, given how confident I was that I had missed the deer. We ended up spending a long time talking about the joys and frustrations of deer hunting.
Fortunately, the subsequent walkabout produced no sign of a deer, deceased or otherwise. I delayed my departure, taking one more walk through the dark growth on the last day of the season.
My inattention to detail had cost me meat in the freezer. First of all, I hadn’t sighted in the muzzleloader this year, which meant the accuracy of the scope was in question.
Then there was the matter of failing to replace aging pellets, which over time can lose potency or absorb moisture. I knew better.
It was disappointing, as there had been only a handful of deer sightings during the firearms season. I was plagued by poor timing, twice missing the chance to climb with my saddle in spots where bucks had passed through while chasing does in daylight.
I blew two golden opportunities to tag out, thus ensuring many months of regret while waiting for the 2026 season.