A Hunters Worst Nightmare

It was 4:24 PM on November 28th, 2020. The sun was lowering to the south-western horizon, the same direction that the wind was blowing in. The two food plots in front of the elevated blind glowed neon green. There were large black shadows from the tall poplar trees that grew on the edge of the food plot perimeter, casting across the plot like old spirits of the forest. Fifty yards out, a large mature whitetail doe stood broadside with her head down feeding in a Crooked Bend Bransons Buffalo Blend food plot. Everything was in perfect alignment.

Black crosshairs of the scope steadied just behind the right shoulder as the safety of the Ruger .450 Bushmaster was softly slid up with the thumb. A slow pull of the trigger then, set fire and a boom from muzzle which deafened the ears with a loud ring. The large whitetail deer leaned forward and kicked both hind legs back and then bouldered into the heavy brush sanctuary that was 150 yards to the south. An internal celebration erupted because the shot looked great and a short recovery seemed to be imminent. Late November’s golden sun began to kiss the the tops of the tree line as a short wait passed in order to allow for the animal to expire. With a little over a half-hour of daylight left there was plenty enough time to have some fresh venison cleaned up and in a cooler before sundown.

I climbed down the ladder of the blind and my mind repeatedly played the scene of the gun shot. Confidence was very high in the shot placement and the deer's reaction. For some reason it seemed like it took forever but, the walk to the impact zone was only 55 yards away. Looking down in the bright green food plot foliage, I was expecting to easily find a pool of blood and pile of hair. To my unwelcome surprise, there was not a single strand of hair or a pin drop of blood to be found. I continued to crisscross, zigzag and circle from what I believed to be the shot location all the way to the point that I saw the mature whitetail enter the heavy thicket. After covering roughly a quarter of a mile of turf there were no signs of blood that could be found. At this point, the sunset had sunk into the horizon and darkness was closing in. The confidence that was once so high was now replaced with doubt and frustration. So, it was decided to draw back for the night and return at the next morning’s first light with a fresh pair of eyes and a reset stack of patience.

Before sunrise the next day, my Dad joined to add an additional pair of eyes to the search party. We arrived back to the shot impact location at sunrise and began to work in an outward spiral pattern, searching for evidence of the wound. Once again, we failed at finding any sign of a blood trail. Without any clues to work with, we decided to switch to a body search method. I entered the western edge of the wooden brush where I last saw the deer enter the thicket and began walking a north and south pattern roughly 10 yards apart. Meanwhile, Dad checked the ditch that ran the southern most end of the property and spanned the length of a country mile (deer commonly used this ditch for a travel corridor.) Keeping my eyes peeled for stitch of hair, a sprinkle of red blood or the grayish-brown hide of a downed whitetail deer, the search continued to be fruitless. I searched the same thick brush once again but this time traveling in east and west paths, completing the crosshatch pattern of the area. Again nothing was to be found and my hopes were perishing. In a last ditch effort, I walked the perimeter edge of the woods that I had been searching. I started at the north line, worked my way over to the west edge, walked the southern border and then, headed up the eastern edge. Just as I was about to completely give up and head back toward the truck, a glistening shimmer caught my eye. In front of my rubber boots, laid a fresh puddle of crimson red blood! An outburst occurred as if I just found out that I was holding the winning ticket to the Powerball lottery. I whistled for Dad to come to the blood trail location and we begin tracking. The blood trail began in half dollar size splotches which glowed bright red against the brown leaves that rested on the ground. As we tracked I noticed that blood was only identifiable on the right side of the travel path. This signified that the .450 bullet did not pass through the animal, which is problematic and seriously limits the blood from exiting the wound. As we continued to track the trail, the blood dwindled into smaller quarter size drops then, into even smaller nickel sized circles and then into dime size droplets. As each drop of blood grew smaller and smaller, so did my newly inflated hopes of recovering the mature doe. After trenching over one and a half miles through overgrown saplings, thick thorns and thistle; the blood trail faded away to nonexistence. Not only did the once heavy blood trail dry up but, we were also near the end of the property line that we had permission to track on. At this point, I was crawling on my hands and knees looking for any sign of blood that could have been sprinkled on the side of a small tree limb or on a dark leaf. Dad and I searched up and down for another hour and a half in that small thicket of tag alder saplings trying to find sign. After searching for a total over five hours and back to finding nothing, we decided to finally call off the search. Feelings of anger, frustration, disappointment, irresponsibly and remorse flooded my insides. On the walk back up to the truck, in attempt to comfort my disgust, Dad told me stories of the deer that he had lost the same way. Unfortunately, Dad’s stories did not help to calm my crushed feelings. The thought of the wasted life that I had eliminated from my herd sickened me to the core. It is so important as a hunter to have quick and ethical kills and I had failed to make sure that this had happened. I felt like a killer and not like a hunter.

Later that evening and the next few days feelings of guilt, misbelief, madness and sadness attempted to take permanent residence inside of me. Thoughts of changing ammunition manufacturer, never using that weapon again, and all the way to quitting hunting all together cycled in my mind. Then, like a bolt of lighting, it hit me: I was indeed responsible for the event that haunted me, however, I was also responsible for creating the food sources and habitat improvements that enabled for the harvest opportunity to exist in the first place. It was my hands that ran soil tests and planted sun flowers in the early spring, planted turnips and radishes in the late summer and cereal grain rye in late fall. It was my efforts that created new cover and bedding areas, as well as a new source for water for the wildlife. Although, I failed with completing the harvest of that mature whitetail doe that day, I have improved the land greatly since obtaining it from the person before me. Without my involvement, the fate of the herd that currently occupies Crooked Bend’s property would be questionable. So, as opposed to remaining angry about what had happened, instead, I promised myself to continue making habitat improvements and create food sources. Enough to outweigh the negative impact of that great animal which I lost to the land. During this final time of closure, I thought a lot about the Crooked Bend slogan and how much that it really means to me. “Love your herd.” It is more than just a statement, it is a lifestyle that grows into your heart and takes root in your soul.