molliesmaster
WKR
- Joined
- Feb 2, 2016
- Messages
- 478
I have never been kicked so hard in the guts, metaphorically, as I have this weekend. I woke up this Monday morning finally realizing that it wasn't a horrible dream, bear with me as I lick my wounds.
Friday afternoon I managed to escape the office early enough to jump into a stand on a close-by property I lease. A front was coming and the temperature was dropping by the minute, it was time to be in the woods. An hour goes by and the doe of opportunity has come into my range, I pick a shooting lane and she carefully makes her way to it. I was about to have my first true recurve kill in the bag, like get the cast iron hot, tenderloin is on the menu confidence level. I draw back and let the arrow fly to see a high, soul-sucking impact. The kind of hit that you know will take a miracle to be fatal. My post shot thoughts included the likes of "did you even aim, you idiot?". I climbed down 30 minutes later, checked quickly for blood and made the decision to come back tomorrow morning and start what would be a fruitless search.
The next morning I was in the same stand before day break, my sister was hunting the same property with her recurve as well, so I figured I would sit my stand until enough day light and then get down to start my search. Low and behold, the deer were moving again and it wouldn't be long before another opportunity would come my way. A spike and six point buck, that's a 3x3 for you westerners, are working through my range. Again, I pick a shooting lane and start the process of keeping my crap together. The six point would never stop in the right spots for a shot opportunity, but the spike buck did. I drew back, hit my anchor, settled my eyes on what I knew to be a heart shot and began to pull my elbow back to the imaginary wall behind me. The arrow sank into him, exactly where I was aiming, and I listened as he crashed through the brush on what was surely his final run. I even texted my wife to tell her the good news, 6:34 am. I waited a decent amount of time and got down to look for a quick signs of blood. I saw nothing immediately but I was confident I would find it up the trail. So I backed out to return the truck, take off some clothing and wait a little longer, for good measure.
I'll spare you the details of the rest of the story, just know that it includes hands and knees blood trails, a bent magnus broadhead, and a final last ditch effort lap through the woods with a tracking dog that would prove to be fruitless. All evidence says that I was likely a little forward of my mark and the broadhead collided with shoulder, blood and meat-tipped shaft all but confirm it. What is still undetermined in my minds eye is whether my shot was forward or if the deer was able to bring his shoulder back into its path. Not that it really matters now, but it's Monday morning and I'm at the office fletching arrows and, well, it's a long week to wait for redemption. New (not magnus) broadheads should arrive later this week, just enough time to get them ready for another weekend of hunting.
Friday afternoon I managed to escape the office early enough to jump into a stand on a close-by property I lease. A front was coming and the temperature was dropping by the minute, it was time to be in the woods. An hour goes by and the doe of opportunity has come into my range, I pick a shooting lane and she carefully makes her way to it. I was about to have my first true recurve kill in the bag, like get the cast iron hot, tenderloin is on the menu confidence level. I draw back and let the arrow fly to see a high, soul-sucking impact. The kind of hit that you know will take a miracle to be fatal. My post shot thoughts included the likes of "did you even aim, you idiot?". I climbed down 30 minutes later, checked quickly for blood and made the decision to come back tomorrow morning and start what would be a fruitless search.
The next morning I was in the same stand before day break, my sister was hunting the same property with her recurve as well, so I figured I would sit my stand until enough day light and then get down to start my search. Low and behold, the deer were moving again and it wouldn't be long before another opportunity would come my way. A spike and six point buck, that's a 3x3 for you westerners, are working through my range. Again, I pick a shooting lane and start the process of keeping my crap together. The six point would never stop in the right spots for a shot opportunity, but the spike buck did. I drew back, hit my anchor, settled my eyes on what I knew to be a heart shot and began to pull my elbow back to the imaginary wall behind me. The arrow sank into him, exactly where I was aiming, and I listened as he crashed through the brush on what was surely his final run. I even texted my wife to tell her the good news, 6:34 am. I waited a decent amount of time and got down to look for a quick signs of blood. I saw nothing immediately but I was confident I would find it up the trail. So I backed out to return the truck, take off some clothing and wait a little longer, for good measure.
I'll spare you the details of the rest of the story, just know that it includes hands and knees blood trails, a bent magnus broadhead, and a final last ditch effort lap through the woods with a tracking dog that would prove to be fruitless. All evidence says that I was likely a little forward of my mark and the broadhead collided with shoulder, blood and meat-tipped shaft all but confirm it. What is still undetermined in my minds eye is whether my shot was forward or if the deer was able to bring his shoulder back into its path. Not that it really matters now, but it's Monday morning and I'm at the office fletching arrows and, well, it's a long week to wait for redemption. New (not magnus) broadheads should arrive later this week, just enough time to get them ready for another weekend of hunting.
