Mike Romine and I executed the same idea with random precision.
Disappointed that we hadn't seen any mature bucks recently on our remote cameras, we decided -- independently and without consultation -- to temporarily relax our standards for opening week of modern gun deer season at the Old Belfast Hunting Club in Grant County.
Only one member of our club checked a deer on opening day on the club's score sheet. It was a 100-pound 5-point shot by a guy using a 300 Winchester Magnum. He is the quirkiest of an unusually quirky group, and he is very proud of that gun. He goes on and on about how his deer never run away.
Throughout muzzleloader season, I saw only does. In the past four years, I always see at least one mature buck at that time, as does Romine. He usually kills two bucks a year, and he almost always kills one during the October muzzleloader season. This year, he saw only does and yearlings, plus the elderly 4-point that tormented him daily.
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On Tuesday, the temperature at sunrise was 19 degrees. Romine arrived at the gate to our lease to find the lock cased in ice from the night's rain.
"I sat in the truck and pouted a little bit, and then I remembered, 'Hey, I got my Little Buddy heater in the truck,' " Romine said.
Romine fired up the heater, placed it under the lock and huddled around it to brace it from the wind.
As I often do, I profited from Romine's resourcefulness. I intended to be in my stand at dawn, but a miscommunication with Miss Laura about our schedules delayed my arrival. It was fortunate because I don't carry a Little Buddy in my truck.
Nevertheless, I was pessimistic. I knew deer would move on such a cold, clear, windy morning, and I feared I had missed the party.
My favorite stand overlooks a long, wide fire lane in a pine thicket. Deer in the opening cannot see me until I am at the ladder. I crept the last few steps to the ladder, sidestepping low greenbrier vines that snag boots and scrape loudly across fabric.
I did a double take at the ladder. At the far end of the fire lane, about 130 yards away, was a deer feeding contentedly.
With no other option, I began climbing. The deer did not notice.
Reaching the top, I unlatched the door. Free from the tension, it popped open with a sharp crack. Still the deer continued feeding.
The door groaned painfully as I opened it. The deer was oblivious.
"Thank you, Lord, for this hard north wind," I prayed silently. It blew my scent away from the door and doubtless masked my noise.
Sliding my rifle into the cupola, I climbed inside. The stand rattled and shook. My parka snagged on the edge of the siding and made a hideous scraping, popping noise.
Still, the deer did not look.
On my knees to keep my head below the siding, I slowly unfolded my metal chair and placed it carefully in a proper shooting position. I lifted my binoculars. Only then did the deer raise its head, but only to check its immediate surroundings. The sunlight illuminated a 6-point ivory colored crown. It was a legal buck, the first I've seen this season.
Resting the stock of my Winchester Model 70 Extreme Weather Stainless on the rail, I dialed the scope to its full 10th power. The buck turned to the side, and I touched off a hand-loaded 7mm-08 cartridge tipped with a 139-grain Hornady Interlock Spire Point and 42 grains of IMR-4064.
It was over that quick.
The shot knocked the buck onto its back, but it was back on its feet and gone just as quickly. Amazingly, two smaller bucks entered the clearing 30 seconds after the shot. A couple of does soon joined them. They stayed for about one hour.
When they departed, I went to the approximate spot where the buck stood when I shot. I found no hair or blood. I approximated its path of departure and walked a slightly expanding circle until I found a swatch of blood. From there, the blood trail was apparent and generous. I followed it into a thicket and saw the telltale flash of the buck's white belly. The shot was perfect.
Romine and I celebrated back at camp over a hunter's lunch of fried bologna sandwiches on white bread with store-brand mustard and a pot of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. We cooked on Gas One butane stoves that did not burn very hot in the cold. One of the stoves was battered, as evidenced by its welded skillet platform.
I bit into my sandwich, relishing yet another instance when I profited from Romine's resourcefulness.
After chatting for a couple of hours, the sunlight reached a certain angle that told us it was time to resume hunting. We retired back to our stands. My only visitors were two does and two yearlings that appear regularly on my camera.
At about 5 p.m., Romine sent a text. It said, "Sixes are wild!" He killed a buck that looked identical to mine. Romine kills the biggest bucks at Old Belfast, but he was thrilled with his 6-point. That is a lesson that sticks with me.
Deer were plentiful in my fire lane the next morning. I texted Romine: "Was sorely tempted to 'buck out' with a young seven this morning."
"We're on the board," Romine replied. "Need to wait for a mature one."
So I shall.
Sports on 11/17/2019