The redemption buck

If you hunt deer long enough, it’s bound to happen.
Hence, back in mid-October, the reason I found myself in the marsh looking for what was rapidly becoming a needle in the haystack as the day wore on.
Hours earlier, I was sitting in a deer stand overlooking a pea-patch when a decent four-point buck walked out on me. The distance was a very manageable 100 yards.
He was broadside. He was feeding. The wind was in my face. To sum it up, it was a milk run.
Other than going to the butcher shop to buy a choice piece of meat, it didn’t get any easier when it comes to harvesting a deer.
Countless times prior to this, I’d closed the deal. This would be no different.
When I squeezed the trigger, the buck went down where he stood — just as before.
For 10 minutes, I sat taking in those post-kill moments. It’s different for every hunter.
I did the same thing with the first buck I killed, a mule deer in New Mexico.
After a cross canyon shot, I sat on a rock outcropping alone with my thoughts.
For 38 years I have been sitting with this same emotion each and every time I’ve shot a deer.
I’ve often wondered what God felt when He happened upon Adam and Eve in the garden, where they realized they were naked. He immediately knew they disobeyed His only edict of eating a particular fruit.
He clothed them in skins, it goes on to say in Genesis, meaning He killed His own creation.
Did God stop and take in the moment looking at the dead animals?
Blood was shed that man could live and the harvesting of animals for food and clothing has gone on ever since the beginning of time.
I unloaded my gun and packed my gear bag. Texting my son, I told him I’d be over to his stand in a few minutes to pick him up and get him to help me drag the deer out of the marsh.
No sooner had I stuffed the phone back into my pocket, the buck stood up and ambled slowly into a thick patch of tall grass cover.
I was astounded at the sight and sick at the same time. “How? No way! Crap!” were just a few of the new emotions I felt.
My son and I gave the deer another 45 minutes to lie down and expire. After all, he was hit hard by all indications. It wouldn’t take long.
Riding home in the truck, I told the story to my son enough times it was probably becoming like a rerun to him. But, it was my story and I was sticking to it, where no polygraph test would find an error in its retelling.
Tracking a deer is hard in the marsh. Perhaps no other place where whitetail deer live is harder.
The fact we had no blood trail made it even worse. It was impossible to look under every blade of needle, flag and cut grass. The briar patches and myrtle thickets were impenetrable — I gave up the search.
Days later, I went to the St. Mary Parish Sheriff’s range to check zero on my rifle. I was sure it had to be off.
Three holes you could cover with a quarter at 100 yards proved it wasn’t the rifle, it was me, which made me even sicker that I had lost this buck. I was guilty of being so overconfident when the deer walked out I made a lousy shot.
Time has a way of easing the pain of things that are lost. Though disappointed, the fact the coyotes and other animals would be able to enjoy a considerable feast was my only consolation the deer wouldn’t be totally wasted. I envied the critters.
With Black Friday past and the Christmas holiday season upon us, my son and I found ourselves hunting deer again in the marsh.
As the morning wore on around 9:15, I heard him shoot and moments later came a text from him, “Four Point Down.”
When I got to his stand, I inquired where the deer was when my son said, “I heard him go down over there. I didn’t find any blood and decided to wait until you got here to trail him.”
“I thought you said he was down,” I replied.
“I heard him go down in the thick cover,” he said sheepishly.
“OK, we’ll sort it out and find him,” I said, confidently knowing my interrogation gave him pause, which wasn’t my intent.
We found a few drops of blood and began the meticulous task of trailing his deer. What’s more, a deer that wasn’t giving us much to work with.
My mind drifted back to the weeks before, when the trail got cold.
This time it was different. A drop of blood no larger than the size of a pea every so often gave me courage that the trail ahead would be a successful one.
I found the deer’s track and on a leaf near it, a drop of blood.
Finally, nearly 300 yards from where we started and piled up in a briar thicket was my son’s deer.
We celebrated like two warriors.
But there was more. Upon examination, the deer had a wound near its spine that was healing over. Could it be? Indeed, it was. It was the same four-point, just over a month prior, I had shot.
My son had redeemed my error in marksmanship. I was whole again.
This Christmas our family will no doubt share a meal of venison from the redemption buck as we celebrate the birth of the one who came to redeem us from our errors in judgment. The one who made us whole again. Merry Christmas!
If you wish to make a comment or have an anecdote, recipe or story you wish to share, you can contact Flores at 985-395-5586, at gowiththeflo@cox.net or visit his website at.gowiththeflooutdoors.com.