Okay, hey there everybody, this is Brian Husky, and thank you for listening to the Skylines podcast. This is going to be episode 32 about one of my only real purposeful, archery deer hunts. It's called a Willow Wicket Hotel. It had already been a great hunting season.
Several great seasons, actually, as I'd taken archery bowls and riflebox on solo hunts to three years prior at this point. So with a bit of swagger in my step, I decided to try for the ultimate Western hunting achievement, an archery meal deer buck. From half a mile away, all I could really tell was that he was a branch antler buck, and that's a shooter buck in my book. It was already late in the day, and so I made haste, scanning and plotting my route to close the gap into shooting range.
The buck was hanging out with a small group of doves, but he had one in particular he was trying to make some progress with. Like pulling her to a corner booth and saying, hey, darling, how about we get out of this joint, and I'll show you my rub collection out behind the willows. He shuttled her into a thick string of burgundy fall foliage as I watched, now three or so hundred yards out. My plan was to hook around and crest over a bluff from which I could have a full gander view of the vicinity.
If the buck were anywhere close to where he was headed, I would be able to cover all directions he could exit from. I looked at my watch, pulled down my sweat-soaked hat, and resumed closing the gap. Creeping near the crest of the bluff, I was inside a hundred yards of the deer, and almost to my first possible shooting vantage when I locked startled eyes with a likely deal-breaker, a chugger. The red-legged twicker bobbed and jiggled in place, trying to decide, I suppose, if he was going to run or flush.
Come on, just scurry off your little bastard I cursed in my head. His beady, twitching little eyes, sized me in the scenario up while I caught movement of several others pecking around in the background. I wanted to assassinate the bugger just to keep him quiet. Or if he and the entire cubby flushed, the buck could very well spook and make it out of shooting sight before I could get full view of all the exits.
Gritting my teeth and frozen in my half-army-crawl squat I begged, come on, don't flush, don't flush. They flushed, hard and loud, dozens of sturdy, muscular wings pounded the air, exploding skyward from all around me. With nothing to lose at this point, I jumped to my feet and spun my head like a top, scanning over the tops of old-growth sage and mahoggin, as if to say, nobody noticed that, right? I'm sure the deer were startled, but as luck would have it, they held tight in their bunker, the Willow Wicket Hotel, with by-the-hour rates and vibrating beds.
I was quite surprised that from what I could tell, the parodid not blast off with the chuggers. Thirty yards later, I'd reached full visibility and bow-range of likely escape routes, however, the buck and the object of his affection were nowhere to be seen. The only place they could be was directly under me, in the thickest bundle of willows. Quietly, I removed my large pack, knocked an arrow, and manned my post.
I waited to see or hear either of the deer that I presumed were hidden just below me. Nothing happened. Time was running out. I was miles from the truck in big Canyon Country.
I debated how long to stick it out for this opportunity, yet leave enough time to hunt the miles of canyons back to the truck. What if the deer actually had managed to sneak out during that chugger disruption, and I was staking out nothing more than an empty grove of willows? I was pelting my own resolve with relentless questions, to the point I could no longer take it, so I conceded that since it was possibly my last day to hunt, there was something I could try that may possibly work, throwing a rock at the deer. Well, not actually at the deer, of course, but near where I thought they were.
You've likely heard that I don't have the strongest throwing arm, but saying that I throw like your sister would be a rude insult, deer's sister, because she can throw twice as far as I can, your grandma can throw farther than I can. And in order to get the deer to spook in the right direction, I needed to get my rock up and over and beyond the deer. Basically, I needed to throw of my life. Going through practice motions, I debated if I could make the throw while holding my bow, or if I'd need to set it down and imitate a full body baseball pitch.
I can only imagine what this looked like if anyone was watching, and I can guarantee that it wasn't pretty. The deer were close and certain to come out hot, and my window to shoot was small, so I opted for a one-handed heave while gripping my bow with the other. Following my discus-like windup, I let the rock go, regaining my footing after nearly falling, and gazed in astonishing wonder as it actually carried itself over the willows in a respectable arc. Before the rock hit the ground with a thud, I had my release clipped to the string and my eyes were peeled for flying fur.
Bounding from the thicket came a startled dough and a starry-eyed buck, both obviously alarmed and seemingly confused as to how and why a rock just fell from the sky. They were really moving, intent to carry the mail over the nearest rock rim to rise in and into safer airspace. In my effort to confuse and slow, if not hopefully stop the deer, I began goat bleeding. The buck did prance to his stop and looked back as if to say, holy smokes, I'd go through that rock at us?
My arrow must have sounded like a bottle rocket whizzing towards the buck, because I swear he dropped a full foot under it by the time it reached his location. It hit what looked like the only rock within 50 yards and shattered into a spray of carbon splinters. He bounced nonchalantly away, leaving me completely deflated, and rubbing sharp twinge out of my throwing shoulder. Over the opposite skyline, the dough bounded off alone, looking back only once for a split second, and man, did she look relieved.