It was the first day of deer season. The sun was on its downward arc, rushing toward the southwestern horizon. It was a balmy 49 degrees. Within the hour, it would be dark.
I knew it was probably my only day to hunt because of my work schedule. So I had an intense desire to bag something that day.
But we hadn’t seen a deer all day long. Well, I take that back. At one point, we exited our stands, and I saw one as I walked through a brush-laden creek bed. It jumped up and ran perpendicular to me, maybe 10 feet ahead.
I swung my rifle around and followed it with the barrel as it bounded away to my right. A few things went through my mind: Were dad and grandpa ahead of or behind me? Can I shoot a deer at a gallop? And why did I fall asleep for a few minutes at the prime time that morning — 8 hours ago? The deer were likely break-dancing across the leaves and thumbing their noses at me while I snored.
Anyway, I didn’t shoot the running deer. I opted for the story I’m about to tell, although I didn’t realize it yet.
We had gotten up at 4:00 a.m. and it was 4:00 p.m. It was almost time to head home. I was ready to put some real food in my belly. My father and I were walking around the 40 acres trying to find a good place to wait for the deer. The deer stand locations weren’t producing any results.
We found a small tree next to the creek bed further down from where I was walking a mere fifteen minutes before, when I chose not to shoot the galloping deer.
Dad sat on the side of the tree facing down the creek. I plopped down on the side of the tree facing the opposite direction.
After ten minutes of sitting, he whispered like only hunters whisper. Let’s examine that for a brief second.
Have you ever whispered while hunting in the woods or heard someone whispering to you? I find it very comical. I will belly laugh if someone starts whispering in the woods while they’re hunting. It’s almost like a yell, a quiet yell. It’s almost as if they’re whispering at the top of their lungs. I’d demonstrate for you if I could. Just go watch a Primo’s hunting video on YouTube. I can’t even understand what they’re saying half the time in real-life situations.
Someone could whisper, “Caleb, there’s a monster buck about twenty yards out!” And I would hear, “Hisha, shush huhush shiehan psh, shoosh.” And what’s funny is the deer can still hear that jumbled-up high-powered whispering.
You’d be better off speaking in a low tone than whispering at the top of your lungs. But I digress. Whisper to your heart’s content. Just don’t expect me to understand what you’re saying.
So dad is whispering to me from the other side of the tree. Let it be known; he’s facing away from me, which makes it even harder to hear.
I leaned around the tree and said, “Would you just say what you want to say normally, please?”
He raises his voice slightly. “There’s a deer about to cross the creek bed. Get over here on this side of the tree. He’s too little for me to shoot.”
Remember, I didn’t know if I could go hunting again. I’m not an “if it’s brown, it’s down” type of hunter. Neither am I an antler-only hunter. Sure, I want a big deer, but I’d prefer a big doe to a massive buck. The meat is better.
I tried to lean around the tree without scaring the deer away. I turned my head as far as it would, and my eyeballs strained to see around the tree. And sure enough, Button was about to go down the creek bank opposite where we sat on the ground.
I didn’t have many options. I could either scoot around and possibly scare the animal or lean as far as I could around the tree and take my best shot. I opted for the latter as the deer was approaching swiftly. My feet and legs still pointing up the creek, I twisted my torso to almost 180 degrees. Carefully lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I peered down the barrel waiting for the deer to pass.
The rifle had a scope, but I didn’t need it. The deer passed by a mere 20-30 feet away. I squeezed the trigger.
KA-BOOM!
As it turns out, I did not put the rifle on my shoulder. In my haste, I had put the stock in the crook of my elbow.
The bullet exited the barrel as the scope tried to enter my nasal passages.
I dropped the rifle and screamed a scream that sounded like a high tenor on helium. Blood was dripping down my nose onto the rotting leaves below me. I dropped to my knees and released another banshee scream.
I’ll give my dad the benefit of the doubt. He probably didn’t realize what had just happened. He probably thought I was losing my mind after having my buttocks turn numb for the 237th time that day.
He turned around and whispered at the top of his lungs, “Caleb, shut up! You’re gonna scare the deer!”
I tried to explain but couldn’t find the words to express my pain. Not that he would’ve cared anyway.
Ten minutes later, we found the deer only fifty feet from where I broke my nose.
It was a perfect shot right behind the shoulder.
So if you ever see me touching my nose, I’m not picking it. I’m trying to make it straight so that I can breathe better.
to those who need nose surgery,
– Caleb