1997 Big Buck Story

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Special report to BMO from Curt:

BMO FEEDBACK --- May 16 Reflections on a Grand Finale’

BIG BUCK’S PLAY A WAITING GAME

"Ghost of the Tag Marsh"

It was 11:48 A.M., practically noon, and nothing spectacular had happened. Dave was the sole driver and having already shot at a doe with probably no result, the drive was all but over. I had to get to Green Bay fast for Marylee’s birthday. How much longer should I stick around ? Well, let’s call it a season at noon.

The tail end of the season has been very good to me. Rather than an ending, it represents a good chance for a ninth inning, game winning rally. There is a certain feeling of urgency but also an indefinable upswelling of anticipation that something dramatic is about to happen : like the last minute hard-won buck that Dale toughed out in the waning moments of the frustrating 1982 season ; like 1983 when Stand 2 and Hubert ended up on a collision course with destiny ; or like the made to order 8 pointer I could let glide by at the Maple Ridge in late ‘89 ; or like my dream and nightmare, the career 10 pointer, that will pleasantly haunt me forever.

In the pitch dark we were getting ready to go forth into the great woods once more : Steve Bruns with a new found excitement for hunting ; Dave Buckmaster with an attitude of making it happen in the name of camaraderie ; and myself. Boy, is it ever a joy to get "over-the-hump" into the last push and have pals by your side. Steve is the official librarian. My good as gold retriever, Quartermoon Rainey, is by my side partly because Steve had a magazine on the Camp breakfast table one morning in ‘94 that detailed Rainey’s kennel. This morning, I was reading another of Steve’s magazines on efficient 2 and 3 man drives. We all agreed to give it a try.

The first drive was on the North Pole. Steve was posting and Dave and I were starting from tiger country. The walk was long and invigorating. Deer got up but they ghosted, unseen toward Gordy’s camp. So, we reconnoitered back at camp. Whilst whizzing behind the trailer, the magic began to happen.

Suddenly, a deer was sauntering into the end of the North field --- way, way out there. I thought I saw some headgear. As I wheeled to the house, Dave read my reaction through the kitchen window and we met at the front door. "Deer" I blurted but it did not need saying. We have had these scrambles before but they never get routine. Steve was out right behind Dave and I cautiously followed as the official observer, wishing I had left my gun outside at the ready. We couldn’t pull it off. I threw my hat in the dirt. Damn, this is exciting. Well, time for one last drive on 5 .

The morning article said a few fellows could employ a sweated up shirt as a phantom blocker. It also said the big bucks stay put and it takes perseverance to get them moving. Dave elected to drive. I was grateful. Sometimes you have a feeling, and today I had that feeling like something was going to happen. Steve called the Cat Track. I felt doubly lucky. -- in that he had a good chance but also that I should be at stand 5. I wanted to be there. I could feel the electricity.

Steve was ahead of us by maybe 5 minutes. Dave and I pussyfooted into "5", more or less together ; which, it turned out, was absolutely crucial toward any success ! Francis Sell gets kudos for teaching us not to be too stealthy. The buck knew Dave was there but did not or could not account for me -- the drop-off man. I got settled oh-so-quietly in 5 at 11:30 A.M. sharp. No fooling around this time : raking leaves, changing clothes --- nothing to alert the deer. Dave headed for 5W where he dropped off the "phantom poster" on a chest high blowdown. The light North wind was perfect for our set-up.

All was quiet for nearly 15 minutes --- too long it seemed. My thoughts drifted out of the woods. Will I make the birthday on time ? Gotta get going. Let’s hunt till Noon. "Buh-wam" Dave’s rifle roared right at me and the adrenaline started to trickle at 11:45. Indeed, I thought, "The game is afoot, Dr. Watson ! " Dave shot, but at what ? I could hear deer walking, running, stopping, moving --- but where ? Where the hell were they ?!? Sounds like the 5W corner but I don’t see them. Sounds like left down the ridge but they aren’t there. Why can’t I see them ? Then all is quiet except for Dave coursing back and forth across the marsh, flashing in and out of view.

Five long minutes crept by. Then I saw deer ! Two noses and white chest fur barely perceptible through the cedars and evergreens toward the 5W corner. They were headed, walking stealthily, Southwest back into the marsh. A few seconds later I caught a flash of Dave’s orange, ahead of the deer, traveling in roughly the same direction. They were circling behind him and not coming out. Time : 11:50 A.M. Maybe Dave and the deer were 80 yards apart but the illusion was that they were much closer. I felt like both participant and observer in a deer play : with the best center orchestra seats to boot.

Now I could only hear Dave swinging back my direction. He came to inspect the bedding area where the doe had sprung up. Then a deer got up between the two of us --- walking, deliberate, stopping --- but there could not be that much anything between the two of us. Buck, I thought. Big buck because he had laid so low. He was too smart to go downwind. He nixed upwind because my shirt had been telling him not to go there. He couldn’t go West because Dave was executing a masterful drive. Since Dave had dropped me off, he thought "5" was clear --- he had seen this drive how many times before ? He had always won before. The odds were in his favor.

The deer took maybe a dozen steps then stopped -- dead silence. Moving again I could fix his direction almost due West and coming right at me ! He should pop out right behind the evergreens off just to my left front. The watch said 11:54 and the buck walked out with head low, not more than 35 yards away. Coming head on, my first impression was how "square" the rack was. Both the rack and he looked big. This was no young buck. My gun was already placed in-line, 45 degrees up, just the way I wanted. I decided I could wait for a break to the North or South if he didn’t keep on straight to the East. Dave was pretty close behind, and even though I had a downhill backstop, I wanted the buck to clear Dave’s field by a fair margin.

Hitting the edge trail, the buck broke into a fast trot North--best for me, not good for him. When he hit the lane toward 5W, the first shot was loosed and connected. Skipping ahead two lanes, I clipped him at the corner, but too far back. He turned the hill corner toward the logging road running flat out. Time for two more shots, a luxury of time, or so it seemed. Later, Steve said I was ripping off the four total shots at an inspiring pace , especially for a lefty working the Husqvarna’s .270 bolt. Maybe this is how Gretzky feels charging the goal : the action worked without effort, the shots were easy to set and wait for.

The fourth shot staggered the buck and he backtracked, then turned North, downhill toward the creek bottom. I looked for a fifth shot but didn’t have or need one. Then it got quiet. I jumped out of the blind and raced front to get a better look but saw no movement. A minute later, I dropped back into the blind to reload. The backpack relinquished a handful of cartridges.

With one new shell in the magazine and one in my mouth, a deer appeared off my left shoulder, booking it toward the creek. I closed the action, set the safety, and leveled the gun. A fawn. I started to open the action and a second deer followed, the doe. No chance at a shot. It was 11:59 when I slumped back against the "5" tree, the adrenaline was really flowing now and I felt it for the first time. Jubilation !

Yumpin’ yimminy I thought, what a wild ride to the finish line. Steve came up and we headed for the deer. I wanted to track but the sign said it was unnecessary. There he lay, not to move again. I handed my rifle to Steve and began to shake. Dave came up and it was time to celebrate. The deer had only traveled 160 yards from the first shot within 20 yards of our good old Stand 5 ; the stand where Don Buckmaster connected on a buck lo those many years ago.

Time to get the Jeep, have a beer, take some pictures and admire this great old stag. Steve noted that the buck’s neck was rutted out, his face and muzzle were very grey and white, his antlers were beat up, and he looked very old. Dave agreed remarking how little fat reserve there was --- most of our corn fed venison is larded with fat ---and his teeth were pretty well gone. Two tines were broken off. He was likely losing fights ; maybe to the 24 inch spread trophy coursing the area. One main beam tip was missing. Any way you stack the cards, this boy’s time had come. Dave was sure this was the nice buck he twice saw in the West field two years before. The "square" rack was his signature. A ten pointer last year, now a 9 point counting the broken ones.

You always feel remorseful. My wife Marylee said, quoting Indian lore, that the buck had decided it was his time to go to the happy hunting grounds. He certainly was not ready to go all the previous years that he bested us on the hunt. For age, Dave, Michelle and I pegged the jaw set at 5-1/2 years --- not ancient but older than the oldest previous bucks of mine at 3-1/2 years; and equal to the one veteran 5-1/2 year old doe. Maybe I’ll have a pro verify the estimate.

What is to be learned ? Well, what a difference 29 minutes can make. It can change the world. At least it can change a deer season, which should amount to the same thing. I am glad I stuck with the hunt the last half-day ; mainly hoping one of the other guys would fill his tag. Was the two man drop-off tactic crucial ? You be the judge : the buck remained bedded for 24 minutes into the drive ; and was bedded within 55 yards to no more than 75 yards of the stand. Old Nesmunk himself would have been very hard pressed to pull off a solo sneak like that ! Persistance paid off with tracker Dave pushing West three times and East three times across a very small piece of tag-marsh real estate. How many times have we had a good and sucessful drive where we missed the bedded trophy ? Finally, the buck never ran like lesser deer would. He walked, stopped, walked, sneaked out the edge, and trotted North to the creek bottom and the heaviest cover he could find. There was real, considered purpose to these actions. The cedar swamp kings don’t just react but countermove in a game more serious than chess.

Deer hunting can be a very solitary, contemplative venture. Or a great collaboration of men, a hunting party such as the one we have. What a difference a day makes when you are chasing "Ghosts of the Tag Marsh".

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CJF

Curt Fahlstrom

Ps, if this ever appears in Outdoor Life or anywhere else, credit will have been given to D.B.’s BMO for the initial appearance in print.

PPS, Don -- thanks for the BMO and the ability to extend the hunting experience.