The 2013 North Carolina Hunt

Also published at Good Hunt.

I returned home from Sampson County, North Carolina last Thursday with three deer in the coffin cooler. A doe and cowhorn spike were felled in the normal fashion on the final evening, blessedly topping off the Igloo. The other deer, though – well, that was a doozy.

That Monday morning I invited Dirty J to hunt with me in the stand I had drawn, the same stand from which I got the two bucks last year. It was Dirty’s birthday, and we don’t hunt together much anymore. Well, soon after legal light a doe bailed into the field to my right followed by a buck. We glassed him and determined he was a shooter – easily had antler an inch or so beyond the ears. At under 100 yards, it was Dirty’s chip shot to make.

Problem was, the deer came from downwind and got spooky. He pranced to the middle of the field as I was imploring Dirty to shoot. By the time the buck came to a rest he was directly between the stand and the fledgling sunrise, and there was apparently just enough glare in the scope to prohibit a shot. The buck kept on moving away towards the creek bottom on the opposite side of the field.

Up until this point, my .300 Win. Mag. had been leaning against the corner of the stand. I slid a round in the chamber, heaved the heavy-barreled Savage, and settled into a solid rest. By the time I picked up on the deer, he was at the farthest edge of the field, 300 – 350 yards, and I told Dirty I had the shot. Standing in the early morning dark of the far treeline, I could barely make out the outline of his white tail. When I thought I had him adequately squared up for a broadside shot, that 180-grain XP3 boomed across the open with an audible whack! when it hit the target. Dirty said he saw the buck kick up and run nose down into the woods.

It was still early so we held tight and discussed what had happened. We had the deer marked well where he went into the woods and were excited to put hands on antlers. I did mention how odd it was that the buck held up on the edge and didn’t enter the woods after being spooked. We watched a young doe piddle around a feeder for a while before walking down to check things out.

We found the trail easy enough and the buck shortly after. I called up to Dirty, who had beaten me to the animal, to give me a tine report. He called back, “It’s a spike!”

I trotted up, in complete disbelief, and sure enough, it was a younger deer with a whole 2 inches of antler poking off his head.

I was stunned. We went through all kinds of ludicrous scenarios: someone else had shot the deer the night before, maybe a poacher or farmer. But we would have heard the shot from camp since you can’t hunt on Sundays. Plus, this was a fresh trail, not one that had sat over night. We walked past the deer looking to see if the blood trail continued as if the buck I intended to shoot ran past this one. It took at least 15 minutes to come to terms with the fact that I had downed this deer. There was no denying the evidence.

So what happened? Well, there’s no question the original buck was a different animal. We put binos on him and agreed he was a shooter well before anyone raised a rifle. Best we figured was the buck did in fact go into the woods, and this was a different deer we had not seen prior. I simply lost track of the big one in the shuffle of rifles and can’t say what Dirty was doing in the interim. The dead deer had acted all spooky before the shot leading me to believe he was the bigger one. The bigger one probably boogered him, though, making him all antsy. At the distance and the dark – and we weren’t dealing with a 150-class buck to begin with – I simply failed to notice the antlers, concentrating more on a steady shot behind the shoulder.

There was another possibility that I knew those in camp would go for – it was all BS, and we had buck fever. Hand to Bible, that was not the case. I’m still stupefied as I write this but certainly pleased to have the venison. And it was the longest shot – easily – I’ve made on a deer. The three longest shots I’ve made have now come from that stand.

So that cross-up was a first for me, but it was that kind of week. Camp Rookie Alex shot a 7-pt in an antler, concussing him enough that Alex was able to get a second shot and ground him. Can’t say I’ve seen that before. Darin, uncharacteristically, shot a button buck. Gene, even more uncharacteristically, failed to check his zero before that morning’s hunt and promptly missed a nice buck. His pattern was 7-inches off.

Tim Long with a coastal North Carolina 8pt.

Others did it right. Don killed a dark 6-point, and Tim shot a pretty 8-pt. Several does were added to the pot. A couple other smaller bucks were taken.

I did see one monster buck Tuesday morning. I was overlooking a cut cornfield while sitting in a Porta-Potty stand when a big ol’ boy with tall tines and lots of them came boiling into the open from the highway at a considerable distance. Something had spooked him because he was getting after it. At his closest point, he may have been 250 yards. But with him moving too fast, at that distance, and one screw-up under my belt already, I was in no mood to start slinging lead and possibly wounding him.

Plus, as much as I love big bucks, the deer hunting on this trip is always incidental to the friendships around that camp. We’ve been hunting together a long time but only see one another once or twice a year anymore. Thankful we can all still make this trip. It snowed Tuesday night which made it hard to get out of bed Wednesday morning. Even having been in Montana the week before, that was the coldest I’d been in a while, certainly unexpected for coastal North Carolina.

Already looking forward to next year and to seeing everyone again. Maybe I’ll catch up with one of those bigger bucks then. If not, it’s always a good hunt.

The Vagaries of Luck while Deer Hunting in North Carolina

The buzzsaws cranked up at 7 a.m., a solid 45 minutes after first shooting light. True to current form, those three-quarters of an hour produced not a single deer sighting. I’d long since come to the conclusion that I’m a deer hunting hack – not a single strategy of my own had paid off this season and now I was relying on the Deer Gods to shine on me in Sampson County, North Carolina. As I put forth no effort whatsoever in placing this stand or scouting the land or even dumping bait piles, I would be at the whim and mercy of forces beyond my control – including the loggers.

We knew there would be a crew chopping trees. As the story goes, the lady who owned the land ran into health problems and resulting money problems, and the banks were threatening to foreclose on the property – quite frankly, it’s a depressing backdrop on which to highlight my misfortunes with something as silly as deer hunting. To help settle the debt, family decided to sell the timber rights on this several hundred acre tract. Since the woods would be gone in a matter of days, it was decreed in camp to hang the antler rules and restrictions and any deer could be shot from this area, so long as it was legal by NC standards.

Gene had sat here the previous morning and spotted an assortment of does and a young six-point. He had his mind on bigger things and passed on the chances. The din of the work crew was distant enough so as not to rile the deer up too much. I pounced on the opportunity to abide by the “Brown is Down” mentality when it became available and sat coiled, ready to strike at any spike or doe that slipped out of the woods. But by the time those blades started striking pine bark, only a few hen turkeys had visited.

The stand was really a Porta-Potty on a raised platform. Gutted on the inside minus a swivel chair and an assortment of whiz bottles and spit cups, it was a comfortable perch on the border of the timber and a cut cornfield. The one problem with being encapsulated like that was it muffled noise from the outside. While the terrible, irritating drone of the saws was clearly audible, it was difficult to realize that they were drawing closer.

But the hens didn’t seem to mind, so I held out hope. Around 8, though, all dreams were dashed. I distinctly heard the snap of a splintering pine trunk and listened as the tree top bullied its way through vines and underbrush and crashed to the floor, shaking the entire stand. I slung the door to the stand open and could now clearly hear and see the crew in the treeline behind me, maybe 100 yards, and more pines waving in the air and disappearing to the ground. Deer be damned, I didn’t want to be crushed by a felled conifer, especially in a Porta-Potty.

But that about summed up how things had been going for me this year – galactic forces beyond my control pulling me further from my goals of antlers and venison. Desperation had already taken hold. The evening before in a different stand I tried shooting a doe at 450-500 yards, rough guess. She and four others bailed into a gigantic cut cornfield at sunset. They milled about in the open as I fumbled with the odds of actually cutting hair. I figured I never get a chance to shoot this far, why not? No Lead, No Dead. The bullet fell way shy of the animal, exploding in the dirt and mushrooming small plumes of dust as it ricocheted across the field like splashes after a rock is skipped across water. Needless to say, she got away and they were the only deer I saw in nearly 8 hours of hunting that area that day.

In that very stand the following morning while I was listening to the saws, Dave shot an ancient 6-point, wide of the ears by a couple inches. He’d also seen another 8 and several does within shooting distance. Why didn’t they show when I was there 24 hours earlier? It is things like this that’ll drive you nuts because when luck is not breaking your way but seems to be favoring everyone else, you begin to question your Karmic standing: "What have I done wrong? I'm a nice person!" Dave does a bunch of work on this land year in, year out and deservedly took a nice buck.

Dad's cull buck

Well, it was also a little bit more than work ethic that contributed to Dave’s buck. A cold front was quickly approaching and it switched the deer activity wide open. Dad – on his first trip ever hunting with us here – shot an interesting cull buck out of what is known as the Jerry Mack Stand. This animal, too, had been on the scent of a hot doe. Dad had seen several other big-bodied deer before shooting light that he was convinced were bucks. I just needed to lay claim to that stand for the evening hunt.

Camp protocol states that the man who has not killed a deer gets his first chance at choosing a stand. That put me in the driver’s seat, but only barely. Tim had shot and lost a cowhorn the night before. I offered him my bid on Jerry Mack’s out of the shear kindness of my heart. He deliberated hard, but the issue became moot. Travis had gone out on a feed run and found Tim’s deer thus rendering his claim on JM’s null and void. Things were lining up for me.

And don’t feel bad for Timbo – no one else ever would – because his evening hunt was a hard lesson in Hunting Destiny. My boy E-Man had been hunting the Dennis Stand for a couple days. He hunted morning to noon, would come back for lunch and return for the bulk of the afternoon. He’d put in an unspeakable number of hours in that stand that neither I nor any other member in camp would and it just wasn’t paying off for him. E-Man decided he required a change of scenery, if only for an evening. Tim decided he’d hunt the Dennis Stand.

If you’ve ever spent any amount of time deer hunting, you’re probably wincing and already know what happened. Yes, Tim killed the biggest buck we have taken on that property in the years I’ve hunted there, a gorgeous 8-pt. He was in the stand only 15 minutes. There was some muttering and name-calling later and a notable shortage of bourbon by night’s end, but all-in-all, E-Man handled it well.

Back at Jerry Mack’s, I’d settled in as the wind started whipping up with gusts in the 20-30mph range. I’ve had zero success in my life when the conditions were like this and lacked confidence that this evening would be any different. Jerry Mack’s is a large elevated box blind situated on a grass pasture surrounded by blocks of thick ash, pine and oak. If you were to take a running start into the woods, you’d make it maybe 5 feet. It’s more of a brick of woods than a block, pervasive in coastal North Carolina. But the deer love it. The only way to reliably get them out of this mess is with dogs or bait piles. This isn’t land for lock-ons or ground blinds set way out in the weeds; you must motivate these deer.

A light drizzle started around 4 p.m. as the light already started to fade. From across the field ahead of me a spike emerged from the tangle, nose to the ground seeking a hot doe. He circled the bait piles for 10 minutes or so before finally wandering into the woods to my left. Entranced by the spike, I failed to mention the buck standing in the field on my right. The Nikon Monarchs showed him to be a young 8-pt; the Nikon rangefinder said he was at 292yds. Now it was a matter as to whether I could hold the Nikon scope in the right spot with the distance and wind.

North Carolina 8-point

I’m supremely confident in my Savage 110 Tactical in .300 Win. Mag. Shot a few hogs at such ranges – and missed plenty more – but this would be my longest crack at a deer. Shooting 180-grain Winchester XP3’s sighted in 1.5 inches high at 100 yards, I could hold at the top of his shoulder and we’d be in the money. The only problem was that wind.

The buck was doing the same as the spike, though with more patience. He was seeking the trail of a doe around the corn piles. He’d pace around with this nose to the ground as the wind and rain no doubt hindered his senses. I got comfortable in the stand and nestled the rifle in the corner of the railings and the roof support for a solid rest and tracked him as he turned broadside. At that time, the wind gave me the break I needed. I squeezed the trigger and, after the report, caught the sight of the white belly flipping upwards and still in the grass.

292 yards is a good shot. I raced down to make sure he had expired and to snap a quick pic. You know that’s a decent distance when it takes almost 10 minutes to walk from the stand and back. He was what I thought he was – no surprises like being a four-point or something that'll earn lectures at camp. No giant trophy but my first decent buck after several failed attempts over the years. The next buck that walked in, while I was texting pics to friends and family, I thought would be a wall-hanger.

This buck, certainly more mature, carried a belly and swagger and an impressive right side of antlers for this area. He strolled up to his fallen brethren to size him up before he started his own search for love. That’s when he turned his head my way and I saw his left antler didn’t match – it was a forked brow tine, almost exactly like the one my father had shot that morning.

North Carolina Cull Buck

We needed to do something about this gene pool, but I strongly contemplated what would be the results of my action. One, he was at 307 yards. Could I pull off that shot again? What if someone else wants to hunt here? An act of unselfishness would weigh well with the Hunting Gods. Should I push my luck this far after being graced just minutes prior?

Well, I made the shot. Get rich or die trying. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. This time I abandoned the stand and called Dad and Uncle Dennis to help me load the deer. As it turned out, the weather only got worse and the deer movement across the property slackened by the next day. 

Time will tell if there will be any cosmic repercussions, but I was certainly proud of these two bucks and more than a little thankful. Truth be told, I celebrated a little harder that night, surely contributing to the whiskey shortfall. Plus, someone had to selflessly stay up to console E-Man and wish him luck for the next day.

That Old Doe

2004 South Carolina Doe

The old doe fed in a clearing between palmetto patches, munching on acorns from the sweeping live oaks that rapidly diminished what was left of the fading light. She’d come from a marsh accompanied by a younger doe and a yearling. She was a chocolate-gray color, unlike her unseasoned counterparts who still sported a pine needle red coat that had carried through the heat of the summer into the early fall. While the two other deer audibly splashed their way into the hammock like children running through the surf, she tip-toed, an almost imperceptible wet hoof-beat.  She’d walk a few steps and then stop to survey her surroundings, that long Roman nose gauging the swamp air for any hints of danger. This old doe had been around a while. Always cautious with animals like her, I was careful not to breathe, even though I was 20 feet up a pine tree with the wind in my face. I've played this game before.

Still, she never could defeat that natural wariness of hers. She sensed something. The scabs on surrounding pines from other hunters scaling the trunks in climber stands betrayed any notion that I’d tapped into a virginal hunting ground, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing moment that she’d had an unpleasant encounter prior to my visit. She’d ceased focusing on her buffet, raising her head and pinning her ears back as she’d gaze in my direction. Occasionally she’d stoop her head as if to continue feeding but immediately snatch it back up to see if she could trick anything into moving.

Finally, that old doe had had enough. She oozed back into the understory, circling through the creek to get downwind of my position. I knew, without doubt, what would be coming next. That nanny finally hit the current of air she sought. I’ll never know if she caught my scent or the fumes from the Therma-CELL, but this once-silent creature who went to great lengths to avoid being detected, raised Hell a mere 30 yards away, blowing and snorting and slapping her hooves into the water. She still did not have a bead on my location and stood exposed, broadside for 5 minutes adhering to this routine. I had never wished for an antlerless tag so badly in my life.

This was on a Special Opportunity Hunt at Lake Panasofkee last Saturday evening. An archery hunt, the rules for the property required a tag for the harvest of does. I’m not sure why I upset this doe so much; I hadn’t killed any of her relatives. Heck, I don’t think I’ve even shot a deer within 100 miles of this location, but she had it out for me. And if you’ve ever had an old doe stomp and blow at you, you are well aware that this is Taps, the 3^rd strike in the bottom of the 9th. Game Over. Content with her damage, she finally trotted off into the gloaming, and that was it for the deer that evening.

That’s the way of things with those old does. They can be your worst enemy in the woods, worse than squirrels barking in your face. But just as with those obnoxious tree rats, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes of their bluster to start contemplating revenge - an arrow, a bullet, a hand grenade, something to shut them up.

One of my favorite “Return to the Campfire Tales” is when a hunter reports with wild excitement how That Old Buck winded him down in the Pine Woods and blew at him all evening. I never want to spoil anyone’s big buck story with my attitude and theories, but more than likely, it was a doe calling you out. If a buck winds you, he’s outta there. Mature bucks, as elusive and crafty as they are, just don’t have it in their DNA to hang around and intentionally ruin your hunt. Plus, they have the does to warn them; no point risking their own hides when their sentries will sound the alarm. It's just good business.

Maybe I’m wrong, but it probably comes down to a doe’s maternal instincts. Bucks aren’t burdened with raising fawns and protecting them from the perils of the woods. I’ve watched does chase coyotes and bobcats and run off wild boar. Does will reliably come to a predator call – like a mouse squeaker - during the spring. I’ve watched them decoy themselves to distract attention from bedded fawns. So the fact they’d open themselves to sacrifice during hunting season isn’t all that surprising.

This isn’t to say they are easy targets - not at all. The fact this one was caught in the open was as an anomaly. In my experience, the older does hang in the woods a little longer than the younger ones, having since lost their reckless ambition over the course of several seasons. They have a knack for shielding themselves from a direct shot, and oftentimes the first glimpses you have are of those ears, ever-shifting above the brush. Then the nose is tossed in the air, and this is the truly frightening part. Those wet nostrils can calculate scents we can’t even begin to register.

If her safety checklist is met, she’ll slowly proceed into the open, cautious to the last step. If the area has been hunted before, you probably won’t be in her graces for too long. Those old does will remember stands and always keep an eye on them, often just staring in your direction daring you to move.

At this point, you are left with two options, one that is out of your hands, and the other completely under your control. You could just let her be and hope she passes through, but if she’s so inclined to stick around, know that the spotlight is on you. If you shift to relieve a cramp, pick your nose, flick a mosquito, or finish Level 20 of your iPhone game, she’ll know. If the vagaries of the wind turn on you, you’re screwed, and God help you if you inadvertently kick over a water bottle or ding a jacket zipper on a metal stand.

The other choice is to grease her. You’ll probably sacrifice your chances at a buck that evening, but when she showed, that was likely anyhow. There is no shame – quite the opposite, in fact – in taking a mature animal like this. It’s a far nobler and challenging quest than collecting any random set of antlers.

Hardee County Doe, 2001

Of the forty or so does I’ve killed, I can only think of a handful that were legitimate old-age trophies. I recall one in Hardee County that tried slipping behind me through a chute of gallberry bushes. Luckily my stand was just tall enough to fire a clear shot. I took another in Erhardt, SC in 2004 right after the four hurricanes pummeled Florida. The guide had warned me she’d be there and to smoke her if I had the chance. Seems she’d busted other hunters during the course of the immature season. And I shot one last year in North Carolina that seemed staked behind a fence of clearcut before slowly slipping out to munch on sweet potatoes.

But there is one old doe I’d love to catch up with. She’s been haunting my hammock in Manatee County for years. Already mature and noticeably large-bodied when I first met her, she had a habit of staying out of bow range during archery season, but would come within feet during blackpowder hunts when she was off-limits. She’d have no trouble patrolling that clearing, blowing and stomping and generally ruining the world. I thought I had her two years ago. Her hips had been sunken by advanced maternal age, and she seemed a tad off her game as she actually fed underneath my lock-on stand. All she had to do was clear the grating of the footstand and meander a few yards in front and she was mine.

As it turned out, a gobbler flew down and started drumming, alerting the other doe that had slipped in with the old mare. Her friend got to blowing and circling downwind and finally caught my scent, busting off for the swamp. The matron leisurely followed suit, saved by her new apprentice who had quickly learned the ways of the old doe. I'm not sure that deer is still alive, but I can't help but hope I get one last crack at her. 

And there’s another lady up in Lake Panasofkee who’ll be in mind when I return one day – hopefully with a doe tag.

Footnotes to the North Carolina Hunt

I tried to keep my story about this year’s North Carolina hunt short; I wanted to focus on deer success, for a change. If you follow this blog regularly, you know a lot of posts are dominated by hunts that bear no fruit. I do this not just to chronicle trips, but to also highlight lessons and circumstances that lead to an empty cooler. It’s not exciting, for sure, and folks tire of reading such tales – heck, anyone can Not shoot game. But I enjoy the reflection lest fall into the perils of an unexamined life.

Even with a successful hunt, there is still dissection of information to process. With that, I want to run through a list of addendums to this last hunt.

- Always check your rifle’s zero, especially if you suspect something may have knocked it off. The boy who missed the Big 8 did not. His rifle had taken a pretty heavy hit, sliding out of his back seat and landing on the scope. He didn’t figure it’d be a problem. Not only did he miss the buck, he also whiffed on a doe during the same sit. The next day he took it to the range. The bullet was off the mark by 6 inches. Of course, no one was with him when he re-zeroed...but I’ll take him on his word this time.

- Novice hunters are often shocked that deer don’t always drop when shot, especially with magnums. The biggest doe I plugged took off and left a feint bloodtrail. The distance was close, and I was shooting a .300 Win Mag with 180-grain Winchester XP3’s. The bullet zipped on through without much energy transfer. Plus, I hit no bone which would have grounded her. Probably. Always check carefully after a shot. Each game animal reacts differently given distance, bullet, shot placement, temperament, whatever.

- On that note, when following up, take your time. I knew the shot was good by the bright pink spoor. But she took off into some God-awful country. She didn’t dash fifty yards, but she did a figure-eight, more or less. Her trail switched back several times, and the path we figured she’d take was way off. As I said above, even with a great shot, the spoor was limited. With two others with me and our noses to the ground, we found her, but not without some CSI sleuthing along the way. One person would mark the last known sign while the other two spread from there. Don’t just assume a deer will run in a straight line. Don’t assume anything.

- I made a horrible shot on my first deer – but I have an excuse. Another hunter had placed a homemade blind around the top of the stand and secured the netting with zip ties around the rail. I couldn’t shoulder the rifle without the barrel catching the netting. The one small hole cut in for shooting was poorly suited for covering the trail the deer typically use, much less the bait pile. It was well-intended, but not conducive for beanfield hunting. We corrected the problem after my first hunt, but the blind still encumbered a steady rest. In the past, I’ve used a rectangular seat cushion strapped to the rail for those long shots. Anyway, the blind kept me from doing this. At 150-175 yards, I aimed for the doe’s shoulder but never could get comfortable, sprawling out in the stand trying to steady the bouncing crosshairs. I cleanly got her in the neck, but it certainly wasn’t where I aimed. Don’t go out of your way to conceal your stand if your efforts hamper the ability to make a rested shot, especially if shot distances get into triple figures.

- Not all spikes are bucks that’ll never grow large antlers. It’s amazing to me how rampant this train of thought is, even today. Some won’t, many others can grow. A wide variety of factors affect antler growth. Unless you have trophy management experience on large tracts of land over a considerable length of time, you probably don’t know. Best to let them walk if you’re goal is more trophy bucks.

- I didn’t realize how attractive sweet potatoes are to deer. They often ignored the corn and soybeans. These spikes I saw would stand in the pile, pick up a tuber, and fumble it in its mouth like an old man playing with his dentures. Or they’d stick a paw on the tater and rip it apart. They prefer them fresh. After a few nights in the woods, the potatoes will start to rot away and the deer will abandon them.

- And finally, with nothing to do with hunting - normally the Georgia Highway Patrol is stiff resistance on I-95. And they were out in full force, for sure. But South Carolina took the cake this trip. One member of camp got a speeding ticket riding home through the Palmetto state. The offense? 73 in a 70mph zone. That’s low rent officiating.

The 2011 North Carolina Hunt

The old doe hung up in the back of a rugged pine clearing, head up and ears forward as her young counterparts fed in the sweet potato pile. Earlier in the morning, I’d shot a younger doe at a long distance that required serious binocular work to ensure I didn’t pop a small spike. There was no doubt on this girl - not at 50 yards, and certainly not with her long nose and nervous demeanor.

My arrival at the box blind that evening had been delayed. I’d not hunted this stand, The Dirty Hole, in 6 or 7 years, and the time fogged my memory for where I needed to go. So, too, my driver's. He dropped me off at a culvert along the road, and I followed a trail until it ended in unfamilar thick brush. It began to dawn on me. Some of the boys had taken an ATV in earlier in the day to drop off corn and check the trail camera - didn’t appear any four-wheelers had been here recently. I jumped on the iPhone and hailed Uncle Dennis; I had been released on the wrong piece of property.

Though there was a heavy scrape along the trail, with looming armed trespassing charges a real possibility, I was relieved to see the red Chevy roll in. We had a good laugh as I loaded into the bed. Turns out, we’d cluelessly shot our mark by a mile. Dennis dropped me back off at a similar looking culvert and trail with an 1 ½ of daylight remaining. This time, the path was obvious and ended in a wooden box blind. Soon after settling in, the yearlings emerged from the thick North Carolina brush.

Both deer were 80-90 pounds, but clearly young. Still, a huge storm system was barreling at the state, and I needed freezer meat. The wind was already switching and the evening had become muggy with dormant mosquitoes awaking for a meal. But, I held off. One deer was a button buck, and the doe clung close to him preventing an ethical shot. That’s when the old doe arrived.

This was our annual pilgrimage to Newton’s Crossroads in Sampson County, NC. It’s more of a family reunion. Most of us have hunted together for twenty years. I grew up with these folks hunting private land in Central Florida. These days, we assemble here from parts as far as Central Florida, Pennsylvania, and Maine. The camptalk is depraved, suitable more for a Hunter S. Thompson novel than civilized society, and hunting takes a backseat to the camaraderie. But that doesn’t mean the hunting isn’t wonderful, too.

The timing of this trip was less than wonderful. This section of the state is rancid with deer, but 80-degree November temps and finicky winds are never great ingredients for deer hunting. That and the rut was on its downside, this coastal area expecting the peak around the end of October through the first week of November.

One beautiful 8-pt was seen and promptly missed by one member of camp. Besides this, one small six and a rugged cull six were taken. Along with the usual passel of does. Everyone saw small bucks – mostly spikes and adolescent four-points. Most came to feed in the soybean fields or bait piles, showing little rutting inclination. The big boys were holed up for the week.

Which is a shame. I’ve long coveted a trophy buck from this area, and there are plenty of them, but that’s how hunting goes. Luckily, there was enough deer activity to make hay.

My first doe stood out in a soybean field at first light Tuesday morning. I was hunting the Corner Stand that overlooks 400 acres of soybeans with fingers of oak and pine running through it. Over the years, I’ve killed a lot of deer here, and a big buck was spotted three weeks back at last light a mere 20 yards from the stand. Monday night, I’d glassed through a trio of spikes, the smallest antlers not even visible by eye at 100 yards. I nearly cranked him down but luckily a 40-pound runt fed behind him preventing a shot. Then, one last look through the binos revealed those thimbles on his head.

So I was hesitant to let loose in the thin light of the next morning. As the deer fed 150-175 yards away, two of the spikes from the previous evening ghosted into the sweet potato pile gnawing like rodents on the orange tubers. One was a large-bodied deer with long spikes; he clearly lacked the age you’d want with a cull, though. With luck, I’ll catch up with him again in the coming years.

As the light increased, I realized that first deer looked more and more like a doe, and I became confident that she wasn’t that miscreant from the evening before. The morning wore on and she would soon tire of feeding in the open. It was early in trip, and the freezer begged for backstrap. I rested my Savage .300 Win Mag on the rail of the ladder stand and planted her in the field.

After that, the pressure was off, so I wasn’t in a hurry to take any dicey shots at the Dirty Hole. The old doe slowly crept from behind the brush, feeding on browse and leaving the bait for the youngin’s. Soon, a good-looking four-point strode in. Enough daylight remained that if I could grab a shot, I’d take the doe and hope for more action after. She’d just have to give me a window.

I leaned my Savage out of the portal of the ground blind and tracked her in my scope. Ever careful, she slowly slipped to a gap that’d allow a clear shot. I took one last careful look around to make sure no other deer had appeared and settled the crosshairs of the Nikon behind her right shoulder. At the shot, she head-plunged into the Thick; the four, the doe, and the button buck springing like quail in every direction.

The last minute of legal shooting hours expired before another deer showed. I’d crawled out of the stand and saw a dark silhouette on the edge of the clearing. The deer stood like a statue, surveying the area as the Honda rumbled up before finally disappearing back into the woods.

The 2010 North Carolina Hunt

The spike mowed through the sweet potato pile smacking his lips and paying very little attention to anything around him. This deer had been seen several times before. He was thick-bodied for a youngster, probably 120-130 lbs, with 7 inch antlers that forked slightly at the tips with one freaky-long chin whisker that illuminated in the remaining daylight. For an hour he fed in the bait pile.

Two does emerged from the opposite corner of the cut corn field, lingering under a ladder stand. One ate the edge browse while the other held sentry. They looked to be about the same size, but the one acted more mature. I have a difficult time judging the dimensions and age of does without a reference point. I kept thinking about the alert doe, talking myself into believing she was a tad bigger than her counterpart. It would be a 250 yard shot so I held off for a bit.

The spike finally spied them and abandoned his binge eating. He lowered his head and walked to the does. They were unimpressed and coldly shunned him. Embarrassed, he retreated into the block of thick North Carolina woods.

I watched all of this from a Porta-Potty. OK, it was a Porta-Potty hoisted up on a wooden support with a swivel chair inside instead of a commode. It made for a fine stand. Darin had hunted here the previous morning and shot a wide six-point. That evening I dusted a doe, my first of the season. I was so excited about finally being lined up on venison, I had the shakes. I pulled my eye off the scope and calmed myself before cleanly dropping her in the dirt. Finally. Meat.

We were on our annual trip to Sampson County, NC. The land is primarily agricultural fields in between blocks of hardwoods that’s nigh impenetrable on foot. There are a ton of deer up here, does especially. There are whopper bucks in the area, for sure, but the average mature buck won’t grow to huge proportions. The locals think this may have something to do with their narrow confines, and the antlers grow accordingly.

The rut should have been in full swing, but warm weather had settled in for our trip. Darin’s buck was indeed rutted out, stinky and gaunt on his frame. It was a representative buck of the area, and I was proud he took him. Me? I needed meat and was none too bashful about popping that first doe. After that shot, three smaller bucks came into the field and circled the downed doe. Not a one of them made me think of pulling the trigger.

The rest of the guys were doing well on does. A pair of young bucks were killed in error or inexperience, pick one, by one gentleman in camp. Besides that, some mature nannies were filling the coolers. The mature bucks, though, just weren’t participating.

This is shameless bait hunting up there. Before stand hunting took hold, running dogs was the primary sport. With land sectioned off into leases and smaller parcels for indivudual use combined with the sudden emergence of QDM experts, this has largely ceased. In a few more years of a solid doe harvest, I expect the buck hunting to vastly improve.

Not that I have not seen a few nice ones in the past. A buck two years ago still haunts my dreams. I’ve changed since then. My opportunities at deer – any deer – have thinned out and venison is delight to work with in the kitchen. I’m just not going to let whitetail opportunity pass me by waiting on antler. I’ll get back into that trophy hunting one day, but for now...

Those two smaller does slowly walked across the corn field towards the bait pile. Again, I was trying to make the one grow, but I just couldn’t convince myself she was much over 75-80 pounds. I needed another doe to stand her up against.

I came off the glasses and saw a gray doe enter stage left. Ah ha! That’s the one. A longer nose with bigger ears and rounder belly, she was what I needed to train on. She sauntered up to the sweet potatoes. I stuck my Savage 110 Tactical .300 Win Mag out the venting window and sent a 180 gr. XP3 her way.

About 10 minutes later, in the now fading day, a small six walked up to her sniffing, and otherwise disrespecting her. He was clearly rutted up. His attention wasn’t even broken by the four other full-grown does that had joined the action. Well-versed in the delicate female mindset and insecurities, I pitied these ladies who were blatantly spurned for the Recently Deceased.

I could have taken a third doe, no sweat, but I was up to two does and this was one of the hotter stands; other hunters needed meat, too. Plus, I held out hope that maybe Ol’ Big Buck would show up.

I nearly soiled myself - Get it? Hunting in a Porta-Potty. Soiled myself. Ha! No, huh? - when a dark shape trotted out of the western treeline and ambled slowly, head down towards the group of feeding deer. My Nikons strained to find antler in the twilight. It turned out to be another little buck.

Nearly total dark now, I left the John. At the base of the ladder, I peeked around and watched the 6 continue to offer his affections to my doe. Sicko. I slipped around through the woods without spooking them and awaited the ATV to haul my deer out.

This land in Sampson County and the friends in camp are a blessing. With 10 hunters, we took 16 deer, not too shabby. It was Buck-Lite this year, but I’m sure in the future this will change. I’m already looking forward to next time.

TWL Classics - The Bucks of Sampson County

Originally Published November 2008 from my old blog.

“You think a guy like that comes this close to getting caught and sticks his head out? My guess is you'll never hear from him again” – Verbal Kint, The Usual Suspects.

And so it was this last week in North Carolina - a week so promising with a hard rut interrupted by winds and rain. The buck posted up on the perimeter of a cut cornfield, eying a gangly spike that had been trotting all over the field. Through the binoculars he possessed the features and habits of a mature animal. Unlike his young counterpart trying to sniff up a doe, he didn’t come barging into the middle of the field, rather sneaking to the edge to survey his surroundings. There was no clear definition between his neck and shoulders. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see his antlers in the predawn of this Wednesday - across the two hundred-plus yards to where he stood.

I theory, I could have ground-checked him; it’s not like I was hunting a high-dollar plantation that would fine me bags of gold bouillon for popping an undersized buck. I was hunting with friends on a family farm where the ridicule for such an offense is worse than opening a wallet. So, I held off the trigger.

The buck slowly ventured into the field to confront the spike as I strained for a glimpse of horn, begging for more light. At this point, a parade of trophy deer could have been dancing across the field like in that Big Buck arcade game, but I’d never known – I was glued on this boy, and man, he seemed like a shooter.

As I pulled down the binoculars to clear the fog off the lenses from my warm, heavy breathing in the forty degree chill of morning, I noticed the deer moving back towards the tree line. I retrained the glasses on him and saw what I’d already known in my heart – he was a keeper. Strangely tall, out past the ears, and with visible mass, he’d go at least eight points. And I really have wanted a nice NC State buck for the wall.

I settled down on the crosshairs, shifting in the ladder stand to get a solid rest. By the time I relocated the buck, his antlers were being swallowed by the dark of the pines, walking away until only the bright white borders of his tail remained, until they too were snuffed out.

I camped out on that stand for the better part of the week hoping for another chance, but I’ve been in this game too long. Big Southern deer only give you a chance or two. In the words of Mr. Kint:

“And like that, poof! He's gone.”

For the third time in three hunts, I’d encountered a large North Carolina buck, only to come away empty-handed. Poor shooting cost me in the past. Four years ago it was a nice eight. He’d walked in, got spooked, and then spun back around for a head-on shot. Rushed and free-handed, I hit him low, and after six hours of tracking weak spoor through Satan’s own square mile of thorns and cut-down, I grudgingly conceded the loss. Last year, I sailed a shot over the back of a large buck on the same field I saw this latest buck. The stand was dubbed, “The Sniper Stand” for the distance to the tree line where deer emerged. Again hurried, I fired a poorly rested shot as a heavy fog parted just long enough for an opportunity. So, after these last two experiences and the subsequent camp house humiliation, I was determined not to screw up again.

Of course, I did later in the hunt, but we’ll get to that in a minute. Located roughly 45 minutes west of Wilmington off 421, this land in Sampson County is God’s Country. In the heart of the Bible Belt, it’s yessir, no ma’am, food is hot and plentiful and greasy, the faithful work hard even when there’s little work to be done, and Sundays are off-limits to deer hunting. Once primarily a dog running area, still-hunting and the associated management practices have taken root, although coursing still runs through the locals’ veins.

My fellow hunters in camp fared well. David and Darin both took fine eight points. Don and Travis took a pair of does apiece. Everyone was excited by the buck activity as the rut was clearly on. But, the weatherman’s forecast really stuck it to us. By Thursday night, the skies went overcast and windy and spitting rain. As much as I’d liked another crack at that buck, I’d long since grown jealous of standing by as others loaded fat, corn-fed venison in their coolers. And with the weather deteriorating, next slick-head I’m taking a shot at.

Here’s where I screwed up. Thursday afternoon, from that same stand I’d seen the big buck, a deer entered the field, feeding in said overcast, windy, and wet weather. By 4:45 the light had almost vanished in the inclement conditions. The deer fed amongst the cut corn stalks as I waited to see if the bruiser would re-appear, searching for any sign of antler with the binos. The light continued to fade until the deer began working its way back to cover. At over two hundred yards away, I carefully squeezed off my .300 Win Mag and the report of the shot broke the soggy still of the evening.

Happy I’d finally got a doe for the cooler, disappointed when I walked up and saw two spikes poking from her, er, his head. Yes, sir, I get the irony. I’d held off on an near-obvious shooter in low light to avoid taking a deer I wasn’t supposed to, yet happily pulled the trigger in low light on what I thought was a doe only to discover I’d taken a deer I wasn’t supposed to. Actually, it was a scruffy five point.

Adding injury to insult, while relaying the story to Don in frantic frustration and not paying attention to anything but excuses, I backed my Dodge into an irrigation ditch slick with slippery field muck, which in Chevy Country opened the floodgates of embarrassment.

All turned out well though. Yes, I stood and shamefully watched Uncle Dennis yank out my Ram with his Chevy and took the abuse like a man, save for the crying. I withstood the obligatory lectures and teasing from campmates about the importance of deer management and shooting Bambi. Better though, I escaped with some venison and an invitation to return any time, which will always be more important than antlers.