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.

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.