The sun is setting on a brilliant hunting career. Though his big game hunting bag isn’t particularly mixed, it is well stocked. A couple of pronghorn antelope, one empty elk tag. Maybe a hundred deer across a forty-year career, many of which were bagged when whitetails were much harder to come by than they are now.
Trophies were well and truly earned in the dawn of his career, back when even seeing a deer was cause for celebration. Empty sits and lonesome seasons passed by on nothing but 2x4s wedged into the crooks of crooked oaks. Camouflage wasn’t insulated then. Heck, camouflage wasn’t even camouflaged. Red plaids hung in the corners of most closets.
There were no pop-up blinds or climbing stands or trail cameras or scent eliminators. And how many times was he forced to walk for help after burying his truck up to the axles in those days before he could afford something with four-wheel drive?
Arthritis ended his archery career a decade ago, and he quit rifle hunting from tree stands a year or two later, afraid that a misstep might result in a broken hip. His leg doesn’t swing as easily over a four-wheeler as it once did, and he doesn’t like to hunt evenings anymore for fear that his failing eyesight might miss a blood trail. Not after he couldn’t find that big brow-tined buck shot at last light a few years back. He’s more concerned these days with a warm tent and good camp fare than he is with filling a tag.
At least, that’s what he’d have us believe.
As much as he talked about working to put his sons and his grandsons on deer, dad sure didn’t hesitate to shoot the buck that bounded in on him and my brother Kevin a couple of years ago. Sharing a blind the last weekend of Oklahoma’s black powder season, the two of them were watching a trio of feeding does when a mature eight point rolled in and scattered them like bowling pins. Dad snapped off a shot, filling the blind with smoke and hope. At the report of his rifle, my brother Kerry and I, sharing a blind of our own a couple of hundred yards away, came running, and the four of us scanned the scene for evidence of a hit. There wasn’t a blood trail to track, but dad was confident he’d made a good shot on the deer, so we fanned out for a grid search.
Minutes later the whitetail was found, and the high-fiving began. Details of the hunt were recounted and then subtly embellished. Knives were pulled from sheaths and shirtsleeves were rolled up for work. Kevin had just taken a knee next to the buck when Dad, still running his hands along mahogany colored main beams, looked up and across the whitetail’s carcass and said, “I’m sorry, son. Did you want to shoot this deer?”
The sun may be setting on a brilliant hunting career, but as hunters well know, those last few rays of sunlight, those final moments before darkness falls – well, that’s the magic hour.
After many years of being out of print, the original Georgia’s Greatest Whitetails has been reprinted in a softbound collector’s edition.
First published in 1986, the 476-page book featured stories and photos about 42 of Georgia’s most iconic record-book bucks taken through the 1985 season. The book also featured a wealth of historical information about Georgia’s historical deer program that took place in the 20th century along with chapters on iconic individuals like Ranger Arthur Woody (1884-1946) and Jack Crockford (1923-2011) – two visionary men who were heavily involved in Georgia’s amazing whitetail restoration. Buy Now
