A SEASON TO REMEMBER

BY KIM SCHWANKY

When my husband T.J. suggested we move to the foothills of Alberta, I was less than enthusiastic. I had spent most of my life in large centres and was not really sure that I wanted to live off the beaten path. But with time, T.J.'s powers of persuasion wore me down and soon we were living in a land of plenty like I had never known before.

The area was rich with wildlife and beauty. Sightings of deer, elk and moose were common daily occurrences. A creek at the back of our yard beckoned birds and critters alike. Hunting provided many enjoyable days and meat for the freezer. T.J. had not deceived me, this truly was heaven.

But there was also one more drawing card that became apparent to us through experience and talking to neighbours, this area held big whitetail bucks. Don Warner, a good friend of ours had harvested a buck that grossed 199 Boone and Crockett a short distance from our home. "Mr. Big", also known as the Phantom deer had managed to elude both T.J. and Don. Both had shot at the impressive 6x6, 24-inch wide deer that would easily score over 180 Boone and Crocket. But a mere bullet could never bring down the aptly named Phantom deer. Then there was the non-typical T.J. spotted days before hunting season opened. You know the kind that makes obsessed whitetail hunters irrational and sleepless. Much to T.J.'s dismay the mega buck was taken opening morning on the neighbour's land and scored a whopping 221. And finally the aloof club horned buck that displayed a splendid typical horn on one side and a club horn on the other, was magnificent in his own rite.

As the hunting season grew nearer these legendary bucks caused much excitement. I had spent four years looking for the right buck and wanted desperately to find him this season. My standards had kept me from shooting at many bucks and I was just never fortunate enough to come across the big boys. Somehow they consistently evaded me. T.J. continued to reassure me that this was the year. I had only six days of the 24-day rifle season to hunt but T.J. would spend a good portion of the season hunting for his own monster buck and scouting for mine. I did express my concern over the fact that he would have first dibs on anything he saw, but he assured me that being the good guy that he was, he would leave the second biggest buck for me and that it was silly to worry myself with such details. I will never figure out how I get myself in these great situations!

T.J. had been hunting hard for two weeks to no avail. Several 130 to 150 bucks had presented themselves but at the low end of the scale they were too small to meet T.J.'s minimum standard and at the high end the circumstances prevented clear, clean shots. On one particular evening he battled the predicament that all hunters deplore, that time just before dark and just after legal shooting time when the big bucks invariably skyline. T.J. let his eyes fall sadly upon three huge bucks silhouetted on a ridge and knew that darkness had cheated him again. My husband is like few whitetail hunters I have met. His heart and mind remain undaunted and completely dedicated to the deer and the sport. Nothing can stop the obsession he has for these bucks.

And so he set out the next morning with renewed spirit, quietly moving to the hunting locations he had planned for the day. On route T.J. listened and watched for any promising activity and while slipping along the edge of an open barley field spotted a buck chasing a doe. A darn good buck at that! T.J. stopped and watched. This was the one he wanted. The old boy was a wide 5x5 with a picture perfect cape.

For several minutes T.J. scrutinised the situation. The buck and doe coursed through the barley, unsettled by the call of the rut. T.J. shifted positions and readied for a shot but as quickly as he moved into place the buck would relocate. For the next hour T.J. unwillingly partook in a game of cat and mouse. Not out of good management but rather out of good luck, the buck kept himself out the hunter's reach by remaining hot on the doe's trail. T.J. could see that conditions were not going to improve in the near future so an alternate strategy would be necessary.

Rattling and grunting had proven successful tools of the trade for T.J. in the past and it appeared it was time to call on them again. He could serenade even the most stubborn buck using a series of rattles then grunts. Years of practice had honed his skills to proficiency unmatched.

The clash of the antlers shattered the still air. The buck instantly took on an alerted stance with head held high and ears erect. He scanned the airwaves in an effort to pinpoint the rattling antlers. He remained motionless looking and listening.

T.J. gave three short grunts on his deer call and the big deer began a stilted, deliberate walk toward him. T.J. remained silent while the quarry surrendered his position. All this time T.J. could see the buck but never well enough to allow a shot at him. Finally at 75 yards the buck came clearly into view of the six-power scope on the 264 magnum. As smoothly as T.J. squeezed the trigger the buck fell to the ground. His quest was complete.

My dream was yet to be realized. Five of my six hunting days had now passed with no prosperity. It was again looking like another season of missed opportunity and frustration. The last day of the season was difficult to face but T.J. reminded me of the nice five-point buck he had seen the night before and a small ray of hope came back to me.

So that morning we buried ourselves in a heavy cluster of willows just north of where the 155-class buck and his harem of does had been spotted. Rut was in full swing so T.J. set to work and again displayed his mastery of the art of rattling and grunting. As the sun began its ascent on the world, darting shadows some 800 yards away could be seen. The 8x42 binoculars confirmed our beliefs; there were 11 whitetails present with one big buck amongst them. He was easily spotted because of his desperate attempts to find T.J.'s signals. I confirmed with T.J. my conviction to take this grand buck and so the hunt commenced. For 15 minutes we silently waited as the buck moved closer. He often hesitated to check on his does but would then proceed in our direction. However, he still wasn't close enough to settle my phobia over long distance shots.

T.J. repeated a short, five-second sequence of rattles and the buck hastened his pace. My adrenalin was pumping! Only minutes from now this buck would fulfil the void that many hard years of hunting and waiting had created. I could hardly breathe.

But wait, what was happening. The buck had suddenly stopped and shifted his attention to the west. I could hardly believe my eyes. Two trucks full of hunters (I actually have another name for these people but sadly cannot put it in print) were cruising the dirt trails in search of easy meat for the freezer and were currently about 250 yards from the buck I had my sights set on. Unbelievably, they passed right by the buck and for a brief second I thought I might get lucky. But it was only a brief second as the truck abruptly came to a grinding halt. They had spotted the group of does. Immediately slamming doors, thunderous voices and rifles being loaded broke the crisp morning air. The buck's speedy retreat was in full progress when the truck cowboys finally spotted him. However, this did not deter their antics. The passenger of the first truck opened the door, retrieved a set of rattling antlers, slammed the door shut and began a rattling series while the driver grunted.

My spirit was absolutely broken. I sat in awe trying to reason how these idiots could steal such a precious thing from me. I felt bitterly defeated. T.J. reminded me of the eight hours of hunting time we still had left. It was easy for him to say but hard for me to accept. But somehow over the next hour, T.J. worked his magic on me again (as you can tell he is real good at that) and gave me the strength to want to continue hunting.

We headed for an area to the east that was known to hold some good bucks late in the season. The adjacent ranch received heavy hunting pressure, making this a mecca for deer. After opening week of elk season little hunting took place here. T.J. had not scouted this area for about two weeks but he confidently reminded me of the big bucks I had seen there in the past. Although T.J. knew it was a long shot, he never once mentioned it.

We quickly covered the two miles to the spot. I suggested that we still-hunt the dense willows in the low creek bottom until about 4:00 p.m. and then pick a spot to watch from. Two prominent ridges covered in spruce and poplar trees would afford an excellent late day hiding spot for us.

Still-hunting was rather encouraging. 20 whitetails, including four bucks were sighted. The best buck, a 130 B&C class five-point tendered an easy shot. He was one of the prettiest bucks either of us had ever seen, with a dark red cape with two distinctive, white throat patches and soft white halos surrounding his eyes. But it was a bigger buck I was seeking. Hopefully, our paths would cross again in the future.

With fresh, new confidence I stretched out behind a rock outcropping, 250 yards from the willows. While extending the legs on my Harris bipod I could feel the electricity in the air. Something was going to happen. I knew this would be the day.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck as T.J. whispered, "There are three large bucks and one doe in the willows. It is hard to put an exact score on them but they are all in the 150 B&C range."

T.J. glassed for several more minutes. One buck was staying tight to the doe while the other two remained a good 30 yards back. I queried T.J. about the buck with the doe because through my riflescope I could not make out many details. He described a damaged antler that had a paddle shape to it. I didn't even listen to the rest of what he had to say. I readied myself for the shot. This buck would not score the best but he was unique, and there would always be another chance at a typical.

At a little over 300 yards, this would be the longest shot I had attempted with my 30-06 rifle. With a stationary buck I felt I could make the shot. The problem was that this deer would not stand still for more than a second. T.J. quickly solved my dilemma by blowing on his deer call. The buck stopped in his tracks and the rifle resounded.

The big buck staggered momentarily. I immediately followed with two more shots as the buck gathered himself up and moved slowly into the cover of the trees. T.J. patted me on the back and said "Nice shooting."

But I was unsure. Every other animal that I had harvested had immediately gone down. Had I really hit the grand buck? Or worse yet, had I wounded him. With little time to waste a strategy devised. T.J. would go to the spot where the buck was last seen and I would skirt around the willows to head him off if he tried to make his way out.

I flew down the ridge like my boots were on fire. I did not want to see this one get away. At the edge of the willows I slowed to a careful walk. A large four-point blasted out in front of me.

Meanwhile, T.J. arrived at the deer's original location finding no sign of a hit. The two bucks that had been nearby earlier were oblivious to T.J. as they pursued the now free doe.

T.J. summoned me to his position. I had a difficult time hearing his words through the brush so I accelerated my pace to a jog through the only trail I could find in the deep cover. Part way down the path, I stumbled as my feet tripped over an object in the middle of the trail. I regained my footing and realized that the object was a dead whitetail buck. I hollered at T.J. who arrived seconds later. He stood beside me as I uncontrollably babbled on about how this could not be my buck and if it wasn't mine whose could it be. I was in total disbelief, a state of shock. My head throbbed, my heart pounded and my fingers and toes went numb. Was this magnificent animal with his flawless right antler and paddled, moose-like left antler really mine? Could it be that I was blessed with such a trophy for my first whitetail buck? My spirits soared to the heavens with that of the deer.

It was indeed my buck. Two of the shots had entered just behind the front leg, right where I had aimed. The third had caught him a little further back. He had only travelled 20 yards before lying peacefully down. The hunt had been a good one, with a clean kill and a rewarding experience.

This buck truly was the ruler of his domain. His neck was heavily scarred and many fresh wounds could be observed from recent battles. The tines on his antlers were chipped and broken. His paddle like left antler had put him at an obvious disadvantage in tests of dominance with younger, more agile bucks. Yet he had managed to remain the king. I seriously doubt that the buck would have survived the winter. His teeth and hooves were severely worn down and there was not an ounce of fat on his body.

As I placed the metal tag in the hind leg I felt remorse well up in me. At the conclusion of each hunt I experience a deep sense of sadness for the loss of a life and also a sense of accomplishment and achievement. The emotions all genuine hunters undergo. Somehow, this seemed a fitting and dignified way for the proud gladiator to go. Starving to death over the long winter ahead or being drug down by a pack of hungry coyotes was just not befitting of his grandeur.

Both T.J. and I entered the fall hunting season with great expectations that were richly rewarded. We will continue our quest for those legendary Alberta bucks that dreams are made of.