“FROM THE KETTLE…INTO THE FIRE”

          President Truman once said, “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”  Or was that F.D.R.? , either way, sound advice for man or beast.  Your educated trophy bucks will always readily take heed to this old, but wise adage, especially when they detect a persistent heat generated by the long ago patterned hunter.  Each deer season we gain an influx of these migrant bucks on each of the farms that we hunt.  Some are driven by lust, while others are merely seeking a safe haven from the hunting pressure.  The majority that maintain their discretion and remain secluded during the day, will continue to co-exist right under our noses, and never be seen…but, every so often a buck that is either not so discrete, or totally new to these areas will ultimately fall under the influence of a local doe group, virtually becoming dependant upon them for his safety, along with his other needs.  Unfortunately for him, (if he happens to carry the proper headgear) he will become instantly patterned if we can determine exactly which family group that he had attached himself to.  Most, if not all of our pampered, privileged does will live out their lives without a major change in their daily, or seasonal living habits, and that’s exactly why they are pampered by us…the return dividends.  My son Greg had been closely monitoring my progress and sighting reports since the beginning of bow season, his vacation time being in critical condition in need of transfusion from an over-extended turkey hunt had set limits on his freedom for a deer hunt, so I would need a very opportune moment before I would be able to lure him down from Beaverton.  That opportunity came in the form of the rut, the big boys were on the move, Greg got the call.  It is the rut that about the most excitement, with many more big buck sightings, and opportunities, since I was realistic enough to know that I have always lacked that one all important ingredient…LUCK, it is at this time that I double my efforts by staying in the field all day long.  Sometimes I have to wonder though, would this luck factor thing have anything to do with the many offers of complementary plane tickets, rooms, food, and limo service that I constantly get from Las Vegas?  How foolish of me, and here I thought it was just their way of showing me how much they enjoyed my stories in “Buck Fax”.  It was Greg who first became aware of this new big buck, when he was spotted relentlessly chasing a buck fawn pell mell, in an effort to separate the kid from its mother, she must have been on the verge of estrus.  Just when the big guy thought he had enough maneuvering room he would double-time it back and try to corral the doe, by this time the fawn had returned, then the whole chase cycle would begin all over again, and again, and again.  Greg was kept in a state of heart/lung overload for what seemed like hours, and probably was.  This big buck was a 10-point Pope & Young candidate who could make any hunter’s heart do flip-flops.  Never once throughout the chase sequences had the big guy offered a decent bowshot.  As the last rays of daylight ebbed away, Greg helplessly watched from 40 yards away (actually the word helpless would really hardly apply to Greg, who is highly regarded in competitive 3-D shoots around the state, where 5 inch groups at 60 yards are common, disciplined sportsmanship of a bush… poor sap us guys must sympathize with him, I suppose we all must learn that any success or failure, will ultimately hinge upon…Her PREROGATIVE.  Before leaving the woods Greg had relocated his stand in the center of the arena of action.  Early the next morning Greg could hear the distinctive stop and go scurrying pattern of a rutting buck hotly pursuing a doe, and they were heading directly toward him.  It was the same buck, chasing the same doe, with the fawn bringing up the rear.  Greg knew that he would have to either slow the buck down, or preferably stop him; the range was closing much to rapidly.  Greg grunted softly, the buck’s response was stunning; he did a dazzling 180, and disappeared!  While momentarily shocked, Greg immediately realized what had gone wrong, especially since everything else had favored him.  This buck by now had undoubtedly discovered his rather low social rankings amongst the local heavyweights who reside in this area, so when Greg grunted with his call set on dominate, the buck simply became intimidated…coward.  By the time Greg broke camp he had two more sightings of the buck, and as usual, he was chasing does, he even tried to make mayhem on a smallish-racked buck that dared cut in.  Greg named this buck “Lover Boy” in honor of his never ending Herculean efforts to win the coveted “Presidential Citation For Fitness And Fatherhood”…but, that award would ultimately seal his fate.  More importantly, we were finally able to pinpoint the host family, and thus his pattern.  My other son, Freddy, would arrive from Dearborn in the morning, and give Lover Boy a try.  My interests were still being held by a possibly Boone & Crockett buck on another farm.  The plan was for Freddy to alternate between the three runs that the host family was known to use during their travels between their bedding and feeding areas.  It was purely bad luck for us that Lover Boy had chosen this particular family group as his hosts.  Their choice for a bedding area was defensively superb, and totally impregnable for a bow hunter.  The bedding area was situated on a flat shelf about 20 feet below a ridge top with the prevailing winds constantly at their backs, in front of them stood a grand view of the surrounding woods below, now add to this excellent line of defense the thermals that seep uphill, which effectively forced us to set our stands even further away from the base of the ridge.  Ironically, despite all these safeguards, their defense would be nil against a gun hunter who need only slip up the far side of the next ride over, and fire down, and that’s exactly what we had planned to so within a few days.  As fate would have it, Freddy constantly was, where the buck wasn’t, and vise versa, and Freddy ran out of time, to his credit though, he refused to take a lesser buck at eight yards.  Lover Boy’s luck held.  I guess my own luck matched Freddy’s, or the B & C buck patterned me a bit better than I, him, he vanished into the night, couldn’t take the heat perhaps?  Now it would be my turn to go after Lover Boy.  The next morning I woke to a relentless rain. Perfect stalking and rattling weather, all of the deer’s defensive weapons would be somewhat…well, (no pun intended) watered down, especially his big gun and his sense of smell.  I slowly scanned the ridge through the rain-drenched binoculars from a few hundred yards away, to see who slept in.  Lo and behold, there stood a big buck just looking around.  So this must be that famous Lover Boy?  I said under my breath.  He stood there for a full hour without moving more than five feet one way or the other, while I carefully checked out the entire area for other deer, he was alone.  His own excesses had made him more vulnerable than he would have been crossing the L. A. freeway at 5 p.m., and fully intended to parley his weaknesses into steaks and chops.  By now the rain had diminished quite a bit, I backtracked out of sight of his vantage point, and began the long, slow circle and climb to get to the high ridge above his.  By the time I reached the top my heart was thumping my ribs to death, I wasn’t sure if it were the climb, the excitement, my age, or all of the above, but when I peeked over and saw that buck still standing there unaware of his plight, I thought for sure he would hear my heartbeat, or labored breathing.  After several minutes I was able to regain my composure somewhat, I set my plan into motion.  I would utilize the run that the deer used to reach the top of the ridge that I was on, which ran down the ridge near the bedding area, where the buck now stood.  I would have to lure him up to my level, sneaking over to the field side of the run; I brought the rattling antlers together rather meekly to begin the sequence of two inexperienced timid young bucks fighting over a doe. Adding soft grunts, then tickling of the tine tips, closely followed by the sharp sliding separation of antlers, silence, seconds later I ended the sequence with a short series of the looow, loooger drawn out tending grunt…victor reaping the spoils.  I was offering Lover Boy an opportunity that he could not refuse; he need only flex a little muscle to easy victory, and add another doe to his harem.  I then ran back to the to the other side of the run, and started my draw.  He fell for it hook, line, and arrow.  I could hear him come charging up the hill grunting all the way, he topped the ridge fully expecting to engage in mortal combat.  I was astounded by his extremely aggressive condition, his eyes were rolling, his ears laid back, and the hair on the back of his neck were bristling, in turn, the hair on my head was doing Don King proud.  Wow, he startled the hell out of me, I released more out of fright than design.  Luckily, the hit was a good one; he spun around and went back down in the direction that he had come.  His blood trail lead first down one ridge, then back up the another, I knew I was pressing him, but I had very little choice in he matter, the light rain had turned into a downpour again.  As I quietly reached the top I saw the buck standing in the field, 20 yards away, he was unaware of my presence.  Just as I started my draw the big buck collapsed, death being a private matter, I respectfully turned my back to offer a silent prayer, (little did I know that I would pay dearly for this act of respect) then all of a sudden, all hell broke loose, I heard a noise best described as a herd of a stampeding horses, I turned just in time to glimpse a big buck with antlers and tail held high, go flying out of sight, like the devil himself were in hot pursuit?  WHAT? I couldn’t believe what my eyes were telling me, one second I was administering the LAST RITES, then the next second the buck got RESURRECTED?