The Ones that Got Away

Some of our most memorable bucks aren’t mounted on the wall. Sometimes, it’s the ones we didn’t get that are the most memorable.

By Kristopher M. Klemick Photo by Dustin Reid

t was the first day of your typical November in north-central Pennsylvania — cold, windy and raining. After helping put the children to bed and a good luck kiss from my wife, I had a late start getting out the door, but nothing could dampen my spirits. After two-and-a-half hours on the road, I made it to camp as the clock struck midnight to begin my twoweek residency during the thick of the rut. I started a fire, quickly unloaded and climbed into a cold bed just before 2 a.m.

Some might consider it crazy, but a few hours later I snuck through the woods in a freezing rain and climbed into a maple tree before dawn. When the dreary, muted grays of the landscape finally awoke, I couldn’t help but admire the sight of a thick stand of Pure Attraction — one of my favorite Whitetail Institute products.

By mid-afternoon, 30-degree snowfall eventually turned back to cold rain as I recounted the action I’d seen — or lack thereof. A lone doe wandering through the plot earlier in the morning provided the only excitement. My imagination began painting pictures of better weather and mature bucks squaring off in the plot. It seemed appropriate. I was overlooking the food plot my dad, brother and I had appropriately named Dreams many years ago.

At 4:50 p.m., a squirrel sounded off a few hundred yards to the east in an old, mature stand of oaks. After a few minutes, several others joined the cacophony, announcing their displeasure with something in the area. Or maybe they weren’t thrilled with how the weather was affecting their seasonal plans of gathering acorns and beechnuts.

As I tried to shake the chill that crept deeper into my bones, imagining the warmth from the woodstove and aroma of venison chili that awaited me at camp, I became more curious about the source of commotion when something made me turn around.

There in the rain stood one of the tallest-tined bucks I’d ever encountered. It was “Highrise,” the massive 8-point we’d kept track of that year, with G2s that had to be measured with a yardstick. As he stood 20 yards away staring directly toward me, I assessed the situation. I was confident my outline was hidden and my scent was controlled, but my bow was hanging from a nail on the other side of the tree behind me.

After a quick flick of the tail, the buck resumed feeding on the Pure Attraction, and I began the dance (reach for the bow or wait). When his head came back up, now 11 yards away, my bow was still behind me. I considered my next move.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I thought. “He snuck right in on me. I wasn’t prepared, I’m still not prepared and I’m completely sure I’m going to give this deer an education he’ll not soon forget if I try pulling this off. I’ll get him next time.”

So, at peace with my decision not to rush a shot, I hit record on the video camera beside me the next time the buck’s head briefly disappeared into the plot.

For the next 2 minutes, 35 seconds — what seemed like an eternity — I enjoyed an experience deeply engrained in my memory. In fact, I don’t think I’d even treasure it as greatly had I sent an arrow flying on that cold, dreary day.

Later, when I shared details of the hunt with family and friends, the razzing that ensued was good fun. When I pushed play on the video, the goading and banter intensified even more. I’ll never forget my uncle and others in camp crying out in laughter and disbelief: “Oh my gosh, kid.”

Although some would have pursued the shot — especially when the deer stood quartering away at 20 yards (yeah, that’s on the video) — it isn’t always about trophy deer or tagging out. Many times, the simplest things make memories and seasons. I decided not to shoot, and I don’t have antlers on a wall from that hunt. However, I have three minutes of video and memories of a deer I’ll never forget. Why? It’s often those we let walk that we remember most. ^