The cool breeze and steady mist was upon me as I prepared for the night's hunt. Feeling as though I arrived late I couldn't help but feel rushed. The forest floor was quiet and soft as I proceeded slow and steady to my tree. After attaching my bow to the hoist rope I crept over and freshened up my mocks. Sweaty chills of excitement ran through me as I made my ascent.
Once strapped into the tree, comfort set in as I hoisted my bow 20 feet up. Time crept by as mist and rain coated my Sitka layers. And yet, the woods lay silent. As I sat remembering time and effort over the past few seasons. I knew sitting this evening was the right decision. As the last hour arrived and the forest around me sat eerily still, I decide to break out the horns and get aggressive.
Saturated and soaked, water beading everywhere, I cracked off a 45 second rattle sequence followed by a couple aggressive vocals. Fifteen minutes passed.
Settling back in with a patient mentality I thought, it's the effort that counts. At that moment I glanced over my shoulder, and caught a flash of movement. My binos rested easily as my eyes become glued as the flashes of a rack came into focus.
As the buck continued toward me, I began getting myself into position. Thirty. Twenty-five. Twenty. Seventeen. With a quick mouth bleat his breaks went on, and my pin settled in. I sent my arrow screaming toward him, fueled with all my blood, sweat and tears. He tore away like a bat out of hell, his vitals working franticly to counteract the blow. I began to unravel. My thoughts raced, and I came unglued. The moment had come and had been executed perfectly. In the end, a blood-soaked arrow and a split heart was all it took.