The Warren County deep woods morning broke cold and bright, an autumn snowfall illuminating forest all around. Swirling winds kicked up and brought discomfort to my hunting stand, but I hunkered down between a small boulder and a big white oak and hushed my shivering frame.
At first light I heard the yelps and wing-flaps of wild turkeys fluttering down from roosts across the hollow. I tried a few calls to coax one in, but I’m not much of a turkey hunter, and those old birds did not respond. After a while I just sat still and enjoyed being out there in the big woods all alone, on a crisp, gray November day. It was just me and the Mossberg Model 500 twelve-gauge pump gun resting across my knees, neither of us anything fancy, but both of us good enough to get the job done.
Later I grew impatient and cold, so I stood up, stretched my aching leg muscles, slung the twelve-gauge over my shoulder and headed out to explore. I began still-hunting the ridge I call Rocky Top, working slowly past tree trunks, boulders and windfall logs, hunting for turkeys and scouting for deer.
An hour later I crept down between two large rocks and peeked over the crest of the ridge. What I saw made me drop to my knees behind a small tree and freeze. Five deer cantered uphill right at me, the lead animal less than 40 yards away and closing fast.
I clutched the tree trunk and pressed my cheek against the bark. Only my eyes moved as I watched the small herd amble up and slow to a walk at 25 yards. Finally, the first deer came in so close — about 10 yards — that I could count every fiber in its thick winter coat and trace the whiskers sprouting from its muzzle. Over the next few minutes, I held still and quelled the pounding in my heart as the animals paraded by in front of me at close range, one by one.
The first two were spike bucks, but the third deer was larger and more powerful in its movements, a legal antlered deer but not an exceptional one. I counted three points on each side, but the rack was small and asymmetrical. If I spotted him early on opening day, would I take him right away or pass on him in hopes of a grander prize?
The six-point lifted his head and sniffed the air, suspicious but still unaware. The wind blew uphill from herd to hunter, much in my favor. This buck’s coat was a darker brown than those of its tan-colored companions, and as it moved, muscle rippled at the shoulder. I’d take him, I decided, if I got the chance.
The fourth deer was a little guy, short-necked, baby-faced, and a button buck. It walked up closest of all — eight yards I later paced off — and stood looking at me for a moment. It stomped the snow and bobbed its head to get me to move, as its elders and instincts had taught, but I tightened my cheekbone against the tree bark and stayed motionless, and the little deer did not spook.
Deer number five acted nervous and lagged behind the other four, nosed the air and peered back over its shoulder several times. I’d noticed its five-point rack against the snowy background early on. Regardless of antler size, I realized I was witnessing an all-male gathering of deer. A herd of young bucks in early November, not long before deer season, and all at close range, was a rare and wonderful sight to a hunter like me.
That’s when I noticed the sixth deer. Down among the rocks and twisted grapevines, camouflaged in a growth of redbrush 75 yards away, appeared the outline of a deer much larger than the others and different in color, gray, like a phantom. The big deer stood alone and declined to follow the path of its youthful herd-mates.
I waited. Buck number five slipped past me at 15 yards and looked back twice toward its greater companion before disappearing among the boulders to my left. The big deer down below did not move.
Minutes passed. My knees, sunk deep in melting snow, grew cold and stiff, and my cheekbone ached against the tree trunk. Was that a real deer down there or not? And why didn’t it move or follow the others? I thought of the things I had to do back at camp: shut the heater down, drain the well, pack the truck and start the long drive home. Maybe the big deer was only a wish from my imagination. Maybe the shape was merely stump against snow.
My patience crumbled. I stood up, and the deer leaped forward and dashed down the mountainside. I saw right then, I’m pretty sure I saw, the big, dark-colored antlers on the head of the fleeing deer. 10 points at least and a wide rack twenty inches across or more, I think I saw before the big buck disappeared.
I stood still for a minute afterwards, closed my eyes and pictured the gray ghost buck in my mind, as clearly as if I’d studied the animal from eight yards away. Then I opened my eyes and looked all around. The forest appeared empty now, just white and black and shades of gray in all directions. A shiver ran through me in the chill mountain air, and I lurched into motion, put one firm step beyond the other, and headed downhill toward camp. My legs were glad for the activity, the warmth that came from the circulation of blood.
I hiked downhill and thought about that sixth deer, that phantom prize, that buck of my dreams. Did I really see antlers from 75 yards away or only imagine them? I saw them, I decided. I’m pretty sure I saw them.
Don Feigert is the outdoors writer for THE HERALD and the ALLIED NEWS. His latest book, The F-Troop Camp Chronicles, and his earlier books are available by contacting Don at 724-931-1699 or dfeigert@verizon.net. Visit his Website at www.donfeigert.com.
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Outdoors: Remembering the gray phantom November buck
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