MORE BLOOD

Savage told me to wait an hour and see if I could pick up the trail. Surprisingly I had a flashlight. I found the blood, and step by step, followed the track into a big tangle of spruce blowdowns. There was no snow but the leaves had frozen into a nice matt. With a little effort you could pick up the rips and tears the leaping buck made with his hooves. Blood- not much, bright red, seemed to either be right in the left front track, or sprayed slightly behind. 52 was to my left, so I knew I couldn't get too lost. But if I did get turned around I faced a big wet swamp. An hour later and about 200 yards into the blow down tangle, not finding a white belly, I gave up and went back to the house. The night would be a long one.
      I'd hunted hard since October 1 and this was the first time a deer had presented me with a good shot. Plus this deer was a very nice buck. Earlier that day I had practiced with the bow at 25 yards and was hitting bulls and holding groups. I was calm. The deer was perfectly broadside, head down, leg forward. I settled the pin behind the shoulder. Then just as my finger found the release, the buck must've moved backwards, when he worked the scrape. It's the only thing that makes any sense. You know I have no problem blaming myself, but this time I think it was just back luck.
    In the morning I found the blood trail again. He headed into the thick stuff. Then he hit a logging road and took a hard right, straight up the mountain. Savage had offered his tracking dog Butterfly Bonnie. But I didn't want to get the dog until I had throughly followed the track and assessed the chances of ever seeing this deer dead or alive again. As long as I could find blood on the leaves I'd keep going. Half way up the hill he bedded down under a deadfall across the logging road. There were two puddles of blood, maybe as big as a tea saucer, not a lot, and then I lost the trail. Back to the house to call Savage.
   I hunted the same stand that afternoon, hoping that if the buck wasn't too badly hurt he'd reappear for the hot does and the apples. No such luck. I still couldn't sleep. My dreams were of looking up from a drop of blood on a leaf, to see the brown back and golden antlers of the deer I'd only seen for a few seconds, but was now seared in whatever lobe clasps and squeezes such things. To say the least I was fucked up. The next morning I went back to where I'd lost the trail.
    I circled the bed until I found a tiny drop of blood. Had it again. Then as he went up the hill, some red spray. My spirits picked up. Blood. Blood. More blood. He was heading back across the flat top towards WSSP II. Two days of cold and no wind had preserved the track pretty well. Then, just as fast as I found the blood, I'd lose it. A drip right in that left hoof print. Then nothing. He was headed for another swamp. It was what I'd feared. This deer was hurt, but not badly. Wounding an animal is the worse part of hunting. But if you hunt long enough it happens. All you can do is try to minimize the instances. At least I had not hit a lung. This deer would live. I gave up the trail and moved on. On Election Day I bought a new bow, voted for Obama and am finally back in the shack, licking my wounds. Peak of the rut is still to come. Two weeks until gun.