WHAT'S IN A NAME?

   My naming of bucks depending on the size of their racks continues. Shewho says I'm a Neanderthal. Maybe. That won't stop me. There's that small six-pointer I call Britney Deers and a stubby spike I named Tiffany Stump. But most importantly there's the buck I got a look at the other day, that sports a beautiful, heavy, classic set of eight-pointer horns- Carol Doda. Before I tell you about Carol, here's the story of the hunt for him:

   A few days back I got up in my stand around 1 pm. I wasn't expecting to see any deer that early in the afternoon, but when I turned around there was a doe about 75 yards behind me staring right at me. Then I noticed another doe and a fawn feeding in the thick weeds, winding their way between the bushes, working  down wind. When the hinky lead doe caught my scent she snorted and they all bounded off down the ridge. Fuck. Busted. Then I remembered something Bird had said, putting a positive spin on busting deer, "All that commotion may bring in a curious buck. Heads up." Not five minuted later a big bodied deer appeared in the flat. When he turned I saw a nice rack. I named him after the famous headliner of SF's North Beach Condor Club, Carol Doda.

    Since that afternoon I've been obsessed with hunting Carol. Two days ago I spent 11 hours in the tree stand hoping to get another glimpse of him. I saw 14 does and one buck who I think was Britney Deers. Yesterday I was back in the same stand before daylight. The morning started off promising with a doe and Tiffany coming within range. I'd washed all my clothes and made sure my pits were as scent free as humanly possible. At 11 am I went home and plotted my afternoon sit. With rain predicted and a wind out of the East, I decided to make a bold move and attempt to get closer to where I thought Carol was bedding, and again hunted from the ground.

   At 2pm I was set up in a small pop up ground blind, 100 yards down wind from where I thought that buck was bedding. Around 3:15 I thought I saw a white tail flick on the ridge below me. I pulled up the binocs and saw it was nothing more than broken branch. Absentmindedly I tossed the glasses on the ground and turned to look back out the front of the blind. In the seconds it took to confirm that spot of white was nothing, the buck I had been hunting, Carol Doda, had stepped out 15-20 yards broadside- directly in front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was staring right at me. As I fumbled to find the safety on the crossbow I was certain he would spin and be gone before I could take the shot. But when I looked up he hadn't moved. He looked like a statue, something out of one of those calendars that used to hang in gas stations in the 1950's, a staged shot of a hunter shooting a collaged in buck.

    I didn't even have a chance to get nervous. There was a branch over his vitals, but an open patch a bit high, right behind the shoulder. I settled the top pin and fired. I heard a good thump. I had hit him. He spun and ran like I'd missed, disappearing into the brushy flat. I sat there (now shaking) trying to register what had just happened. Had I just killed Carol Doda? 

    Once I collected myself I cocked the crossbow, gathered my bag and went looking for my arrow. No luck. Then I looked for blood. Nothing. My heart sank as a light rain began falling heavier. Would I need to call Savage? The prospect of a track in the dark or a long sleepless night as the rain washed away the blood trail loomed. Not finding any blood I pussy footed in the direction he ran.......... scanning the woods. Then I saw white belly. I breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't run 50 yards. The shot was a perfect kill shot, a pass through catching both lungs. I thanked that deer. I thanked the Little Green Man. I thanked Carol Doda. Next time I'll tell you a story about Carol. It's a good one. For now I'm in the glow. Venison for NO THANKS GIVING!