It was November 2, 2013, the end of a rough year. My mother had lost her long and difficult fight against breast cancer several months prior, so that day became one of the bright spots that year. My dad, my brother, Mark, and I all got bucks on the very same day. With this memory in mind almost four years later to the day, I texted Dad, “Let’s go back to our spots.”
As I was zipping up the sides of my pants, something caught my eye. I pulled up my new 10x42 Vortex binoculars that I had won from Huntin’ Fool and saw a blur with a nice set of antlers heading my way. I had already ranged at 25 yards, and he was entering my shooting lane. Putting the pin on his kill zone, I let it go. The arrow buried itself into his middle, back much further than I wanted. He darted about 30 yards and then hunched up with his mouth open wide. With blood on his side, he seemed to take baby steps up the field. I was disgusted with myself over the shot. I climbed down and looked for my arrow. No arrow and no blood.
After a sleepless night, we set out early the next morning with my sister, Natalie, along to help. My brother suggested I go down beside a big swamp with her. It wasn’t but 60 yards when I spotted the deer. I pulled my binos up and knew it was him. As I inched closer, I could see that he was expired. The buck ended up being a 12-point, the biggest I had ever taken in Pennsylvania.
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