It was over. I had failed. The last day of Montana’s big game hunting season was almost over. As the sun was setting, it gave the sky a purplish orange color, but I wasn’t looking at the purplish orange glow. I was looking for a nice buck. Sitting on the ridge overlooking a small valley, all I could see was dry grass and some weeds. No matter how hard or how far I looked, I could not see a single deer. Grief set in. I was not going to get a deer this year. What made it sting even worse was the fact that all my cousins had shot great big bucks earlier in the season. Big enough, in fact, that all three of the bucks were getting mounted at the taxidermist.
One of my younger cousins had shot three deer – two does and a buck – and it was his very first year of hunting. This was my third year, and for the past two seasons, I had been lucky enough to tag a nice buck each year. However, they were only big enough that my dad would mount the horns on a plaque.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t had my chances. On the opening day of Montana’s youth deer season, I missed a decent buck, and then about halfway through rifle season, I missed another smaller buck. My dad and I also had a couple other opportunities that we couldn’t make anything out of.
When shooting light had finally faded, we picked up the wrappers from our snacks and grabbed our packs. My dad turned to me and said, “Well, Tristan, you are starting to get my deer hunting luck.”
Back at the truck as my dad unloaded the rifle, it seemed like the bullets were coming out of his gun in slow motion. The season was officially over. I had failed. But maybe I hadn’t. A couple of weeks later, I woke up and heard my mom on the deck talking to someone on the phone. It was my Grandpa Dahl asking if I come over to practice shooting his old muzzleloader. Grandpa had seen some deer on one of his friend’s property and had got permission for me to come out with him and try to get a buck. I remember hearing my grandpa and uncles talking about Montana’s fairly new Muzzleloader Heritage Season at Thanksgiving, but it sounded like a joke. This was
no joke, though. I might have another chance!
When Mom dropped me off, I saw Grandpa bent over the tailgate of his old gray truck with a bunch of supplies and a funny looking gun. His .54 caliber muzzleloader wasn’t what I had imagined. The barrel was an octagon, it was very heavy, and it didn’t have a scope, only open iron sights. Grandpa loaded the gun by pouring some gun powder down the barrel, laying a greasy patch over the top, and then ramming a lead ball down the barrel with a ramrod. He handed me the gun, and it was heavier than I expected. I almost dropped it in the snow. At this point, I was really glad my dad had sent me with a tripod to hold the gun steady. Grandpa had stuck a big sheet of cardboard in the snow and drawn a funny-looking deer with a permanent marker, outlining the organs. Looking down the iron sights was new to me, and it took me a minute to line up the sights and stay focused. My first shot was a little high. The next two were on the deer, and the last one was in the vitals.
“That’s a nice shot, Tristan,” Grandpa said. “Let’s go!” We hustled inside the house to grab some sandwiches and were on our way.
Two hours later, we pulled into the farmyard. Grandpa opened his door and got out. A cold, biting wind blew his hat off his head and pushed it rolling away on the dirt.
“Brrr,” Grandpa said, chasing down his hat. “Let’s get set up and
wait for the deer.”
I followed him around a corner of the field, and he pointed out all the deer trails packed in the snow funneling toward a rotting food source. We set up in some trees that were very close to the deer trails due to the short range of the muzzleloader. We picked out a spot that gave us multiple
shooting lanes and set the muzzleloader on the tripod. We sat still for a while, but the freezing wind made my fingers go numb, so Grandpa got the truck and hid it behind the trees. Opening up the passenger side doors gave us a break from the wind, so we hid there and waited for the deer.
The wind was blowing the tree limbs back and forth, and when the sun started to go behind the mountains, it seemed like the snow turned blue.
Without warning, Grandpa whispered, “Here come some deer.”
Coming out of the brush on the other side of the field were a few whitetail does and a smallish buck. They were heading right for us! In moments, I was behind the muzzleloader and the buck was in range. Grandpa was kneeling in the snow right next to me. It seemed like the deer were walking in circles, and three different times, I was about to nudge the trigger and shoot the buck, but it would either move out of the shooting lane or a doe would move in front of it. I remember thinking that this was not fair. I just wanted one good shot at that buck.
I was still focusing on that buck when Grandpa whispered, “Holy crap, Tristan. Don’t shoot! There’s a giant buck to the left.”
I lifted my head away from the iron sights and looked left and saw him. He was huge! His horns seemed bigger around than my arms.
Grandpa whispered again, “Tristan, can you see him?”
“I can see him alright, but the bullet will hit a tree,” I said.
Very slowly, Grandpa pulled on the tripod leg, moving the barrel clear of the tree. Now every deer in the whole field was staring at us.
“Shoot him,” Grandpa urgently whispered.
This time when I lowered my head to the iron sights, I had a clear shot at the big buck, but buck fever started to get a hold of me. My arms went weak and my eye started twitching, but I squeezed the trigger. Boom! The smoke was in the air. It was the most suspenseful moment of my life, but the big buck was down. I threw my arms in the air and yelled, “I did it!”
The buck was down but not done, so Grandpa tried to hurry and reload the gun. He kept dropping the percussion caps in the snow because his hands were shaking with excitement. One more shot and the giant buck was mine. We walked together out to the fallen deer. He was massive! He had four points on one side and five on the other. His antlers were so thick that I could not get my hand around the base. We quickly took some pictures, loaded the deer, and I simply had to call my mom and dad with the great news.
Starting to make our way home in the front seat of the warm pickup, I was thinking to myself that this hunt had taught me that I should never quit and that I should take advantage of every opportunity that comes along because you never know when the miracle will happen. For sure a miracle had just happened. A minute or two after bumping across the cattle guard onto the freeway, I turned to Grandpa and said, “I’m happy for myself!”
Grandpa laughed out loud and said, “I’m happy for you, too!”
By the way, the second my dad saw the buck in the back of Grandpa’s truck, he said, “Wow! We are going to be mounting that one for sure.”
I had not failed after all!
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