Riding The Highs and Lows | Nebraska Deer Hunting

Story By: Chad Schneider

By late November, as I settled my forty-yard pin and watched my arrow arc into the frigid Nebraska air, I realized this season had been a study in extremes. The highs were unforgettable. The lows were humbling. And every moment in between taught me something about patience, grit, and the way bowhunting mirrors life itself.

PUBLIC LAND BEGINNINGS

September 1 (opening morning) found me hiking into public land, heading for a tree I’d scouted months earlier. I hung my stand 15 feet up a familiar trunk—high enough for concealment, low enough to shoot comfortably—and began the long game of chasing a public-land buck.

September bled into early October with unrelenting heat. Deer movement was spotty: a handful of does, a few small bucks—nothing to fill the freezer or the tag in my pocket. But October 22 changed the tempo.

I slipped into my spot after work and immediately bumped a small three-by-three: a good omen on pressured ground. Minutes later, five jakes strutted across the field—the kind of wildlife encounter that resets your energy before you even climb the stand.

The evening settled into that still, heavy calm bowhunters know well. Then, movement: two does and a small four-by-four buck angling toward me. I reached for my bow and dropped my quiver.

Arrows scattered with a metallic crash onto the ground below. Now I was hunting with a single arrow: the one already nocked.

The deer fed at 50 yards for nearly ten minutes before melting into the timber. I figured the encounter was over until I heard the unmistakable crunch of leaves behind me. The four-by-four stepped into view at 20 yards, walking a trail that gave me an eight-second opportunity.

The freezer had been empty for two months. I didn’t hesitate. My bow came to full draw.

Thwack.

The shot hit home, though something in the impact told me the placement was low. Twenty minutes later, I climbed down and found my arrow: good blood, but no fletching. Odd. A faint trail led into the timber, growing stronger with each yard. The buck lay 10 yards inside the trees, down for good after only a 50-yard run.

Public land success always tastes a little sweeter.

A WIND-TORN BLIND AND A SECOND CHANCE

With one tag filled, I turned to private land in pursuit of a “Statewide” buck. I set a ground blind and left it for a week, returning on Thanksgiving with fresh optimism, only to find Nebraska’s 50-mph winds had hurled it across the field and tangled it into barbed wire. Shredded nylon. Broken rods. Shattered confidence.

But bowhunters don’t quit, and bucks don’t wait.

At sunrise, with temps hovering at twenty-five degrees, I walked the field edge and eased toward a draw that had funneled deer into a cut cornfield all week. After an hour of stillness, I shifted spots, only to glance back and see a large buck pounding across the field straight at me.

I dropped to my knees behind a sage bush and a fence line, heart hammering hard enough to fog the cold morning air. A quick range: 42 yards. Thirty seconds to nock an arrow, warm my frozen fingers enough to draw, and settle the pin.

When he crossed the opening, I gave a soft “mrrp.”

He stopped.

I released.

The hit was solid. He sprinted 60 yards, stopped, hunched, and stood motionless. Ten agonizing minutes ticked by as doubt crept in. Low hit? Gut shot? Should I back out?

He bedded at the edge of the field, giving me a chance for a follow-up. I slipped to 65 yards, guessed my holdover, and released. The arrow hit six inches low. He jumped the fence and climbed halfway up a forty-foot cliff before disappearing into the timber.

There was only one smart move left: back out.

THE SUPER TRACKER

Five hours later, I returned to look for the arrow, examining the area for clues. Was the blood dark red? Bright pink? The dreaded green? The arrow never turned up, so I called in reinforcements: my dad and my son.

Blood led toward the cliff, then up it. At the top, the trail grew faint, then vanished entirely. Another low, voice cracked across the ridge like a gunshot.

Under the cool shadows of a cedar tree lay a mature, heavy-framed, six-by-six mule deer buck, my biggest to date.

We hugged. My son high-fived his grandpa, who instantly earned the nickname “the Super Tracker”. Field dressing confirmed it: the first arrow had delivered a perfect liver shot. Had I backed out immediately, the buck likely would have died in his first bed.

Another high, this one towering over the lows that led to it.

LESSONS FROM A SEASON

That season taught me more than how to shoot under pressure or track through difficult terrain. It taught me patience. It taught me resilience. And it reminded me that every low in hunting, and in life, sets the stage for the next high.

The quiver crash.

The shredded ground blind.

The long tracking job.

All of them led to moments I’ll never forget.

I wouldn’t trade a single low because they made the highs shine brighter. And as every bowhunter knows, the next high is always waiting just around the corner.