The early archery, gun and now muzzleloader seasons have passed quickly like the three does racing for cover on opening day. You already know that I bagged a buck with my bow and went deerless through the traditional nine-day gun season. Now it’s time to update you on my muzzleloader season.

At the tail end of the gun season a snowstorm blew in, dropping the first snow of the year. It seems likely that we will be white from now until spring. I can handle the snow but I’m not a fan of the frigid cold temperatures that followed. It felt like every afternoon hunt had single digit temperatures and below zero windchills but that didn’t stop me from going out. I was tucking into fence lines and brush piles to get close enough to food sources for a quality shot. Even on the coldest of afternoons I was out there hoping that St. Hubert would take notice and reward the effort.  

Almost every night out I dealt with deer. A more accurate statement is that I dealt with does, yearlings and fawns. It was a little frustrating not seeing any bucks, but it was enough action to give me the confidence to get after it. With three days left in the season, I finally laid eyes on the first forked buck since the night I bagged an archery buck during the first week of November. 

A cold and snowy winter afternoon hunt tends to be a little mundane, until it’s not. When a doe slipped silently from the shadows of a pine tree it was a captivating sight. When a forked buck followed her out, I became mesmerized and didn’t move. The buck was an eight pointer, but his rack was not heavy or high. If you factored in the extreme conditions, one could argue that any buck was a trophy, including this one. Field dressing a buck would have gone a long ways towards warming up my frozen digits. 

The clock ticked closer to legal quitting time and the buck kept moving closer. It was getting to be decision time. The buck was less than 50 yards away and had no idea that I had a bead on him with my scoped muzzleloader. That’s when I thought about the photo sent to me the night before of a huge buck taken at the hands of another muzzleloader hunter. I was conflicted but quickly made a decision before the last legal shooting minute.  I raised my gun and centered on the front shoulder of the buck. I slipped my trigger finger into position and whispered: “BANG.” 

There was no thunderous report from my muzzleloader, no smoke from the barrel, and no buck down. The buck continued to browse and I sat quietly waiting for a chance to slip away without being detected. I guess that text message from the night before was a great reminder that big bucks always come from the same place: smaller bucks. 

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