It was November 26, 1967, and I was sitting alone in a box stand overlooking a dry creek bed in Real County, Texas. I’d been in the stand since before daylight, with my 6mm rifle leaning against the corner of the blind. It had been a good morning. I’d seen five or six does that stayed in front of me since sunrise.
Back in those days, we didn’t kill does. The old-timers believed that the more does you had, the better. Nowadays, we know better and realize that does need to be managed just like bucks.
It was now 9:15 a.m., and the deer had all left. I didn’t realize it then, but they’d all gone to bed for the day. With no deer around, I was ready to get out of the stand and head back to the road where my dad and brother were to pick me up at 9:30 sharp.
The weather was nice, likely in the mid-fifties, and with my long underwear and jacket, I was very comfortable.
As I gathered my things to end the sit, I heard something in the creek bottom. It was a buck! A monster buck, and he was only 50 yards away, walking right to left. With each step, I could hear his hooves on the rocks. I quickly stuck the rifle out the window and took aim. He was still walking as I pushed the safety forward, and I guess he heard me. He stopped and looked right at me. As he did, I squeezed the trigger, and off he ran.
Suddenly, I started to shake like never before. It was like I was freezing and couldn’t get warm, and I couldn’t control myself. I’d been hunting for a buck since I was seven years old, and now I’d just had my first shot at one.
It happened so quickly that I didn’t know if I’d hit him or not. I played it back in my mind over and over and was now secondguessing. If I’d hit him, he would have given me a clue. But he ran off like nothing happened.
The shaking continued, and I didn’t know what to do to stop it. Was I cold? Scared? Just excited? All I know is the shaking was not going away.
I waited about 10 minutes and quietly walked to the area where the buck had been walking. The white rocks were smooth and brilliant from years of floodwaters polishing them. I had been careful to mark the exact spot before putting the rifle back in the blind so I’d know exactly where to start the search.
I spotted bright, shiny blood— and a lot of it! Now it hit me. Now I started to get really nervous, and the shaking got even worse. My dad and brother were likely waiting for me, but I knew I had to find my buck first. As I slowly and quietly followed the blood trail, I was prepared to shoot if my buck jumped up to bolt away. The blood became more and more visible, and the drops were now constant. After a short 50-yard tracking job, I found him motionless on the ground, with bubbles coming out of the bullet hole. Later, my dad told me that’s what a lung shot looks like.
He was a giant! And for me, he was the most important buck I’ve ever taken. He was my first. And there’s only one first for everything. This buck helped change my life, and the memories I have from that hunt are very valuable to me. As I think back to how this hunt unfolded, it seems like yesterday.
When my dad and brother showed up, we had a celebration like no other. Lots of hugs and lots of joy. Just like it should be.
Dad handed me his pocketknife and informed me that I needed to field dress him myself. I’d never done anything like this before and was a bit intimidated. He said, “Get the insides outside.” That’s all the advice he gave me, but he was there to coach me through the process. It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to get it done.
I can remember how proud I was of myself for my accomplishment. I’d finally killed my first buck after five long years of trying. And I did it alone, all by myself.
My dad had the buck mounted for me, and it hangs in the lodge with my other trophies. He may be small compared to all the other animals there, but that doesn’t matter. He was my first buck, and I’ll never forget it.