I thought about letting the whitetail go, then didn't

It didn’t look like I’d do much big game hunting this season. I failed to draw any of the tags I sought.

No big deal. I’d just have that much more time to hunt birds.

Then I got a surprise. I was one of 10 hunters who received permission to hunt deer on a large ranch south of town. My inner-Hemingway rejoiced.

There was a time when I considered myself a pretty fair big game hunter. I could get on an elk track at first light and usually find its maker. I shot my share of bull elk, including a couple of trophies, and also some large mule deer.

I almost always hunted on public land and was proud of that fact. I was the poor man’s hunter, rarely enjoying the exclusivity that the better-heeled found on private ranches. For years I didn’t even own a four-wheel drive.

But I could walk and that was my great equalizer.

Now I had 60,000 deeded acres to share with only a few other hunters. I relished the opportunity.

With two weeks left in the big game season I put away the shotgun and told the dogs to chill. I woke each day in the dark, and driving south to the ranch, watched the orange glow of the sun light the horizon as if it was the edge of the world.

The deer were in the rut, the bucks chasing does, and I expected to see a trophy at any moment. I always do. It’s the optimism of the hunter.

But day after day I returned home empty-handed. Although I saw lots of deer, including some good ones, none were good enough.

Then, all too soon, it was the last day of the season. I left the truck at first light and started walking through now familiar terrain. I crossed the frozen creek below a beaver dam and climbed the ridge on the other side. Three hours later I was back at the truck. I’d seen a lot of deer, a few bucks I even recognized, but it was beginning to look like this day would end like all the others.

And I was OK with that. It had been a wonderful season in new country. I enjoyed every day. That was the point anyway, wasn’t it?

Maybe not.

An hour later I shot my best whitetail buck. I’d seen him before, even chased him out onto the prairie. He’s no trophy, but he’s quite tasty. It would have taken a much larger muley buck for me to squeeze the trigger, and I even thought about letting the whitetail go, but in the end I didn’t.

I am, after all, a hunter.

Parker Heinlein is at

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