"The Test" - Keith R. Bridgman - 2000:...The trophy I brought home on that trip is not one that can be hung a wall, but in many respects, is much more rewarding than any bragging rights a set of antlers might have afforded me...

It was a test I had never taken before, but one in which the true spirit of hunting was involved. It came on back to back November mornings during the 1999 Oklahoma deer gun season, and the consequences of which could have silently tarnished the noble sport of hunting. I often argue the point that many so called hunters are not really sportsmen, and the events surrounding those two mornings tested my resolve to remain true to the ethics encompassing the ideals of that endeavor. Failure would have placed a blemish on my inherant view of what the outdoor experience is all about, but even more than that, it was my test of character as a sportsman.

Two days shy of a month had passed since I had taken a trophy twelve point buck during the primitive firearms season. The colors of fall, so bright and contrasting only a few weeks before, were now only a muted memory as the browns and grays of winter were taking hold. Upon returning to the Kiamichi Mountains of Southeastern Oklahoma, my anticipation was high for the main hunting event of the year.

Deer camps were sprouting across the hills as hundreds of deer hunters made their annual migration into dozens of lost corners of the state. My friend Rocky and I were setting up camp in the same area we had hunted not only the previous month, but the year before. Although we were still learning the lay of the land and the pattern's of the deer, the familiar pine covered hills on top of the ridge were a welcome sight. The breeze whispering through the trees orchestrated a calming song through the first evening. Even so, I did not sleep as well as the environment would normally dictate, for I was anxious for the opening morning of the gun season.

By 5:45 AM on Saturday, we were hiking into our respective hunting areas; his the same ravine I had taken the twelve point in, and mine, a new location about two miles away with some promising cover and buck sign. The area's structure was characterised by two opposing ridges joined on the east end by a wedge that created two converging draws surrounded by thick cover. At the bottom of the ravine was an all but dried up, boulder infested creek with steep ledges, and a few potholes of water. Where the two draws converged, a relatively flat area extended well up the south draw, then rose to a steep incline into a heavily wooded area that extended to the top of a knoll. On the north ridge, the side I walked in on, and about twenty yards from the bottom, was an old logging road which was now grown over with numerous tall pines and saplings, and was covered with a thick layer of pine needles and leaves. Scattered along this flat stretch were several rubs and one good sized scrape. A trail extended for almost its entire length and led down toward the confluence of the two draws, a sure indication that deer often used this natural causeway. Shooting lanes were scattered, but I had a good view of the opposite ridge, a stretch of the creek, plus twenty five or so yards of the trail. To my left was a hump that ended at the old road, and on either side was a shallow draw that extended down to the bottom.

The wind was virtually calm, with only a slight thermal drifting from my left to right and quartering up the slope behind. I situated myself in probably the most comfortable stand I've ever hunted from. With a rock to lean against and my legs extended in front and down, it was almost like sitting in a lounge chair. Not much stirred the first couple of hours except a few squirrels, one of which hopped up the slope, onto my right foot, then onto my left leg before realizing I wasn't a stump and scampered off. I'm not sure who was more surprised, me or the squirrel. About 7:30 AM I finally heard that distinctive sound of a heavy bodied animal walking through dry leaves. It took a few seconds to pinpoint the location, then I spotted a nice buck, with a heavy set of antlers of at least eight points, angling down the opposite ridge. I put the scope on him as he worked his way down, remaining in cover, rarily exposing himself for more than a second. He eventually stopped about twenty yards from the bottom, eighty to eighty-five yards away. I settled the crosshairs on his shoulder then the target shooter in me took over and I hesitated a half second too long attempting to get that perfect sight picture. Before I could squeeze the trigger, he started moving again and eventually stopped at the bottom of the ravine and got a drink. Unfortunately three trees completely blocked my view at that point. After ten or fifteen seconds he turned to his right and angled into the south draw staying in heavy cover the entire way.

I could have - maybe should have fired a shot at that first opportunity, but did not. My hesitation and desire for a clean kill stopped me. There were several other chances I could have pulled the trigger and forced a shot through heavy cover, but at the risk of wounding a magnificant creature and potentially loosing him. At the moment, because of the adrenaline I was angry with myself for not shooting, not forcing the shot when I had the opportunity. Images of the buck continually flashed across my mind and I relived each stop action picture, reflecting on the missed opportunities to fire a shot.

I returned that evening with negative results, but decided to try again Sunday morning, and a full half hour before shooting time, I situated myself in the same location. On walking in, I inadvertantly stepped onto the trail just below my stand before angling up to the now familiar rock and lounge chair area. I waited. Nothing stirred. By 8:15, I was getting cold and antsy, but remembered that I had shot the nice twelve point around 8:30 a month before. I decided to wait until at least 9:00 AM before moving. Almost precisely 8:30, I heard movement up the south draw and a few seconds later, that same buck emerged about one hundred yards away, nose to the ground, looking for does. He moved in a determined manner, not spooked, but in a hurry, following the ground scent and staying in cover as much as possible. I could not get a steady bead on him then lost him in heavy cover. I waited until he emerged twenty yards up the north ridge about forty yards away. I placed the crosshairs on his shoulder, but the cover was thick with limbs and branches. Subconsciously, I wanted to shoot, but I hesitated again because I was not assured of a clean kill. I lost him behind the hump on my left, then lowered my rifle for a few seconds until I saw him ambling down the trail toward me. Scattered trees blocked my view and I was once again unable to get a clear shot. He moved closer, another three or four steps and he would step into the clear not more than fifteen yards away, a point blank shot. At that moment, I knew he was mine.

But, as fate would have it, exactly where I had stepped onto the trail walking in earlier, he stopped. Three trees completely blocked my view. I had no shot, so I waited. Two more steps forward and he'd be clear. He waited, and I sensed he knew something was not right. Thirty or maybe forty seconds passed, it seemed like forever, but he remained motionless, looking and listening, not moving. I couldn't believe it. All I needed was for him to take two more steps forward. Instead he turned to his left, stepped into a shallow draw that lead into the bottom.. I watched frantically as he rapidly worked his way across the creek and up the opposite ridge and into safety, not once offering me a clear shot. Once again I could have forced a shot not knowing if the bullet would strike home cleanly. I came very close to firing one in desperation as he scaled the ridge across from me, but settled for one final view of him as he crested one of the lower mounds about half way up the ridge and disappeared.

I sat there for another fifteen or twenty minutes hoping he might circle around, but I knew he would not. His instinctive cunning and alertness saved him for another day, and is exactly why he survived several seasons to grow large and strong. As I sat there all I could do was shake my head in disbelief and blame myself for hesitating...again. Yet, in retrospect, I have little need for self-blame, for now, as I think about it, I feel as though I passed a critical test, one about what it means to be a true sportsman. I could have blasted away several times hoping one stray shot might score, but I feel better for having waited, and letting that magnificent deer escape one more time into the haunts of those deep woods. The offspring he sired that season carry his genetic potential and will become worthy opponents in the future. I faced another kind of opponent on those two mornings, one that dwells within. He almost won, and still taunts me, but deep down I know I passed a difficult test in the scenario of one of nature's remarkable saga's. The trophy I brought home on that trip is not one that can be hung a wall, but in many respects, is much more rewarding than any bragging rights a set of antlers might have afforded me.