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End of a Season by Chris A. Umfress The end of the Mississippi 2000-2001 gun season on whitetail deer went out with a bang. Literally. As I sat shivering in the ladder stand on the last day of the season, staring at the grayish white limbs of a birch tree backlit by a bleak, slate-gray sky, I couldn’t help but be somewhat depressed at the thought of the nine months wait before next deer season. It was bitter cold, I was tired, and, since there was only about an hour left until sundown, I was beginning to think that my last day of hunting would be uneventful. The previous two times that I had hunted this stand had proven unfruitful and I was beginning to believe that, due to the pressures from other hunters and deer dogs, the deer had gone nocturnal. As I whiled away the time my mind drifted, thinking about the buck that I had killed on opening day. Due to reasons beyond my control, I had missed the morning hunt but, after lunch, I decided to amble on over to a spot that I had first hunted the year before. I had not been successful at this spot, a lot of sign but no deer worth taking, but I thought I would give it a try. My first-day excitement and anticipation were almost electrical. I sat on the point of a bluff surrounded on the north, west, and south by twenty to thirty foot drops, some sheer and some sloping. This spot was bordered on the east by a ridge of sorts, covered with briar thickets and piled tree tops typical of cut-over timber, that ran back eastward to a public road. Unless you scaled one of the bluffs on the north, west, or south, as the deer did, the only way out was to the east. I had found two game trails off of the bluff where I sat, one to the north and one to the west. It was along this western trail that I now sat. All in all this was a perfect place for whitetail deer, as the high traffic trails indicated. My point of observation was on the ground, under a group of pines and cedars, about twenty or thirty feet away from the game trail. I sat facing the south and, after I had been there for a couple of hours, suddenly heard a dog bark to the east and, from the sound, it was almost on top of me. Almost immediately I heard something crashing through the undergrowth heading directly for my position. Having laid my Marlin 45-70 aside, and without much time, I drew my Ruger Bisley .44 Magnum, backed the hammer, and with my finger out of the trigger guard, went to low ready in the general direction of the noise. A second later four bucks burst out of the briars and brambles only twenty steps from my position. I raised the gun and fired at the first buck in line and missed. He turned immediately and jumped back into the brush. The second buck in line, an eight pointer, either confused or curious, stopped broadside to me and looked to see where the noise came from. Taking more time to watch the front sight, I put it on the front shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The buck dropped in his tracks. The 320 grain LBT bullet had done its work. I remembered how my spirits soared afterwards and how I knelt by the deer and thanked God for his gracious provision. I came back to the present momentarily as I holstered the Bisley to warm my hands for a minute. I took a long slow look around to make sure that a deer had not slipped up behind me unnoticed. Nothing yet. Soon though, my thoughts again wafted away as I pondered over the confidence that taking the eight pointer had given me. In the past I had regularly carried a sixgun in addition to a rifle. I had always wanted to get into handgun-only hunting but, lacking confidence when it came down to the shot, I had always reverted to the long gun. Now I possessed newfound faith in my ability to effectively take larger game with a handgun. I regretted the fact that I had not started handgun hunting years ago. But that was in the past. My mind wandered on and I remembered the second, smaller, buck that I had taken with a pistol. This hunt had been an afternoon/evening hunt that took place in the very treestand in which I now sat. This stand was located in the edge of the woods at the end of a long narrow hayfield bordered on the north by small pine trees and cut-over timber, and on the south by a small branch and hardwood timber. The stand faced north toward the cut-over pines and I had discovered, through observations the previous season, that the deer would emerge from the cut-over, feed across the hayfield toward me, and water in the branch to my rear before moving on to other feeding areas. I remembered that late evening, about thirty minutes before dark, and how I sat waiting patiently and watching intently for the slightest movement in the edge of the brushy undergrowth of the pine trees. Nothing. Then suddenly he was there. He came out of the trees walking due south on a course that would carry him to within fifty yards of my stand. When I saw the buck the adrenaline downloaded and the thump-thump of my heart could be felt like a bass drum inside my chest. I had already drawn the four inch Smith and Wesson model 29 so all that I had to do was back the hammer, turn slowly to my left, brace myself slightly against the tree, and wait. Just a few seconds passed until he was inside the spot that I had picked to fire, and, as if on cue, he stopped and looked directly at me. I put the red ramp front sight on his shoulder and, for the second time in as many weeks, dropped the hammer on a whitetail buck. The deer keeled over in his tracks as if pole axed. The Elmer Keith Special and the 240 grain semi-wadcutter at close to fourteen hundred feet per second had broken both front shoulders and exited the other side. I was amazed at the effectiveness of the gun and load but I don’t know why since, for years, I had been reading about Mr. Keith’s experiences with the .44 Magnum and his successes in taking all sorts of game. A movement to my right snapped me back to the reality of the present as I caught a glimpse of three deer coming out of the brush to my left. Okay, here we go. Maybe the season wouldn’t end in silence after all. I immediately identified the foremost deer as a nanny but I couldn’t tell about the two trailing her. Since the rut was on, I thought one of them might be a buck but, after further scrutiny, I determined them to be two smaller, first-year deer. I knew that if I waited too long the lead deer would pass out of my sight behind some trees but I did not really want to take a doe if there was a buck to be had. Since I had clearly seen that the two trail deer were smaller and since I hadn’t harvested one this year, I decided to go ahead and take the doe. This would be another fifty yard shot and, when the trigger/hammer contact broke, the big Bisley sixgun bucked in my hands as the heavy, hard-cast, slug struck the doe behind the right front shoulder. The deer spun and bolted directly toward my treestand. As I couldn’t immediately tell if, or where, my shot had landed, I attempted another shot as she ran toward my position. I missed but, as she ran past my stand, I saw a large patch of blood behind the shoulder on the exit side and I knew that she wouldn’t travel far. Sure enough, after jumping the branch behind me, she fell, got up, and ran only a few more yards before piling up permanently. Number three! And all with sixguns! What a season! This third deer helped to ease my post-season blues a little but I was still feeling sort of glum at the thoughts of this being the last day. As the darkness fell, along with the temperature, I thought about how this had been the most satisfying, biggest confidence building, most memorable deer season of my life. But it was over. It was over and I really hated to see it go. It was gone and I hadn’t gotten enough of it. But, looking back, I guess I never do.
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