Reflections on a Lifetime Spent in a Deer Stand

As I sat in my treestand on a warm, early-October evening in 2024, I found myself in a reflective mood. Countless miles had been traversed in my 53 years of bowhunting, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the irony of much of it. My bowhunting career began with a stint in a hackberry tree, less than a mile from my home. Now, more than half a century later, I sat in a hackberry tree less than a mile from my home. It was a rather weird feeling.

I’d started bowhunting simply thrilled to be out there, and as I sail into the sunset of my bowhunting life, I once again found myself with that very same outlook. As my mind flashed across an endless spectrum of memories, I realized the many stages of my outdoor life had come and gone like the habitat around me, revolving seasons of endless change. From my first doe to my first trophy buck, from Oklahoma to Kansas, from recurve to compound, from crotch-boards to tree-loungers, from solo outings to party hunts, the journey had been a hoot.

As my evening vigil wound down, a few does and small bucks made their way past my hide, most likely headed for a grove of acorn trees on a nearby hillside. I knew there were numerous nice bucks around, given that they’d been making their presence known on my trail cameras for months. Such a luxury was mine, thanks to the fact that I was now enjoying a blessing that had been a lifetime in the making — land ownership. Amazed at such a reality, I humbly thanked the Good Lord for such favor. Thrilled to have a peaceful, quiet and drama-free environment, I knew that this level of hunting was far from the dog-eat-dog scramble I’d experienced most of my life. Now, having a much less challenging hunt on my hands, I couldn’t help but feel a little melancholy about the loss of such a challenging way of life. I quickly put that thought to rest; after all, now being a senior citizen, it was perfectly justifiable to be happy skimming the cream off the top!

Jarred back to reality by the appearance of a nice set of antlers ghosting across the horizon, I grabbed my binos and took in a beautiful sight. A mature buck in all his pre-rut glory was paralleling my location, quietly gliding through the tallgrass prairie. Not the slightest bit concerned about my choice to simply watch the big 10-pointer fade into the distance, I found solace in such privilege. I knew the buck well; he’d spent his summer on my property, growing his fuzzy crown. My wife Peg and I had glassed him numerous times from our living quarters, high on our prairie knoll. We had also captured numerous images of the big guy on trail cameras. Now, as I finally viewed the awesome creature close-up, I realized I could hardly care less about killing him. Amazed at the “alien” that now inhabited my skin, I wondered whether I needed to call the Men In Black? Confounded, I settled back into my treestand to do some more “deep thinking” as the 150-class buck faded into the distance.

Later, as I related the story of my close encounter with the 10-pointer to Peg, she cringed, certain I was about to tell her that I’d killed the beast. When I said I’d simply watched the big fellow cruise past, never even handling my bow, her demeanor quickly improved. It was clear we’d both become flaming retards on our view of what bowhunting was supposed to be. Then again, who cared? Certainly not us.

Biding My Time

As October rolled past, I found myself making occasional hunts in numerous locations around my property. It was immensely pleasurable to experience the first cool fronts of the autumn appear upon the scene, bringing much more pleasant hunting conditions. Leaves were falling, insects were disappearing, and both the deer and I were frolicking with much more frequency and ease. On the 18th of the month, a very noticeable increase in scrape activity kicked in, and buck sightings increased proportionately. Since my big buck encounter of two weeks earlier, it seemed the big guys had gone into hiding, only gracing my trail cameras under the cover of darkness. But by the 20th, a few of the bosses had started showing up on cameras at first and last light. The miracle of the rut was beginning, and every whitetail bowhunter worth his salt was making big plans for the 30 days to come. As for me, every day was just another day in paradise. There was no need to sweat the details.

The morning of the 25th found me roosted in a huge cedar at the head of a prairie ravine. Over the years, this tree had established itself as my best spot to catch traveling bucks as they traversed the prairie from one drainage to another. I always looked forward to sitting this spot in November, and on this late-October morning, I was jumping the gun a little, and for the first few hours of daylight, deer action was nonexistent. Fantasizing about the pancakes, bacon and eggs that awaited me back at the house, not to mention a good woman and a good dog, I was just about to exit my hide when a large set of antlers appeared on the skyline. The big rack was attached to a massive body, and I knew immediately I was looking at a buck I should try to kill. Grabbing my binos rather than my bow, however, I opted for a closer look. The buck was a large, main-frame 8-pointer with numerous “flyers.” Additionally, his main beams actually crossed in the front, and his mass was exceptional. Reaching for my bow as the brute passed my location at a mere 10 yards, I now had myself in a fix, as my best shot opportunity had already passed. Coming to full draw, I followed the buck as he wound through the surrounding vegetation, only offering fleeting glimpses. In a matter of seconds, the trophy was out of range, and I realized I’d just blown an excellent opportunity on a 160-inch buck. Instantly, the “old me” reared his ugly head, inflicting frustration and anger.

Settling back into my seat, my emotions were running amok. Taking a deep breath, I morphed back into my “new normal.” Slowly processing what had just happened, I realized I wasn’t nearly as upset at the lost opportunity as I would have been throughout most of my life. For nearly 40 years, trophy antlers had meant everything to me; not so much anymore. Now, simply knowing such a gorgeous animal graced my ground seemed reward enough. Realizing I had a good chance of running into the brute again sometime in the next month or two, I smiled and cleared my mind. Heading for the house, I couldn’t wait to share my experience with Peg.

Getting Serious

As November appeared, our prairie paradise turned into an anthill of activity. Small, medium and large bucks were cavorting about helter-skelter. Some mornings, I’d simply sit on my patio with a cup of coffee in hand and my dog at my feet while watching the show as another day dawned. The Big 8 I encountered earlier was spotted a couple times, along with three or four other dandy bucks. As the rut began to peak, some of my mature bucks disappeared, but others appeared. Hunting intermittently, I was having the time of my life; never had I dreamed I could have a place like this.

As the month passed, I had at least a half dozen encounters with 140-160-inch bucks. And as was becoming usual for me, I always found a reason to let them walk. On Nov. 18, my birthday, I had the Big 8 within 20 yards again, and even though I tried to get the big guy killed, once again, he managed to escape unscathed. As the end of November approached, no giants had appeared on the scene, and I assumed none would.

Deciding I’d finally get serious about filling my tag, the morning of Nov. 28 found me back in my favorite spot — the big cedar stand. Around sunup, four does made their way past my hide, and only shortly behind was a nice 10-pointer. I knew the buck fairly well from trail-cam pictures and glassing sessions, and a twinge of regret entered my heart as I realized I was about to take his life. Nevertheless, intending to remain a bowhunter, I grabbed my bow and readied myself. As the beauty passed at 20 yards, a perfect arrow was sent on its way, and soon I was kneeling beside a beautiful creature.

Thanking God for His provision, I then headed for Peg, my dog and my tractor. Shortly, the buck lay on a high prairie knoll deep in the heart of the Flint Hills of Kansas. A few days later, his meat rested in our freezer, and his antlers hung in our barn. Another whitetail bow season had come full-circle, and as I realized my years of “doing it” were winding down, I couldn’t help but reflect on the circle of life. We start off being proud of ourselves for not peeing our pants, and if we live long enough, we end up being proud of not peeing our pants. We come in with nothing, and we take nothing out. Cherish your family. Hunt hard. Make memories. Honor God. Leave a great legacy.

Epilogue

Not long after I killed my 10-pointer, Peg, Lucy (our dog) and I spent an evening in a homemade ground blind I’d constructed the previous year. Simply watching deer for the sheer pleasure of it, you can probably guess what happened. That’s right, a whopper showed up! Like a vapor, he appeared out of the rolling prairie, and just as quickly, he faded back into it, never to be seen by the Claypool crew again.

I hope he dies of old age somewhere out there in that vast, roadless landscape. It gives me great joy to know such ghosts still exist.

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