Whitetail Change: A New Perspective for Veteran Deer Hunter

As the 2023 whitetail bow season rolled around, longtime bowhunting buddy Travis Keith and I were excited about our possibilities. We’d been bowhunting together for more than two decades, and the memories we’d made were invaluable. For years, we’d hunted public land together, but a couple years back, my wife Peg and I took a huge leap of faith in buying some land in Kansas. Having always scratched and clawed for every deer-hunting opportunity, I entered a new season of whitetail bowhunting; there would finally be some solace in my days afield. Travis, on the other hand, would continue his battle for public-land bucks, a most honorable pursuit indeed.

Peg chose to sit out the 2023 season, opting instead to sip coffee while watching the travels of our local deer herd from high on the prairie hill that constituted our base camp.

Meanwhile, Travis would be hitting some public land in our home state of Oklahoma, as he’d failed to draw a Kansas tag. And yours truly would only be able to hunt our property, since I had opted to secure a “hunt your own land” tag rather than taking my chances in the non-resident draw. Two very different seasons were about to play out, and everyone involved was very interested to see how it all would unfold.

Inside, I longed for the “good, old days” when I too scrapped for public-land bucks. There truly isn’t a much higher level of challenge to be experienced in the bowhunting world. But this year, I’d have to live those times of mental and physical discipline through Travis’ stories, as I’d be skimming the cream off the top of the private-land experience. I was very privileged to be in such a place.

It Begins

With the first cool winds of autumn finally blowing across the Flint Hills of Kansas, in early October Peg and I found ourselves soaking up the solitude of a vast landscape of rolling grasslands and wooded ravines. Sunny days, peace and quiet and long walks with our dog, Lucy, constituted the bulk of our early-season concerns. Occasionally, I could be found hanging a treestand, doing a little tractor work or making a few, select intrusions into my best whitetail ambush spots. Buck movement was mainly nocturnal, and since I’d moved beyond worrying about the particulars of the hunt — rut activity, antler size, scent control, movement patterns, etc. — I simply smiled and bided my time. Gone were the days of planning, preparing and fighting for big bucks. After decades of running all over the country, trophies covered my walls, piles of big antlers littered my floors and memories of big-buck kills clogged my brain. Finally cleansed of all the “antler lust,” I gave myself a mental pat on the back; I was a big boy now!

As October scooted past, Travis could be found scouting his public-land haunts and placing treestands in anticipation of the increased daytime buck movement soon to come. Planning access routes into remote spots, while considering the impacts of other hunters, Travis was slowly putting together a game plan that would hopefully beat the odds. A diligent worker and smart outdoorsman, Travis always went the extra mile. Peg and I were certain we’d soon be hearing some exciting stories from our dear friend.

In late October, Travis, Peg and I gathered at our Kansas land for a couple days of camaraderie. We want to share our blessings with our friends, and Travis was right at the top of the list. Stories were told, old memories recalled and new ones made. Though our whitetail- hunting paths had diverged, one thing would never change — we were kindred spirits for life. Even an old loner like me could treasure a relationship such as that.

Alternate Realities

By the time late October arrived, I could finally be found working myself into some fairly well-planned hunts. Spending a few hours here and there on my place, bucks were starting to skirt past my haunts with frequency. And on the evening of Oct. 25, I even let a 150-class 8-pointer walk — and he was still in velvet! What was I thinking? Only God knew. Just a few days later, a 150-class 10-pointer I’d seen on my trail camera made a quick trek past one of my hides. Grabbing my bow, I knew I should take this buck, but inside, something didn’t feel right. Letting the beauty walk, I seriously questioned my sanity. Yet, at the same time, I also felt exhilarated; wow, this was really, really fun!

Over the coming days, I spent a good deal of time hiding out on the prairie. It was now early November, and the rut was in full swing. It seemed that every time that I picked the right place, at the right time, under the right conditions, bucks and does of every size freely paraded past my hides. Peg was also seeing her share of activity from her elevated perch atop our grassy hill. Many were the days I came in for lunch, eager to share the experiences of my morning hunt, only to be trumped by Peg’s sightings. It was quite clear our prairie bucks didn’t mind freely showing themselves in wide-open spaces. Excitement was high, and as the reality of the life we were now living settled into our spirits, Peg and I thanked God for our blessings.

At the same time, in a galaxy far, far away (Oklahoma), Travis was exiting his workplace for two weeks of hunting time. As he pulled his travel trailer to a familiar camping spot, our friend was stoked for the hunt to come. Putting gear together, ingesting weather data and comprising a plan of attack, he was ready to tackle the challenge of harvesting a mature whitetail buck on public land.

Over the first couple days of Travis’ hunt, numerous bucks were encountered, though only one possessed large antlers. A particularly good 10-pointer made a couple passes through his area, never offering a good shot opportunity. Fully understanding how difficult it was to get close encounters with book bucks on public ground, Travis fretted over his inability to seal the deal and hunted on.

Midday on Nov. 6 produced a close encounter with a good 8-pointer. Reaching full draw on the mature buck, Travis was, once again, unable to get off a shot. A few hours later, however, a wide-framed buck swam the river a short distance upstream, and after a rattling sequence, Travis soon had the buck at 25 yards. Slipping an arrow through the brush, a clean shot was achieved, and an exceptional 6-pointer was tagged. Calling his brother Shawn to the scene, the buck was soon boned out and packed to Travis’ waiting canoe. One down, one to go.

Nov. 9 started off with action shortly after daylight. Travis had witnessed a really large-antlered 10-pointer chasing a doe across a nearby creek, and after failing to call the buck away from the doe, prayer was in order, as the buck was a whopper. A short while later, an approaching buck caused a reach for the bow. Assuming the position, Travis quickly found himself at full draw while attempting to determine whether the buck was up to muster; unsure, he was stuck in the twilight zone. As the buck displayed aggressive rutting behavior — thrashing nearby trees and grunting loudly — the interloper suddenly grew in size. A few seconds later, an arrow was on its way, and as they say, the rest is history. A short distance away lay a very dead buck. Climbing down from his stand to see exactly what he had acquired, he suddenly spotted the huge 10-pointer and his hot doe standing 50 yards away. Realizing the whopper had been on a collision course with his hide, Travis could only shake his head and hope for better judgement in the future; live and learn!

Everything Changes

Peg and I were in regular contact with Travis throughout his hunt, exchanging stories and congratulations. I’d been hunting almost daily, while having more deer encounters than seemed right. I was having a large time, never feeling any self-imposed pressure to kill any of the bucks that walked past, some of which were packing fairly big bone. Experiencing “window shopping” at its finest, I simply enjoyed the show. Typical and goofy-antlered ones, small ones and big ones, white-antlered ones and chocolate-antlered ones paraded by. Always hoping for an UH-OH moment, I waited for a miracle monster. But as November rolled quickly toward its end, deep inside I started to hear that old, familiar voice, saying, “Firearm season is near, and you’re still deerless. Shoot one of them suckers!”

Attempting to ignore the little troll, I plodded calmly forward. The day after Thanksgiving found me hunting between football games — a brand new experience for old Eddie. Hurrying to the field with only a couple hours left before dark, I was at peace. Many had been the book bucks I passed this season, and I had NO regrets. Life was good.

About an hour after plopping down in my stand, I found myself quickly climbing down to see what I’d just done. A few seconds earlier, a fast-marching buck had shown up directly behind me, jolting me into action. A quick glance launched “shoot” into my brain, so I grabbed my bow, jerked it back and punched the button.

Now, I stood over a still corpse. Broken from fights, thin and drawn from procreation pursuits, the old buck had been reduced to possession. As I sat beside the fallen warrior, I was at a crossroads in my bowhunting life. The thrill of the kill was gone. Now what? Was I going to remain a hunter or become a wildlife observer? Gathering myself, I knew I would continue to hunt. That was who I was; it was my core makeup. Yet I also knew things were going to be different moving forward. I was now entering a stage of outdoor maturity that was definitely new to me, and slightly unsettling.

Just when you think you know it all, everything changes.

Eddie Claypool has been blessed to accrue a lifetime of memories afield. Now entering the home stretch of his outdoor life, he spends much more time smelling the roses than chasing trophies.

Author’s Notes: In 2023, I hunted with a Mathews Phase4 bow, Carbon Express arrows, G5 Striker broadheads, Scott Archery release aid and Millennium Treestands.

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