LAST UPDATED: May 8th, 2015
RED OAK, Iowa – The white-tailed doe lying dead in the creek bottom on a recent Tuesday morning proved cats aren’t the only creatures killed by curiosity.
That doe would still be alive if she had simply kept feeding downhill in the steep gully 35 yards from my tree stand. Unfortunately for her — but fortunately for my venison supply — she spotted movement as I turned my feet to follow her progress, bow in hand and arrow nocked.
I froze when she stopped and stared up at me, her head jerking up and down, then back and forth, trying to get a better look. After studying my statue imitation for two minutes, the doe flicked her tail and resumed feeding downstream. She still stopped occasionally to look my way, but was no longer on red alert.
Patrick Durkin prepares to pull his bow-killed doe from a creek bottom in southwestern Iowa in late October.
When she was 50 yards farther down the creek, she jerked around and looked upstream to the east. I watched as a larger doe stepped into view. If this second doe stayed her course, she would soon offer a 20-yard shot.
As I extended my left arm to start drawing my bow, the bigger doe thrust her nose high overhead to test the wind. Then she whirled and cantered back upstream. Obviously, she had caught my scent on an errant breeze.
The first doe still stood in the creek bottom below, watching her counterpart flee. She seemed puzzled, and her curiosity soon betrayed her. Rather than resume feeding, she walked to the spot where the other doe had caught my scent. The breeze now favored me, however, and the doe soon relaxed and walked within 18 yards of me. I drew my bow when she looked away, but I wasn’t fast enough.
Jay McAninch admires the 9-point buck he bow-killed near Red Oak, Iowa, on Oct. 25.
As I settled in at full draw and aimed, the doe whirled to face me head-on. She now presented too narrow of a shot angle, so all I could do was stare at her while holding my 65-pound bow at full draw. Again, she jerked her head back and forth, up and down, more vigorously than before.
I hoped she would relax before my strength gave out from keeping the bow drawn. A minute dragged by and maybe another. Just as my right arm began twitching with fatigue, the doe turned and walked five yards, offering a quartering-away shot angle.
After aligning my bow sight, I settled the top sight-pin behind the doe’s left shoulder and released the arrow. It flew true and the doe took off, mortally wounded. After running downhill into the gully and back up its far slope, the doe stopped atop the embankment, wavered and tumbled back down the hill. Its body came to rest on a fallen log at the creek’s edge.
This buck fell within 80 yards after getting double-lunged at 20 yards.
My friend, Jay McAninch of Centreville, Va., soon arrived with my truck to help field dress the doe and take it to Jill and Roger Bergstrom’s farm a mile away. McAninch and I were making our third Iowa bowhunt since first drawing a nonresident archery license in 2004. He grew up in Red Oak, and with help from Jill, his sister-in-law, secures permission for us to hunt nearby farms.
This was the third day of our six-day bowhunt and it grew even more memorable before sunset. That night, McAninch and I hunted a farm east of town we hadn’t tried before. I saw only one doe, but when McAninch picked me up after dark, he announced he had shot a big-bodied buck and felt confident the wound was fatal.
We discussed our options and decided to wait until morning to track and retrieve it. The night would be cool, so we wouldn’t lose any meat to spoilage. When we returned Wednesday morning, McAninch suggested I hunt till 9 a.m. before helping him. He said he would send a text message if/when he found his buck before then.
These fawns were just two of several deer walking within bow range of the author.
At 8:12 McAninch texted to say his search was underway. At 8:37 my iPhone’s vibrated to tell me I had email. The subject line of the first message read, “Found him.” The buck’s photo was attached.
The buck hadn’t run 100 yards before dying, and it was a stout-framed 9-pointer with shoulders and hind legs resembling a steer’s. McAninch said it was the biggest buck of his life and asked if I would remove its cape so he could take it to a taxidermist.
“No sweat; happy to help,” I said. “You know what will happen the next three days, though? Every time we hunt, you’ll see only bucks and I’ll see only antlerless deer, and we won’t fill our second tag.”
If that forecast proves false, you’ll be the first to know.
