Ok, I’m finally getting around to writing this story:Knife ValleyI must state that I am not proud of the way I harvested this deer. I was ill prepared and took shots I should have not taken. My mistakes caused me to take chances that could have been easily prevented. However, this story is 100% true and will likely be the most incredible hunt I will ever experience. I have to give you a little background first. I started deer hunting at the age of 15 with my dad. My father is great and I love him dearly. However, he definitely has… “different” ways of doing things. He learned how to deer hunt on his own and tried his best to teach me (unfortunately his methods were off a lot of the time). He grew up during the depression and so everything (even deer hunting) had to be financially worth it or he wasn’t interested. He was ok with paying 15 dollars for a permit, but for as long as I’ve known him he’s never owned a new gun. His shotguns generally cost somewhere around 50 dollars and he always bought the cheapest shells and never more than 1 box of 5 deer slugs at a time. More than once he’d say something like: “I shot at 50 yards and missed, then as the deer ran off my second shot also missed, but my third shot hit him and knocked him down.” He’d joke about his guns shooting around trees, and that it would take him a couple times of seeing the bullet hit before realizing how the gun shot. Needless to say my first shotgun shot almost a foot high which cost me a nice buck one year. With poor shooting guns and no real hunting strategy it should be no shock that my early years of deer hunting saw few harvests. I tagged a small buck in 1987, then blanked the next three years. In 1991 I tagged my first doe, then another in 1992. Then 5 years of eating tag soup. One can imagine how I developed the brown and down mentality. Trophy deer hunting was something I dreamed of, but never actually figured I’d ever do especially hunting public land in the Shawnee Forest where hunting pressure is high In 2000 I defied my father’s logic and started buying 2 deer tags for 30 dollars and hunted from a hang on tree stand with climbing sticks. I hadn’t made the jump to buying 2 boxes of shells though. We both came up empty during the first season and were anxious to get some meat during the second and final season/weekend. I was lucky enough to harvest a 5-6 year old doe on the first night (Thursday) of the second season right at last light. At that time harvesting any deer was enough to make me giddy. I told my dad to use my tree stand the next day since he still hadn’t seen a deer yet that year and my stand was in a good spot. He did and shot his biggest deer ever that next morning (Friday) an 8 point buck that grossed about 115 inches. We had two deer hanging in camp for the first time ever. It was our best season to date. Saturday turned a blank and Sunday morning would be the last hunt. It snowed Saturday night covering the ground in a 1 inch blanket of fresh snow. My dad would stay back and break camp Sunday morning and meet me at 10am for the 3 hour trip home.I sat on the ground Sunday since I had taken my stand down Saturday evening. Right around 8am I saw a deer walking on the ridge about 100 yards from me. I could see antlers, but wasn’t sure of his size. I rested my Remington’s rifled barrel on my leg and shot a sabot slug through iron sights as soon as it presented me a stopped broadside shot. The deer jumped and ran towards me down the hill and into the creek at the bottom of the valley where he stopped and laid down. I aimed and shot again. The deer did not move so I figured he must be dead. I loaded the last 2 shells I had, got out my camera and headed down the hill. As I got to within about 40 yards the buck jumped up and started to run. I quickly shouldered my shotgun and shot my last 3 remaining slugs at the running deer. I missed all three times! The buck ran to the top of the ridge and then over to the next valley. I could see the blood in the snow and knew he was hit, but I didn’t know how badly. I decided the best thing to do was to go back and get my dad and his gun and then try to find the deer. My dad used a smooth bore shotgun with rifled slugs. His shells wouldn’t work well in my rifled barrel. When I returned to the spot where we were supposed to meet around 8:30am my dad was already there waiting. I told him the story and asked him for his gun. He said well, I lost my shells son. They likely fell out of his pocket. We looked around his car and came up with one shell (that was probably several years old). We grabbed our radios to communicate and I took his gun and the one and only deer slug. I walked ahead of the area I figured the deer to be while my dad walked in a direction that would hopefully spook it to me. The plan worked, but the deer was about 60 yards away from me and I wouldn’t risk our last shot on a trotting deer that wouldn’t stop. I watched as he trotted up the hill to a corn field. I could tell he was limping and felt bad that I hadn’t made a clean kill. I felt I owed it to the deer to end the situation quickly as opposed to allowing him to suffer and finally succumb to coyotes or infection. I met my dad at the corn field and easily picked up the blood trail across the field to another wooded valley. I knew the valley well. It was extremely steep on the south side with cliffs which I didn’t figure the wounded deer could get up. I told my dad to wait until I walked to the far side of the valley at which time I would radio for him to push the deer towards me. The plan worked again, only this time the buck stopped when he saw me giving me a 50 yard broadside shot. I took the shot. Down the deer went! (That’s what I wish would have happened anyway). Actually I missed again. The deer started to trot (due to the wounded leg) down the creek bed and tried to get past me since it could not go back because of my dad and because the cliffs prevented it from running the other direction away from me. I radioed my dad and said, dad I missed. He said something like “Oh No!” Then with my adrenaline at a peak I told him I’m getting my knife. He said (and I’ll never forget this…) “Well, ok then”. I got out my “BUCK” lock blade and ran down the hill towards the creek hoping to cut the deer off before he got past me. My efforts were not in vain. I jumped the creek and turned to find the 7-point 150 pound buck stairing at me from only a yard or two. The buck had drool streaming from his mouth, a bloody hole in his leg just above his knee, and his antlers suddenly looked much bigger as he lowered his head preparing for battle. I crouched down and raised my right arm as I clutched my knife pointing it at the buck. I then decided to lower my right arm and change my stance. I raised my left arm to defend the eminent charge that was surely only seconds away. As I inched closer the buck lunged forward with the power of a professional football player. As he extended his body hitting my arm I was able to swing my right arm around stabbing him in the neck. The blow I received knocked my left arm into my chest causing me to fly back several feet. I landed on my back and raised my knees in defense as the buck continued to charge me and gore me. After what seemed like a very long fight (probably only 10-20 seconds) I was finally able to grab the deer by the head and wrestle him to the ground. As the buck lay on top of me I was able to get him in a head lock and stab him in the neck again. I pushed on the blade hard trying desperately to make a cut into his trachea. Just about that time I saw my dad running towards me with his knife open and ready. He jumped on the deer and stuck his knife deep into his side causing his lung to collapse. When the buck that was on top of me finally stopped moving I looked around at the blood soaked snow covered ground and realized the hunt had finally come to an end. With blood stained clothes my father and I high fived and sat down shaking our heads. We field dressed the deer and dragged him up the hill. We loaded the three deer into my truck and headed home with enough venison to last the winter and a memory to last for the rest of our lives. To this day when we tell the story he always tries to convince the listener that he saved my life and that I should be ever grateful for his heroics.
