By:  Nicole Foguth.

It was October 1, opening day of bow season in the Keweenaw Peninsula. Unseasonably hot, I sat in my tree stand, bow in hand, batting away the gnats that were flying around my face. I had never dealt with bugs before while hunting, and let me tell you, I was annoyed. 

I should state now that I didn’t grow up hunting. Born and raised in small-town Colorado, mucking horse stalls and playing with chickens was what I knew. I had shot a gun a few times, but only every few years when my grandpa came for a visit. It wasn’t until I joined the Coast Guard at 17 and met my husband Ryan, a lifelong hunter and fisherman, that I started to understand and learn the process. 

It was my interest in self-sufficiency that first got me into hunting. I had always loved to garden and knowing where my food came from, but since I was never around hunting growing up, it wasn’t something that I ever thought I would do. However after a few years of tagging along with Ryan and learning the process of setting up the tree stands, baiting the spots, checking the cameras and seeing all the meat in the freezer, I was hooked. 

I had already harvested a few deer by now, some with Ryan sitting in the blind with me and some on my own. However this was the first year that I was sitting by myself in a tree stand on opening day, with the intention of shooting a deer with a bow. I was nervous, and not going to lie, a little sweaty, and it wasn’t just because of the 80 degree weather we were getting that day. 

We had been seeing a buck coming in on the camera, one significantly bigger than this Coloradoan-turned-Michigander hunting newbie had ever had a chance of shooting before. We knew an 8-point buck was in the area, and I was absolutely terrified at the possibility of it coming into our bait pile and having the sole responsibility of not screwing it up. 

I had been sitting in the tree stand all day, only taking a two hour break mid-day to go grab lunch at home. I hadn’t seen anything except squirrels and I was starting to think my buck had decided my bait pile wasn’t worth braving the heat and bugs. As I swatted at a gnat that was attempting to fly into my nose, I was starting to think the deer might’ve had the right idea. 

Around 5 or 6 pm, a lone spike wandered into the bait. I considered taking a shot, anxious to get out of the tree stand and heat, but decided against it. After about 15 minutes or so, he wandered off and I wondered if I would regret passing on him. 

And then I saw it – from the left side of my view, a set of antlers moving behind a tree towards the bait. He emerged, casually meandering his way along the well-worn deer path towards the bait. He paused briefly, and I thought for sure he could hear my heart pounding from my stand. I began to wish I hadn’t won the coin toss that day to sit on opening day while Ryan watched our son at home. For sure I was going to screw this up. 

 

It was about 7 pm and I watched him as he began to nibble at the corn, already giving me the perfect broadside shot I knew I wanted. I felt my hands starting to shake, something that I don’t think I will ever be able to stop even after many more years of hunting under my belt. 

When his head disappeared behind the pile of branches Ryan and I had carefully placed a few weeks earlier, I lifted my bow, trying to steady my nerves. The buck didn’t move. Deep breath. 

I released the arrow, watching as it flew through the air with a satisfying thud as it struck the buck’s side. He disappeared into the treeline, arrow still in him. I panicked. Was it too far back of a shot? Why hadn’t it gone through?

I could hear him crashing into the woods. I listened to him run to try to follow where he ran. He had run in a U-shape, through the open field next to the bait, around the clump of trees where my tree stand stood and into the woods behind me. I waited another 10 minutes before pulling out my phone to text Ryan. 

About 30 minutes later, Ryan arrived, our toddler in tow. I had gotten down from the tree stand, still shaking, worried that there was now an injured deer in the woods because of me. We started looking for the blood trail, starting at the bait pile. No blood. I told Ryan where it had run and we started off in that direction, winding around in the same general U shape I had watched it run half an hour before. 

We got to the open field before we found any blood, tiny specks of red scattered amongst the shrubs leading into the woods, followed by the arrow snagged on a tree branch. Once in the trees, we found ourselves slogging through swamp mud and over fallen tree limbs, with a fussy toddler who was definitely ready for bed. 

That’s when I heard Ryan, who was about 20 yards ahead of me shout “I found him!” 

When I looked down the steep embankment where Ryan was, my beautiful buck lay there. The shot had been a touch farther back than what is ideal and had hit the inside shoulder, but it had also hit the lungs. 

After gutting the deer and tracking down our son’s boot, which he had lost while trekking through the woods with us, we were dragging the buck to the truck just as darkness was starting to settle in for the night. We had a long night ahead of us, with the temperatures of the day making processing the meat through the night a necessity, but by 2 am the next morning, we had a freezer full of fresh venison. 

 

The 8 point buck would forever hold a special place in my heart as the first deer I ever harvested with a bow, and knowing my son is watching and learning this lifestyle makes it that much more special.