The early buck was on his way to a series of scrapes and rubs on the edge of a small
brown goldenrod field. The little field, bordered on one side by big pines, was back and
hidden by the surrounding woods on the top of a flat-topped ridge.
The setup and air currents were perfect, then.
He came in as he should. Textbook.
The full draw and release were automatic and it was my sharpest broadhead.
Remarkably sharp. Scary. A 150-grain Rothhaar Snuffer.
Dawn's wind, up in the treetops of the big jack pines camouflaged the twang of the
bow.
The arrow hit high in the back, halfway back, behind his dark eight-point rack,
angling down into the center of the pump station, down that 18-yeard hypotenuse. And
with that kind of hit, there is no doubt up in the tree.
The buck barely made the woods line 50 yards away. Just out of sight, there was a
crashing, loud snapping of dry limbs and trigs. It crashed and burned.
I forgot to breath and held my breath.
The silence after was slow, thick, magnified and heavy.
My breathing returned in starts and stops.
It was done.
Clear thoughts sang during the mandatory half-hour in the stand after the release,
replaying every moment, and rewinding, playing it again and again. The old mental VCR.
The morning wind picked up and continued to sway the treetops in time with my
breathing.
