Ghost of the Hunt

Ghost of the Hunt
By Kurt Zuelsdorf
Most big bucks have their place on walls in dens or over fireplace mantles. Mine hang in a different place.
As we pulled through the ancient oak tree trellis gate of Wekiva Falls on the eve of opening day at Rock Springs Run, clouds of sulphur rose from the springhead, growing pungent as they blended into the Florida mist.
As with nearly every hunting eve, I rummage through my memory banks and find old childhood hunting trips. Any other time of year, these memories appear a little tattered, torn, and cloudy, but today they are as clear as cinema. Growing up, I usually tried to stay away from all the “missed” opportunities so as not to psych myself out for the next day, but they were there, every one.
My first miss was on opening day of my first deer gun season, a long time ago. I got to sit with my dad in the stump of a giant marsh oak where he had hunted for 25 openers. Armed with an old Stevens 20-gauge bolt-action shotgun, I somehow figured it would be a good time to take the bolt out and tinker. Little did I realize the opening light was upon us. The night drifted into half-light, revealing a nice doe standing broadside about 20 yards away. My dad, unaware of what I was doing, coached me to take my time and squeeze one down the barrel. “Okay, now!” he ordered. I began to reassemble the breech, bolt, and clip with the precision and speed of a first-year army officer on a pistol test. When he looked down and caught me fumbling, I could see his eyes pop in disbelief. “What the heck are you doing?” he asked. I responded, “I just wanted to see how it worked…” My dad then raised his shotgun and fired. I shouldered my weapon and fired shortly after. I missed. Meanwhile, the doe just stood there, wondering where the sound was coming from. I jacked another round into the chamber and took my time. Missed again. The deer finally realized where we were and bolted. My third and final shot was probably five feet over her back as she bounded through the canary grass.
At first, I couldn’t look up at him. I could hardly stand the thought of my dad staring down at me in disappointment for blowing my first opportunity at a deer. I fought back my emotions, which slid into sadness, then tears. Slowly, I pulled my chin out of my jacket and nervously looked out from under my wool cap, only to find my dad staring back at me with one of the friendliest smiles I’d ever seen. “Well, that was fun!” he said with enthusiasm. “Don’t worry about not getting that one. It’s not always about the ones that hang in the trophy room or fill the freezer,” he added. On that day, I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
In 1998, a good stiff bout of morning wood was ruined when the call came from the nearby tent that it was time to get up. Not knowing the area beyond aerial photos and maps, I planned on taking the simple approach. Many a time, the big trophies on opening day run through the parking lot, so I sought out the nearest, biggest tree, believing that animals use landmarks generation after generation. I quickly found the perfect oak about 100 yards from the truck. It was massive, with thick branches that grew horizontally about 10 feet up. With little effort, I was in position, overlooking a thicket that connected the hardwoods to the swampland. Everything looked good until the first truck came along and spotted me sitting on a limb overhanging the dirt road. By the time they reached me, you’d have thought they were attending a comedy show. The driver was wheezing with laughter, and the other was sobbing. When they got directly below me, one poked his head out, looked up with tears streaming down his cheek, and asked, “Seen anything? Nice stand ya got there!” Then they drove off. Not trusting my sweet spot, I bailed out of the tree before the next traffic show began.
I slowly walked down the road to a trail that took me to higher ground. Now about 100 yards from the wise old oak, I turned to see the biggest Florida buck I’d ever seen standing in the road, right below the limb I had just left! His beautiful white rack pierced the fog, and his majestic body stood bold and unstartled.
At that very second, that trophy became forever mine! Now it hangs on the wall of my mind with a plaque that reads, “There’s no way I could have missed!” I haven’t missed since then, but I suppose a few more may follow—not without the swearing, cussing, foot-stomping, grief, sorrow, and second-guessing that accompany such would-be tragedies.
I finally understand what my dad was talking about in that old, worn-out oak stump, and I’m really quite pleased. So many times, we dream of the deer we’d like to bag and hang on the walls of our offices and homes to remind us of the successes of the hunt. But I’d like to think the real trophies are the ones we missed, the ones that stir our emotions and burn memories into the pages of our minds. I can try to describe them. I can tell the stories over and over again, with little or big variations, but one thing remains true—and I think you’ll agree—you can still see ‘em!