OTIS, Maine — Deer hunting can be viewed as a selfish pursuit.
All of us who put on the blaze orange each November do so in the hope we’ll be lucky enough to harvest a deer and put some meat in the freezer.
But hunting is characterized by interactions with family and friends that help hunters enjoy the experience and achieve that ultimate goal.
For the last four years, I have been blessed to be able to hunt with my older son, Will. Like me, he is a latecomer to the sport.
Each November, he returns home to Bangor to spend a couple of days with me in the woods. And while our forays have been limited, he has caught a couple of fleeting glimpses of deer.
During the last 10 years, I have walked into the woods, shared a treestand or sat in a blind with hunting buddies John Holyoke and Chris Lander. And Billy Lander and I have tromped through thickets, over streams and along ridges in the hope of whacking a whitetail.
There is great camaraderie among us. And while we all want to harvest a deer, each of us sincerely wants the others to fill their tag.
Toward that end, Will drove up from Boston last week after work, in rainy conditions, and arrived late. Thus we made unhurried preparations for our first day of hunting.
As the rain and wind began to subside the next morning, we geared up and headed out before noon. At John’s suggestion, we opted to hunt at our group’s familiar spot near Beech Hill Pond and to enjoy the dry comfort of Chris’ ground blind.
We walked in deliberately, stopping often along the skidder path to look and listen. We didn’t cut a single track in the rain-softened soil.
Will and I arrived at the blind, where I dumped the water out of the chairs and unzipped most of the window openings. We sat facing in opposite directions, Will looking toward the stream and I facing a gradual upslope.
Once we were settled, I unleashed a long rattling sequence and followed it with several blasts from a grunt tube and a handful of doe bleats using an Extreme Dimensions call.
Drops of water fell from the trees and noisily peppered the blind. After 15 or 20 minutes, I let out another series of grunts and bleats.
Shortly thereafter, I detected movement as a deer emerged from an adjacent swampy area. I tapped Will on his arm frantically whispering, “Buck, buck, buck!”
He raised the gun from his lap and quickly placed it on the monopod that he had positioned near the window to his left.
“I don’t see it,” Will said.
“He’s behind that group of small fir trees, moving to the left,” I said.
Within a few seconds the deer appeared in the open, broadside. I let out a vocalized bleat, and the buck stopped in its tracks and picked up its head.
Will needed only two or three seconds to take aim. The silence was obliterated by the blast from the Savage .30-06.
The buck jumped and simultaneously wheeled 90 degrees to the right and bounded awkwardly back toward the swamp. It made three jumps before we lost sight of it.
I reached out and gave Will a couple of congratulatory thumps on the shoulder. I don’t recall what I said, other than suggesting he jack another shell into the chamber.
“I think I might have missed,” said Will, who had just fired a shot in the field for the first time.
“I don’t think you missed,” I said. “He didn’t look right when he ran, and I never saw him come through on the other side of the swamp.”
The adrenaline surged through both of us as we contemplated our next move. I suggested that Will walk 20 yards and hunker down behind a large pine tree.
I decided to make a wide circle around to the right, the direction from which the deer had come. If it was wounded or wasn’t hit, it might turn and head back past Will.
I walked slowly, looking for signs the buck had somehow eluded us, but I saw no such evidence. Eventually, I walked directly toward the area where the buck had last been seen.
I slogged through the swamp back to dry land, near where the deer had appeared. We found the spot where the buck had stood.
There was no blood or hair, which worried me momentarily. But we saw the the spot where it had spun around and deep hoof prints where it had jumped heading toward cover.
I only went about 15 yards before I saw the buck, half-submerged in the pool of clear water at the edge of the swamp.
“There he is!” I yelled, pointing to the deer.
Will took a few steps closer and smiled as he caught sight of his first deer.
I started hooting and hollering as I ran over to Will and hugged him in celebration. It is a moment that I will never forget.
It was a handsome, 140-pound buck, an eight-pointer with symmetrical antlers.
Will had experienced the thrill that every hunter seeks, and I was there to share it with him.
Every season, I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to fill my tag. This time, I never once thought about myself.
While in the blind, I hadn’t even touched the Mossberg 12-gauge loaded with slugs, or even thought about using it.
This was to be Will’s day. God willing, it was just that.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Chris had carefully scouted out the spot, carried in his blind and carefully placed it there.
All we did was walk in, sit down and shoot a deer from within — not even a half-hour after our arrival.
On another day, it might have been Chris who dropped the buck. Even so, he greeted the news with the same esprit de corps and genuine joy that characterizes all of our group’s hunting and fishing successes.
Of course, firing the shot was only the start of the work. We field-dressed the deer, then packed up our gear in preparation for the long drag.
I feared that Will and I would not be able to get the deer back to our vehicle before dark.
Whenever we know one of our other buddies is going hunting, we always say, “Give me a call if you need help dragging one out.” The offer is sincere but hadn’t been needed — until now.
To get a cellphone signal, I walked up onto a small bump of land Billy calls “the knob.” I called John who, though excited by the news, was tied up and would not be able to get to Otis in time to assist.
He contacted Chris, but he was on a business trip in southern Maine. I reached Billy, who lives only three miles away, and asked if he could bring his all-terrain vehicle. He eagerly offered to help.
What lay ahead was a quarter-mile trudge, straight uphill. Each grasping an antler, Will and I maneuvered the buck along rocky skidder paths and through slash piles. We went about 20 yards at a time, frequently stopping to rest.
When within 100 yards of the road, I called Billy to tell him we wouldn’t need his help after all. As I suspected, he already had the four-wheeler loaded onto the truck and was on his way.
We met at the road, where we placed the deer onto a tarp and loaded it into the Forester, making sure a hoof or two was protruding from a rear window.
The hard part was over.
As hunters, we all want to fill our tag, but it doesn’t have to be a selfish endeavor.
With perfect timing and a little luck — and without picking up my gun — I achieved a dream by putting Will in position to harvest his first deer. He made it count with a well-placed shot.
But the experience never would have been possible without the generosity of our hunting buddies. Chris unselfishly offered up his blind for use, John provided his usual encouragement (and a celebratory cold beverage), and Billy was there to lend a hand.
With only a few days left in the regular firearms season, each of us will continue hunting — while waiting for the call for dragging help in the hope of sharing another hunting buddy’s success.