Monarch

I found myself in a familiar place; a treestand in rural Dane County.

The Wisconsin bow season was 6 weeks old, and I had hunted every weekend since the Opener.

My outdoor surroundings were as routine and familiar to me as the rooms in my home.  The distant ridgetop now rimmed with a picked cornfield. The little spring-fed pond fifty yards distant, home to wood ducks and visited by thirsty deer.  I knew every downed tree limb and stump. I knew the grass and clover-covered trails by memory.

Yet, as well as I knew this place, everything was about to change.

You see, the date was October 29, and an event not governed by man's calendar, but rather by natural forces like rising moons and fleeting sunlight, was about to announce itself. I knew it was coming. I did not know it was coming today.

The whitetail deer rut is an unpredictable thing, a wondrous thing, an event to celebrate.

At 8am I rattled and grunted in a small buck I have seen many times in person and on my trail cameras. He approached my stand with a purpose, then became slightly nervous when he could not see the source of the sound he heard of clashing antlers and grunting vocalizations.  He wandered off.

Fifteen minutes later I brought the antlers together again.  Perhaps ninety seconds elapsed when I spotted a large buck coming towards me from across the creek bottom.  I took my eyes off of him as I reached for my bow.  When I returned to spot him I saw a doe running fast away from the buck.

The doe ran within 40 yards of my position, then peeled off down a grassy trail. The buck continued his purposeful walk, faint grunting sounds signaling his excitement.

When the buck reached the spot where the doe veered away from my position, I let out a single, deep grunt from my call. The buck stopped and looked my direction.  A few seconds later he started walking again towards the doe, and I grunted once...twice.

The buck was magnificent. His neck swollen, his antlers wide and tall. He looked every bit the boss of the woods he was.

Good fortune was smiling upon me this morning.  The buck did an uncommon thing, and ignored the path the doe took, instead angling towards my position.

He took the very trail I take to enter my stand. His nose was to the ground as he slowly walked. When he reached a shooting lane I had cut, giving me clear shooting to the lane, I loosed my arrow.

Just like that, more or less, my hunt was over.