1991, I was just starting to really learn about hunting. Had hunted for several years, just a few days each season, and was very anxious to get my first deer. I was in a stand on a wooded hillside. Early morning, light rain. Four large does come down the hill, approaching from my right. I try to bring the crossbow to bear, but get tangled up in tree limbs! Pretty soon all four are right under the tree. I'm still trying to get into position and they look up and see me. They snort and run, two down the hill, and two back up. I'm cursing myself, when along comes a button buck, along the same trail. At that point, I wouldn’t have cared what sex or size the deer was, I wanted a deer. The frustration of the does just made me all the more anxious.
For several years after that, being recently divorced and realizing the benefit of venison in the freezer, I shot the first thing that came along. Coincidentally, they were almost all bucks, ranging from spike to 8 point. It’s only been in the past few years that I got picky.
This is a bit long, but here’s why I’ve gotten so picky: My son, just shy of his 12th birthday, used my crossbow to harvest a 10 point, the only live deer he had ever seen. A small rack, but a 10 nonetheless. (I’ll put that story on another post) Due to conflicts with football season, living with his mom, etc., he didn’t hunt for another 14 years. He always said, “I don’t have to, I have the family record.” And he did, point-wise. I’ve harvested 9 points that put his 10 to shame, but he still had that extra point! For the last couple of years, my wife and I talk about getting the ‘Eric buck,’ that being a buck that tops his!