Sept. 25 quickly arrived. We
checked the weather for the rest of
the week and spent the remainder
of the evening packing and making
sure we had enough gear and sup-
plies for our trip. The next morning,
we loaded the truck and patiently
waited for my boyfriend, Chad, to
get off work so we could begin our
adventure. The season was nearing
its end, and my dad had gone elk
hunting with my sister and her kids.
The drive through the canyon was
different that week. The temperature
had dropped, resulting in a beautiful
spectacle of yellow, orange and red.
The views were picture perfect, and
we couldn’t help but stop and try to
capture some of the sereneness we felt.
We made it to our camping spot,
the little nook amid a cluster of large
pine trees that had been our home
away from home for the past few
weeks, about two hours before dark.
We hurriedly set up the tents, inflat-
ed our sleeping pads and threw ev-
erything we didn’t need for hunting
inside. Chad stayed back to finish
setting things up, planning to meet
us at the glassing point before dusk.
If Cherri and I were quick enough,
we could make it there right about
the time the sun slipped behind the
mountaintops.
Keep Your Eyes Peeled
We weren’t planning to hunt that
evening, just get an idea of where the
deer were bedding so we could am-
bush them the following morning.
There’s a well-used cow trail run-
ning through the bottom of the drain-
age that housed our camp. One could
follow it to a large, grassy meadow that
serves as the juncture of three open ba-
sins — an ideal glassing location where
we had spent most of our time “study-
ing” during the weeks prior.
As we entered the bottom side of
the meadow, I turned around to see
if Cherri was still doing OK. She had
done her best to prepare for the hunt,
running and working out with a per-
sonal trainer, but there’s a big differ-
ence between the air near sea level in
the flats of Texas and 8,000 feet up in
the backcountry of southeastern Ida-
ho. As I turned, I caught movement
out of the corner of my right eye. A
nice mule deer buck had just stepped
from behind a pine tree, freezing as
he saw us.
“Holy crap!” I whispered, tipping
my head in his direction.
Cherri saw him at just the same
moment. My mind began to race.
Even though I still had a tag in my
pocket, this was her hunt. However,
I noticed her release was strapped to
the top limb of her bow. There was
no way the buck was going to stand
there long enough for her to un-
Velcro and fasten it around her wrist.
“Where’s your rangefinder?” I asked
as I instinctively pulled my Carter
thumb release out of my pocket.
“It’s in my pack,” she replied.
“Use mine. I’m going to try to
shoot him,” I said as I nocked an
arrow. Cherri grabbed the rangefind-
er from my binocular harness as I
drew back. Much to our amazement,
the buck just stood there, no doubt
thinking he was concealed.
I’m sure what seemed like forever
to us was actually only a matterof
seconds. “Forty-nine yards,” Cherri
whispered. “Fifty-one. Fift—” My
arrow was spot-on. The buck took
off, blood already staining his hide
exactly where my pin had hovered.
“I can’t believe that just happened!”
I exclaimed as Cherri gave me a
high five.
“You drilled him!” she squealed.It
was as if we had practiced that exact
scenario a hundred times before.
Just then, Chad sauntered up be-
hind us, curious as to what all of the
ruckus was about. Still in disbelief,
we recounted the experience. “That
deer was meant for you,” Cherri told
me matter-of-factly. “There’s no way
I could have gotten a shot at him,
even if I wanted to.” Hearing her say
that put my mind at ease.
As darkness crept over us, we
decided it would be best to wait
until morning to start the recov-
ery. Cherri and I were confident
the buck was down, but we didn’t
want to chance jumping him by not
waiting long enough. The autumn
air was crisp, and with tempera-
tures dropping, there was no risk
of the meat spoiling.
Chad’s 16-year-old nephew Easton
was in camp when we got back.He
had decided to skip his high school
homecoming dance and come hunt-
ing with us instead. He thought I
was joking when I told him I had
already gotten a deer, but he still
volunteered to help pack it out.http://www.bowhuntingmag.com PETERSENÕSBOWHUNTING 89
Antlers are great, but the best trophies of
all are the memories we make with friends
in the field.Worth the Wait
I was too excited to sleep much
that night. This was the first deer I
had ever taken from the ground,
each of my previous bucks having
been harvested over a waterhole
while I was sitting in a treestand or
ground blind. Morning finally came;
we ate a quick breakfast of instant
oatmeal, then headed up to where I
had taken the shot.
I immediately spotted my arrow,
the dried blood coating the shaft tell-
ing a tale of lethal penetration. A short
blood-trailing job ensued, my buck
lying majestically just 30 yards away.
Only then did I have a chance to ad-
mire the buck’s true beauty. His hair
was sleek and gray, transitioning from
his summer to winter coat. His antlers
were a light chocolate color with a tiny
strip of velvet still remaining on one
side. A scar on his nose and a notch in
his ear provided evidence of the bat-
tles this warrior had fought.
I couldn’t be more grateful for a
successful harvest, the ability to pro-
vide for my family and the chance
to make and share memories in the
great outdoors with people I love.
Together, we were able to field dress
the buck, pack him out, drive into
town, drop the meat off at a cooler,
take a shower and make it back to
the hill in time for the evening hunt.
Eight hands make for light work.
We hunted hard the next few days,
and on the final morning of the sea-
son, Cherri was able to get within 85
yards of her dream buck. The stalk
was intense, almost indescribable.
We crawled, walked and sprinted up
that mountain, but we fell just short
in the end. As we made our way
down the canyon that afternoon, we
knew there would be many more
memories made in those rugged
basins in the years to come.