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120 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S great buck eased into the open and stopped. His head turned slightly as the arrow flew from the string. Even now I can see it hastening through the still evening woods, its ivory nock centered in the gray-and- yellow-barred fletching, spinning perfectly against the backdrop of the big buck's broad, dove-colored coat as it flew to him and buried itself deep in his chest. He tore away like a thoroughbred exploding from the starting gate, a widening crimson stain growing from his side, and from somewhere behind him the mean ol' doe tore away as well, both of them vanishing into the trees. We gave him five minutes, though we could have given him longer. But we'd both seen the arrow sink centered in his chest and knew we had a killing shot. So with the light fading fast, we took up his trail. We found blood almost immediately. Halfway to where he'd disappeared, I knelt to examine the trail more closely, then eased an arrow from my quiver and onto the string as I rose. But it wasn't necessary. For we'd moved no more than ten yards when we saw him lying in the golden leaves of his final autumn, his spirit having already departed. W e stepped up to him together. I knelt and, gently and with great respect, laid my bow across his chest, then rested my gloved hand upon his massive shoulder and offered a most heartfelt prayer of thanks to Him who had created both the old buck and me. Anthony shot a quick photo with my cell phone, and I quickly texted it to my brother. This was as much his and Anthony's deer as it was mine, for they were the ones who had early-on embraced my admittedly self- indulgent dream of hunting him with that 40-year-old recurve. And now the dream had transitioned into reality. The old bow had indeed come home. n Editor's Note: Michael Altizer's latest books, Nineteen Years To Sunrise and The Last Best Day, can be ordered at www.sportingclassicsstore.com. Or call (800) 849-1004. stillness somewhere behind me, followed by a loud and assertive snort, and for a moment I thought we'd been busted. But then came another snort, and a big doe darted a few feet and stopped 20 yards to my right, looking back over her shoulder and away from me. It was the Mean Ol' Doe! Something's following her, I realized. I could hear movement in the dry leaves somewhere out in the flat. Then, for the first time, I saw the big buck as he stole through the dimming woods, stopping, then stepping forward again, slowly, slowly, in and out of the darkening shadows and finally through a narrow opening 35 yards away. I glanced upward at his great headdress, but only for a moment, forcing its size and configuration to the farthest corners of my consciousness, lest they become a distraction. Only his chest mattered now, and I probed its silky surface with my vision, seeking the precise location to place my arrow. But still I didn't dare move as on he came, step by deliberate step, until his eyes were hidden behind a tree. "Twenty yards," Anthony whispered, as in one seamless motion I rose from the ground and drew my bow, its deeply formed handle curving into my lightly gloved palm like an elegant piece of sculpture, my arm fully extending as the arrow's nock found its long- practiced anchor point in the corner of my mouth, me focused on that single tuft of ruffled fur centered in his massive chest, careful not to stop and think, but instead to shoot instinctively, calmly, quietly, remembering not to drop my bow hand but to follow the arrow all the way to its target as the standing moments earlier. By all rights, I should have been crushed. But for some reason, I wasn't. The shot had been a good one, the arrow flying smoothly and precisely, exactly where I had asked it to go. It was the old buck's keen senses and reflexes that had saved him, and my admiration for him was exceeded only by a deep sense of gratitude that I had missed him cleanly. For a moment I considered stepping out into the flat to retrieve my arrow. It was well that I did not. A n arrow is an entity unto itself. A good bowman earns his arrows and learns each one individually—its likes and its dislikes, how it sits on the string, how its shaft and fletching move across the arrow rest as it leaves the bow. This was a good arrow I had shot. But the other four still nestled in my quiver were equally my friends, and I knew them just as well. So I left that first one lying out in the flat and slipped a second arrow onto the string. The sun was sinking red along the horizon, the cool blue shadows lengthening through the burnished autumn woods. My eyes continued sweeping the creek bottom and the distant thicket and finally I turned to Anthony, who was intently watching the flat behind me, obviously focused on something specific. Then his gaze turned to me and he whispered, "Seventy yards." I understood immediately. The wind was in our favor, but the light was dwindling rapidly. A sudden, subtle rustling of leaves disturbed the The author took this late-evening whitetail at 21 yards with a single shot from his 40-year-old Bear Super Kodiak.