I had him. After three months of watching this ten-point ghost my trail cameras, after two weeks of hunting the October lull with nothing to show for it but empty thermos flasks, he was finally there. A hundred and ten pounds of bone and muscle, standing broadside at twenty-eight yards, steam puffing from his nose in the cold morning air. The kind of buck that makes you forget your own name.
And I did. I forgot my name, my anchor point, and every single thing I’d practiced for the last six months. My brain turned into a bowl of oatmeal. My heart was trying to hammer its way out of my ribs like a prisoner escaping a cell. This wasn’t just excitement; this was a full-blown, five-alarm case of buck fever, and it was about to cost me everything.
He had no idea I was there. He was busy working over a scrape, his antlers tossing dirt like it’d insulted his mother. All I had to do was draw, anchor, aim, and squeeze. Simple. I’d done it a thousand times in the backyard. But the guy in the treestand that morning wasn’t the same guy who shot tight groups in July. This guy was a liability.
My bow shook like a leaf in a hurricane as I drew back. The pin floated all over the deer’s body—the sky, the ground, his antlers, everywhere but the sweet spot behind his shoulder. Instead of focusing on a single tuft of hair like my mentor, old Dale, had told me a hundred times, I was staring at the whole damn rack. It was like trying to aim at a chandelier in an earthquake.
“Just shoot, you idiot,” a voice in my head screamed. So I did. I didn’t squeeze the trigger on my release; I punched it like it owed me money. The arrow didn’t fly; it fishtailed sideways out of my bow with a sound like a wet cough. It zipped a good foot over his back, burying itself in an old oak tree with a loud thwack. The buck’s head shot up. He looked around for a split second, snorted, and then vanished into the thicket like he was never there. The woods went silent again, leaving me alone with my own stupidity.
I sat there for a long time, my bow feeling like a hundred-pound dumbbell in my lap. The shakes were gone, replaced by a cold, heavy feeling in my stomach. I’d waited all year for that moment, and I’d choked. Utterly, completely, and spectacularly choked. I wanted to blame the bow, the light, the wind—anything but myself. But there was no one to blame. I was the idiot who punched the trigger.
The walk back to the truck was the longest of my life. Every step was a replay of the shot. Every crunching leaf seemed to be laughing at me. When I got back to the hunting cabin, Dale was sitting on the porch, nursing a cup of coffee. He didn’t even have to ask. He just looked at my face, then at my single, un-bloodied arrow in the quiver, and nodded slowly.
“He show up?” Dale asked, his voice calm.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, dropping onto the steps. “And I sent an arrow over his back so fast it probably broke the sound barrier.”
He took a slow sip of coffee. “Buck fever ain’t a disease, son. It’s a symptom. It’s what happens when you let the moment get bigger than the process. You stopped being a hunter and started being a spectator.” He was right. I was so wrapped up in the idea of the buck, the moment, the glory, that I forgot how to actually hunt.
He told me the only cure was to have a system, a mental checklist that you follow every single time, whether you’re shooting at a foam block or the buck of a lifetime. The process has to be so ingrained that it runs on autopilot, even when your brain is screaming.
The Only Cure is Process
- Breathe, You Moron. The second you see antlers, the first thing you do is take one slow, deliberate breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It doesn’t calm you down completely, but it stops the panic from taking over. Adrenaline needs oxygen; don’t give it all at once.
- Don’t Look at the Horns. This is the fastest way to fall apart. Antlers are for the wall, not for the shot. Pick a spot. A single, tiny spot on the crease behind the shoulder. Aim for that tuft of hair. Make the target small, and your focus will follow.
- Talk Your Way Through It. Go through your shot sequence in your head. “Okay, draw smooth. Find my anchor. Nose to the string. Check the level. Pin on the spot. Now, just squeeze…” It feels stupid at first, but it keeps the dumb part of your brain busy while the smart part does the work.
- Practice Like You Hunt. Don’t just stand in your backyard in a t-shirt. Practice in your full hunting gear. Shoot from an elevated position if you hunt from a stand. Shoot when you’re tired, cold, or after doing a set of jumping jacks to get your heart rate up. Make practice harder than the real thing.
- Embrace the Shake. You’re never going to be perfectly still. You’re a human being, not a concrete bench. Accept that the pin is going to float. Your job isn’t to hold it perfectly steady; it’s to execute a clean shot as it floats over the vitals.
It took another full season before I got another chance at a mature buck. When he stepped out, the same electric jolt hit me. The shakes started. But this time, I heard Dale’s voice in my head. I took a breath. I looked for the spot, not the rack. I talked myself through the shot, and when the arrow left the string, it was a surprise, just like it’s supposed to be. The buck kicked and ran fifty yards before piling up. He wasn’t a ten-point, but he was the most beautiful eight-point I’d ever seen. Because this time, I hadn’t just gotten lucky. I’d earned it.
