Nebraska Whitetails: Bowhunting The Cornhusker State

The sound of leaves crunching in the distance alerted me to the slow progression of several deer approaching my stand site.  My heart began to flutter in anticipation of their arrival, as the staccato rhythm of advancing footfalls grew louder and louder.  The first deer to appear on the scene was a medium-sized doe, followed by an 8-pointer and a much larger buck whose unique-looking rack sported a small sticker point, and a broken left brow tine.  As I embraced the magic of the moment, a surge of deep concentration took over my thought process.  My eyes immediately centered on the bigger of the two bucks.  After casting a few quick glances in his direction, I instantly determined that he was a “shooter.”

My position was ideal.  A strategically placed ladder stand blended in well with the surrounding terrain.  The stand was located approximately 15 feet above the ground in one of several large oak trees that overlooked a gradually sloping hillside.  This particular area was a virtual haven for white-tailed deer.  It offered an assortment of natural attractants that appealed to bucks of all shapes and sizes, including the most dominant and mature.  The presence of a nearly impenetrable cedar thicket to the south served as a secure sanctuary for their daytime bedding area.  In addition, a small creek bottom and a recently picked cornfield nestled below the stand of oaks provided an inviting buffet of food and water.  Also, large family groups of female deer commonly gathered on the hillside oak flat at sundown to feed, which further increased its allure. 

From my elevated perch, I watched the 8-pointer vigorously work over a large scrape and its helpless overhanging branch.  Meanwhile, the bigger buck appeased his appetite by devouring a healthy amount of acorns.  He was also quite intent on analyzing the actions of several does that were now lurking in the nearby shadows.  Since it seemed obvious that he had no idea I was in the immediate area, I figured it was safe to try tickling his auditory nerve.  I assumed that I could prey upon his natural impulses as his attitude clearly indicated that he was ready to start the breeding ritual.  After slowly reaching for my grunt tube, I followed with three short tending grunts in an attempt to lure him into bow range.  It seemed to work as he stepped out from a patch of thick brush and started heading in my direction.

I was bowhunting trophy bucks in southeastern Nebraska.  It was the latter stages of October and the pre-rut phase of the whitetail breeding season was just starting to heat up.  Although the drive from my then home state of Wisconsin had been long and tiresome, the prospect of hunting new territory kept my spirits high along the way.

Arriving later than expected, I quickly made plans for an early evening hunt.  There was only enough time left in the day to purchase my license and to take a quick nap before making my freshman debut as a Cornhusker State bowhunter.  After some much needed rest, I headed for the woods.  Needless to say, I was eager to start my five-day instructional course in Nebraska Whitetail Hunting 101. 

The last minute appearance of a large doe was the only action I experienced on that first afternoon.  After coming within easy bow range, the lone deer occasionally stopped to browse in a nearby milo field.  A sense of bittersweet consolation swept over me as the last seconds of legal shooting hours slowly ticked away.  Undaunted by the outcome of my first encounter with a Nebraska whitetail, I sat back and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of nightfall.  The gradual decent of the sun dissolved into a wash of vibrant colors, setting the night sky on fire.  It was a show of natural artistry that I will not soon forget. 

Once the doe was out of my sight, I quietly climbed down from my stand, walked out to the main trail and waited for my hunting partner to pick me up.  Sitting alone in the darkness, I heard the eerie yips of several coyotes echoing in the distance.  From one predator to another, I wished them all good hunting as I silently devised my own plan of attack.  Although I never raised my bow from its hanger, it had been a good first day of hunting. 

Unfortunately, the temperatures turned unseasonably warm for the month of October, resulting in tough hunting conditions.  On the second day of my hunt, the mercury consistently hovered near the middle 70s.  As one can imagine, good buck activity normally slows down during warmer weather conditions, but I had done my homework by conducting several intensive scouting missions just prior to my hunt.  I knew if I was willing to spend some quality time at one of my many ambush sites, I would have an opportunity to take a good buck.  Given my positive attitude, it was still surprising to have a good buck within effective bow range so soon into my five-day hunt.

The sound of my bogus grunts infuriated the buck.  As the bruiser slowly worked his way toward my stand site, he answered back in bold defiance.  Continuing his show of aggression, he stopped every few feet and pawed a fresh scrape on the ground, tearing at the earth with each ruthless thrust of his hooves. 

Now strutting past at a mere 12 yards, urine dripping from his hind legs, the husky stag presented me with a perfect broadside target.  Seeing the window of opportunity open, I slowly moved into position for the impending shot.  Just as I started to feel the string’s tension on my finger tab, the twist of fate decided to rear its ugly head.  At that very moment, the small 8-pointer came dangerously close to my stand tree, slamming the window shut. 

Fearing that any movement would tip my hand, I elected to wait it out.  And, wait I did.  Standing stone still, afraid to even exhale, I could literally hear the ticking of my watch as seconds of time turned into minutes of agony.  With the indiscriminate force of nature directing the show, the battle of wits ensued. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the smaller buck moved off leaving his superior and I to finish the high stakes chess match on our own.  The big 9-pointer was now facing directly away from me.  He had moved out to 23 yards while I was busy performing my best impression of a tree trunk.  As I waited for a shot opportunity, I silently reminded myself to pick a spot.

The buck began slowly moving to his right in what seemed like slow motion.  Without hesitation, I brought my 78-pound Hoyt Vectrix XL back to full draw and waited for him to complete his turn.  Suddenly, he paused and looked back in my direction.  I patiently waited for him to look in another direction, but that look never came.  Minutes passed as I pleaded with the heavens for a favorable outcome.  I knew I had to act quickly or all would be lost.  Realizing that I could no longer hold my pose, I forced myself to focus on a spot behind the buck’s shoulder blade and released the string from my stiff fingers.

My arrow found its mark in less than the blink of an eye.  I watched the broadhead-tipped shaft penetrate the brute’s tough exterior as a crown of crimson instantly formed around the fletching.  Fatally wounded, the buck fell to the ground within sight.  Struggling to regain his feet, the big deer made a staggering exit, toppled over a ridge and came to rest at the bottom of a steep ravine.  Hours later, in the radiant glow of the moon, I knelt at his side and gave thanks to the Great Spirit above while praising him for his courageous effort. 

After conducting an early morning photo session and visiting a cold storage plant, I made arrangements to employ the services of a local butcher.  It was during this time that I had a chance to reflect on the hunt.  I quietly mused over the buck’s potential as a record book candidate and what may have caused him to break off one of his brow tines.  After a fair amount of conjecture, I came to the conclusion that he lost it while defending his breeding rights.  I surmised that another buck had invaded his territory and was competing for the amorous attentions of the local doe population, when a routine woodland scuffle turned ugly.  In any event, I was one happy hunter to have harvested such a fine trophy. 

As it turns out, the decision to end my hunt after only two days afield was somewhat prophetic.  The temperatures continued to climb into the high 80s, causing most breeding activity to occur under the cover of darkness.  As a result of Mother Nature’s fickle mood swing, daytime buck sightings became few and far between. 

My only regret is that I didn’t spend more time in the woods chasing an even bigger buck that was caught on videotape in late August by some local hunters.  Nicknamed “Heart Attack,” the huge 12-point typical is a true jaw-dropping monster.  Maybe that Cornhusker State giant and I will cross paths sometime in the future, but that’s another story.  Until then I'll set up an appointment with my cardiologist, and keep my bow fingers crossed.