The stringer is full, my tag has been punched,
Packin’ this buck, and my back it is hunched.
The morning was cold, temps way below norm,
Friggin’ ATV’ers had me cussing a storm.
Plan was to glass and try find Fred,
Hills were full of elk hunters, instead.
A dozen does, with one waggin’ her booty,
Seemed like a buck should look for this tootie.
Climb down the mesa where the does were sleepin,
Look to my right was a buck for the keepin’.
Hem’n and haw’n I hesitate long,
In his early exit he doesn’t prolong.
He wasn’t too wide, but seemed like a good’un,
Running through oaks he had me a wishin’.
A chance gone for good, and time getting tight,
I realized it would be a sleepless night.
Crawling and scrambling though really thick brush,
We find ourselves moving, I really seem rushed.
The ridge peters out, I’m no mountaineer.
There’s no friggin way I can find a deer here.
I stop and conoiter, plan out our day,
When a big stroke of luck comes rolling our way.
A buck to our right, I must be dreaming,
He rousts out three does and his breath is a steaming.
He looks like the buck from early that morn,
I see decent mass but need to see more.
He turns to the right and the points number five,
What great day, I’m feeling alive.
The brush is so thick, it is over my head,
I try to shoot, but it’s a shot that I dread.
The spotter is atop as six-foot tripod,
I decide to use to steady my shot.
The buck rambles down and stops in the sun,
Giving me time to shoulder my gun.
The first shot drills him, he hunches and sways,
The second shot smokes an oak in my way.
I know a steep cliff is off to my right,
My third shot smacks him, it really felt right.
I’m totally amazed as he gets to his feet,
He runs to the east where it’s hopelessly steep.
I see him struggling to keep on his way,
One final shot had ended his day.
He slides down the cliff and tangles in brush,
How will I get him, my thoughts are all rushed.
I see him dead way down below,
Slipping and falling down the cliff we go.
Nothing that a full day of packing can’t fix,
I cuss when his antlers get tangled in sticks.
To truck at dark, tired and sore,
Glad he didn’t go downhill some more.
So this is the story of a deer that is dead,
He is a good one, but he is not Fred.
