I’m an addict. It’s plain and simple. That’s become the only way for me to describe my actions, my thoughts, and my way of life. It seems I have to have it. I have to get my “fix,” and it doesn’t matter what I have to do or where I have to go to get it. What am I talking about? Hunting. Just about any kind will do, but specifically the whitetail. The mature whitetail buck is my drug of choice and I have to have a dose at least a couple of times each day. This addiction has caused trouble in many lives emotionally, financially, and in the marital department and does not discriminate by geography, sex or age. It is time I look at my actions and fight this “demon” head on.
The Metamorphosis
I started noticing a change many years back. It started for me back in high school. My junior year I began dating a girl whose Dad owned around 2,000 acres. A little over half of that land was hardwood timber surrounded by agriculture fields. For me to say the deer population was abundant would be an understatement. During this time I was introduced to the world of archery. I had grown up deer hunting and had killed several deer with a gun but archery was new and exciting. I tried to soak it all in and listened intently when anyone began talking of shooting or almost having a shot at a whitetail with a bow. I shot a borrowed bow but practiced with it daily until I felt comfortable. I soon learned the ins and outs of shooting enough to venture into the woods on October 1st. The year was 1993 and this is the year that my addiction began.
My first bow hunt was on the morning of October 1st, 1993. I had been in the stand for an hour when I noticed movement from my left. I was hunting a dim road between two cypress brakes that lead to the fields surrounding the woods. The movement that had caught my eye was a doe that had taken the easy route back to her bedding area and decided to make the stroll down the road. I stood up in the homemade climbing stand that I had made in Ag shop in High School and tried to contain the excitement that had my whole body trembling. The questions raced through my mind. How was I going to draw my bow? How far was she? Could I make the shot? As the doe walked behind a pin oak tree I drew my bow back and settled the 20 yard pin right behind her shoulder. I released the arrow, and to be honest, I really don’t remember much after that except for the briar thicket that she ran into. I gave her about 15 minutes and got down in search of blood. I trailed her for about 50 yards on my hands and knees through the thicket until I stumbled upon her. Although I don’t remember the shot, it was perfect! I went on to kill a 4 pt buck two days later; I shot him at 10 yards and he fell in my sights. “Bow hunting was easy,” I thought. I would be proved wrong in the years to come and it only fueled the fire for my addiction.
Why Did it Happen to Me?
What makes me a whitetail addict? I have asked that question many times and still have not come up with a logical explanation. Is it the chance of killing a record book buck or just my personal best? Is it bragging rights? Is it the peacefulness of sitting 20ft in a tree watching the sunset? Is it the preparation the season brings in hopes of running an arrow through the boiler maker of a whitetail and feeling the success? I have searched for the answer since that day fifteen years ago and each year it seems to get worse. I find myself doing things and going places that will help me feed my addiction. Let me explain some things that myself, family, and other addicts have noticed. This so called “whitetail addiction,” as I describe it, is the only excuse that I can come up with to explain what begins to happen around the end of July. It is the only way that I can explain the sudden transformation that tends to take place. Make no mistake: bow hunting whitetails is on my mind 365 days a year, but it is at this time that the thoughts become more frequent and began to control my actions. It is this addiction that has me bush-hogging roads, fighting wasps at the camp and on stands, watching the ground intently for rattlesnakes and cottonmouths, and moving and adjusting lock-on stands. All this preparation is done in the hot, one-hundred degree summers in Louisiana. There have been many times that I have looked at my buddy, Greg, and asked, “Why? Why do we put ourselves through this? We must be crazy!” No, we’re just addicted to shooting whitetails.
