By Michael M Cochran

September 29, 2015

The mule rolled to a stop at the entry point into the swamp. I hopped out, and grabbed my gear. I told my brother that I would text him after dark, unless either one of us had some luck.

I slipped down into the cypress bottom and made my way towards the stand. I poured out some long range attractant periodically along the way. I was hunting a club stand, and knew that it had not been "corned up." I had hunted it the week before, and saw only two small fawns. No cameras, and no feeders on this spot. The only reason I chose this spot to hunt was that it was in a great transitional area. I made my way to the stand, poured out the remaining attractant, and climbed up to my perch for the afternoon. I checked my watch, and it was 4:40 PM. I went through my normal ritual of double checking that my cell phone was silenced, my ThermaCell was working, and fully charged, and everything else was secure, and not loose to make any noise.

This was my second time in the stand since the season opened the month before. I sat back, and began glassing the swamp. The afternoon passed without incident. I heard several gunshots off property in the distance, but nothing close. Time slipped past, and the woods started getting dark. I heard some owls in the distance, and it made me think of Spring turkey season in the early morning. The Sun continued slipping away, and the shadows started growing. I checked my watch again, and it was about 7 PM.

I kept looking over my left shoulder at a section of small trees that those two fawns has moseyed through. I was about to start securing my gear when I looked one last time over my left shoulder. I was staring directly at a deer on the edge of the swamp near a new clear cut area. He was staring directly at me. I froze. Moments passed. The wind was still in my favor, and I was motionless. The stare down continued until he dropped his head, and turn to his right and started cruising away to his right. I waited until he had moved a few paces away from me, and raised my rifle, and put the crosshairs on him. He stopped broadside, but I couldn't get a clean shot. I did, however, see his head clearly, and he was a shooter. Large rack, and thick neck. The rut was weeks way, so I could tell that his neck wasn't swollen due to mating season.

He continued cruising along the edge of the swamp to his right. Once out of sight, I quickly shifted around to my right, and steady my rifle on the shooting rail. He changed his course, and started angling in front of me at about 40 yards. He continue his course, angling further and further closer to me, and headed straight for the pile of attractant right in front of the stand. I followed him, keeping my rifle trained on him. He disappeared behind a cypress tree briefly. When he emerged I had him in my sights. His neck was big. I contemplated a neck shot, but chose to wait. "Just one more step, big boy" is all I thought. The wind had shifted, and he was now downwind from me. I eased my finger through the trigger guard, and rested on the trigger. He stepped forward exposing his shoulder, and I squeezed off the round. I quickly reloaded, and steadied myself for a follow-up shot. He stumbled forward, and tried to run, but he went down on his front left leg, causing him to flip over, and facing the opposite direction.

He was down. His white belly exposed to me and his head pointed away. His legs kicked a couple of times, and then settled. I put my weapon on safe, and retrieved my cell phone. I texted my brother, who had already texted me about the shot. I told him that I had put a big buck on the ground, and that I would need some time to ensure that he was dispatched. He was about 25 yards away. I watched him through my binoculars, as it was getting dark. Feeling confident that there was no more movement, I unloaded my rifle, and lowered it to the ground. I exited the stand, and he did not move.

As I approached him, I realized that this was no small, Lowcountry swamp deer. This was a big boy. A bruiser. My brother arrived shortly thereafter, and we began to drag him to the road. It took every ounce of strength to get him out. We were both winded. We started guessing his weight, and age, and couldn't wait to get to the processor. When we arrived, we figured him to be about 4 years old at the most, and about 150 to 160 lbs. To our surprise, that bruiser weighed in at 202lbs, and was estimated to be approximately 5 years old. The Hornady American Whitetail's 150 grain .308 bullet had done its job, and done it well. He didn't go more than 10 yards. That old boy picked the wrong day for a Sunday stroll through the swamp.