On opening day of rifle season my mother and I were still-hunting on a trail when we spotted a fork-horned buck in the brush walking in our direction. He stopped, took one look at us and decided we weren't the type of gals he'd like to hang out with. I promised myself then and there that I would get that buck. We continued walking for about twenty minutes, hoping he would slow down and give us another chance at a shot, but to no avail. As we sat down to lunch around noon, we heard several shots from the direction we had planned to go. After that I didn't feel much like eating as I was sure that someone else had gotten my buck. We slowly made our way towards the area from which the shots were heard and came upon a father and his young son. They were dragging the doe they had just killed. We congratulated them and continued on our way. The rest of the day went by without an incident (except for very sore feet and frozen fingers).

The following morning, Mom asked me where I would like to hunt, and I suggested that we return to where the father and son were hunting when they shot their doe. At 9:30 a.m. we arrived and set up in the well-cleared area. It didn't look too promising, but I had a feeling we would see something. I was picturing a beautiful doe walking on the hillside, followed by a victory shot. Approximately five minutes had passed and I was listening very carefully when I heard something. Faint but distinct, the crash, crash, crash of a number of deer. I was thinking, "No! It can't be happening this soon!" >From where was all the commotion coming? Slowly I turned my head and looked behind us and was shocked to see fifteen or more deer walking past us in the thick brush at about seventy-five yards.

I used my favorite grunt call, locally made. It must have been made especially for the local deer, because they immediately angled back. They passed us again, this time at around seventy yards. I again called with the grunt and again they angled back. Sixty yards in front of me was a small clearing and in front of that was a larger clearing. As they passed through the smaller clearing I looked the deer over to choose the one I wanted to shoot. At the end of this line of deer, one deer in particular stood out and looked strangely familiar. It was the fork-horned buck I had spotted on opening day. It was MY buck, the buck I declared that I would get. What a chance of a lifetime for me!

My gun was ready and the buck was in the clearing. I called, "Baa", but the young buck kept going. A louder "Baa". He wouldn't slow. "BAAA!" He stopped, but with his heart and lung section behind a tree. My heart was pounding heavily and causing my scope to bounce. "Well, the ribs are good enough," I told myself. I took a deep breath, aimed carefully and then pulled the trigger. The buck leaped into the air, took a few steps into the brush, paused, then ran 15 yards and fell. My mother, who hadn't moved an inch since seeing me raise my gun, now turned to observe the rest of the deer scattering in every direction.

I had gotten my first buck! As we examined the buck, we discovered that he had a brow tine, making him a five-pointer. I decided to mount the head of my first buck semi-sneak and looking to the right, the way I had first seen him on opening day. What a trophy!