Growing up in southern Indiana, hunting deer meant deep woods treks to remote stands. The bucks we (my dad and I) pursued were what he referred to as “acorn bucks”. These deer knew where to find corn and beans, but they mainly foraged in the deep woods and fattened on fall acorns.
Farm fields were a little fewer and further between than they are these days now that I live in the northern flatlands. Some time ago work forced me to trade those beautiful rolling hills for flat ground and windmills. Learning to hunt small-acre woods in the vastness of farm fields meant developing new skills. Setting stands along connecting fencerows and concentrating on intersections that linked the small blocks of woods has proven successful in this new-to-me style of hunting.
This last season I was seeing small bucks regularly and had three very nice ones appearing at night like ghosts from the darkness on my trail cams. One such buck seemed to be using my path in/out frequently for his evening adventures to the adjacent farm. He held me in my stand on more than one evening as he sauntered through just before I climbed down. I could always see a faint silhouette of antler, enough color of bone in the dark meant there had to be at least a decent amount of mass.
I always sit until well after dark and creep out as quietly as possible. This is a habit that was drilled into my head from a young age by my father. “The guy who moves around flushes deer to other hunters”, he would always say. It wasn’t uncommon for us to sit from predawn through sunset during the short days of winter.
The path out followed along a channelized creek separating two picked bean fields for about 300 yards, then across open field back to my Jeep. This “ditch” was about 6-8 feet deep and had banks that were about 45-degree slopes on each side, down to a trickle of water in the bottom. The two banks were straight-line parallel and about 20 feet across at the top, a typical channelized agricultural creek.
This particular evening, I decided to break tradition and climb down just before sunset to see if I could intercept my evening visitor. Keeping in mind the countdown to the end of legal shooting hours, the creep was on. The creek is lined with small walnut trees every 10-15 yards and sporadic briar clumps the size of Volkswagen Beetles along each bank. As I crept along, looking ahead for my ghost buck to appear from around the corner ahead of me, I happened to glance to my left across the creek where there was a break in the cover on both banks. Lo and behold, walking the same path as me, but on the other side of the creek was my buck! His rack wasn’t as large as it had been in my mind in the post-sunset view from my stand, but he was a very respectable 8-pointer I had seen on my camera several times. The crazy thing was, there he was walking right past me. His head hung low, and his mouth hung open, tongue slightly out and not quite panting. My first thought was that he was in early stages of EHD, but it immediately became clear this buck was just spent, completely rutted out. It may seem like a lot to gather in such a short time, especially at this close range, but it was one of those instances where time seemed to slow to a creep between he and I while the rest of the world went about its business.
The clearings, on opposite sides of the bank were about 30 feet wide, he was entering his from the south as I entered mine from the north. We were about to cross paths on opposite sides of the creek. It was like the sheepdogs changing shifts in the Wile E. Coyote cartoon. The problem was, he was coming at me on my left and I being left-handed had to swing my body 90 degrees to face him to shoulder my rifle. I made the pivot as he walked behind the lone sapling in his opening. I was astounded I hadn’t spooked him. It was as if I wasn’t even there. I let out my first “meh” hoping to stop him so I could take the shot. The first problem I encountered was my scope. I had been glassing a 3-pointer earlier in the day and had my Hawke 3-9 scope on 5 when I tried to put the crosshairs on him. All I saw was very blurry fur. It was clear if this shot was going to happen, it would be a center of mass shot using the top of my scope for an aiming plane.
Oddly enough, the first “meh” didn’t faze him. Keep in mind, this deer was literally right across the ditch from me, and I was standing completely in the open talking to him. Unphased. Completely. The second “meh” was no more effective than the first. It was clear that more drastic measures were needed. At that point, a full on “YO!” didn’t even break his stride. At this second, he was completely broadside to me and was about to exit the clearing. It had to be now. The shot was taken. My quarry leapt straight up approximately 8 feet, took two long bounds and fell dead in the adjacent field on his side of the creek. Checking my phone, I had two minutes to spare. It was at this time the thought occurred to me, “I wonder what sort of damage a 300 Blackout will inflict at such short range?”
The 300 blk, as it is known, is an affective rifle for Indiana. Packing knock-down power out to about 200 yards it is more versatile than my 12 gauge Auto 5, and I don’t have to worry about the bullet carrying as far as some higher-powered rifles. The problem was, this was under the ideal 50 or so yard shot, way under. In the heat of the moment, I hadn’t really done the math. After proper calculations and measurement were performed…27 feet. Yep, 9 yards. Now we all dream of archery shots at this range, but this is not ideal for a rifle, in several ways. Now it was time to assess the damage.
Upon approaching the obviously deceased deer, I couldn’t help but swell with pride upon noticing my shot placement was spot-on. A perfect shot just behind the left shoulder blade. Rolling him over to field dress him I was perplexed to not see an exit wound. This had me a bit curious as to what went on inside that body cavity. Dressing him was relatively routine until I got to the upper cavity. Let’s just say I poured that out onto the ground, all of it. Everything above the diaphragm was pureed.
I took the deer home and hung him overnight in the garage. A busy work schedule and knowing that there was a deer processor 3 miles down the road justified taking him in to have my delicious backstraps, tenderloins, stew meat, roasts, and summer sausage processed for me this season. When I got the call and went to pick up the venison, I was a little shocked at how small the box (yes, box, singular) of meat was. I knew he was holding a good portion of it to make the summer sausage, with cracked black pepper and cheddar cheese, that I had requested. But that box was shockingly light. When I mentioned it, the old-timer who owned the place said to me in his gravelly voice, “Yeah, I mean to ask you about something. What in the world did you shoot him with? I saw the entrance wound, but when I skint down the other side, it looked like he had been hit by a truck! Were you hunting by a highway?” Holding back a smirk I replied, “Just a 300 Blackout…from 27 feet.” The old guy did a quick double take and asked to hear the story. We both agreed that the buck was just exhausted from going forth and multiplying and had to have tuned me out entirely in his state of exhaustion. The processor told me the shock wave from such a close impact cost me most of the shoulder meat on the entrance side, and all the meat on the “exit” side. You see, there wasn’t an exit wound. The round completely disintegrated into the far shoulder and left it as one huge bruise. The neck meat and the back half were fine, but both front shoulders were pretty much a loss.
I don’t think any of us would give up the shot. At least not any of us that hunt for meat. It’s not the most efficient way to procure vittles, but it was definitely effective. As I sit here writing this, I am enjoying some Triscuits and summer sausage and have a decent 8-point rack mount on the wall that will always remind me of…the 27 foot buck.
-Paddle Don Cranfill
