“Let’s switch treestands this year,” my dad suggested in the months leading up to the Pennsylvania rifle season. “They are both good stands, but the tall stand has more big bucks walk by than the rock-wall stand.”
My dad and I had been hunting whitetails on my 36-acre wooded property since my family and I bought a house on the land in 2015. After settlement, we immediately set up several stands that all have nicknames: the bow stand, the double-wide, the rock-wall stand and Bob’s stand (formerly belonging to our good buddy, a Vietnam veteran). There was also the “tall stand”—a 20-footer that had conveniently been left behind by the previous owners at the top of the property, strapped to a massive oak. Out of these five stands, Dad came to hunt the tall stand and I the rock-wall stand more often than all the others. We shot several decent bucks out of both, but his stand seemed to have more predictable movement patterns along well-defined game trails, with lots of nearby rubs. I knew it meant more to him for me to shoot a big buck, as he has been hunting a lifetime and had already shot many wall-hangers. Being the good dad he is, he would rather give me the better opportunity at success. I agreed to the switch.
Opening day of rifle season was cold and clear, with a light wind blowing and temperatures in the teens. My dad drove his four-wheeler up to my former spot—the rock-wall stand—and I hiked up to the tall stand. As dawn broke, I didn’t see a thing, and then I heard my dad shoot his rifle at 7:10 a.m. “Is he down?” I texted. “Yes, big eight,” came the reply, with a picture of his deer on the ground just 10 minutes later. I knew right away that he would feel bad for telling me to switch treestands. “Nice!” I texted him back, then refocused on my own hunt.
A little time went by, and some does began to meander their way around in front of my stand. At around 8 a.m., a 6-pointer walked by on my right-hand side. I was unable to set up for a good shot in that direction, so I watched the young buck trot off into the forest. More does began coming and going in the woods to my front, so I looked through my scope to see what I could notice in the distance. About 150 yards through the trees, I caught a glimpse of a heavily antlered buck. He was walking around in thick brush with a bunch of does and one smaller buck. My heart started to hammer. I tried to keep the buck in the sight picture of my Leupold scope, but thin sticks and small trees obstructed my view. I wanted to get a shot, but I knew better than to try to shoot through heavy brush. I did not want to miss or put a bad shot on him, so I didn’t make the attempt. The big buck disappeared in the thick brush, and I took the opportunity to warm up my hands and calm down, because by then I was shaking with cold and excitement.
Several minutes later, the group of does began to filter their way around to my left and approach a shooting lane my dad and I had cut in the hillside. I knew if they continued in that direction, and if the big buck made his way into the lane, I could get a good, clear shot at him. Sure enough, he emerged, trailing behind at the tail end of the group of does. I steadied my left elbow on the armrest of the tall stand and took aim with my Savage .270 WSM. When the buck took his next step into the crosshairs, I squeezed the trigger and watched him flop in the laurel, deer scattering all around. At 9:40 a.m. came my dad’s text, “Was that you?” and my reply, “Ooooh buddy! Oh yes! He’s a monster!” I sat in the tall stand and again took several minutes to get calm and say a prayer of thanks before climbing down. My dad drove his four-wheeler up to where the buck lay, and I walked up the shooting lane. As I approached, I saw Dad count the points, and exclaim, “It’s a 10!” It was our most successful single-day double-up since I started hunting with him 15 years ago. Dad confirmed my suspicion that he felt bad for telling me to switch stands when he shot the 8-point, but at the end of the day, it all worked out.
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