Pretty in Pink
| We were 115 miles from Wall Drug |
Piper Speirs, looking Pretty in Pink after a Black Hills archery deer hunt.
I don’t get the chance to go home as often as I used to. After moving away and starting a family of my own, trips to the Black Hills are few and far between. My homesickness seems to change with the seasons, growing most intense in the fall as my mind wanders to chasing deer in the oak bottoms of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can place myself in the scene of my favorite stand. The cold metal of the ladder, the sound of the water trickling through Crow Creek, the perfectly worn deer trails, and the sun's warmth as it first starts its morning ascent. A successfully drawn deer tag offers the promise of at least one weekend home, and the chance to reacquaint myself with these scenes.
Drives across the state are a little more crowded than they used to be, with car seats and stuffed animals taking up just as much room as my hunting gear. The extra company is most welcome, and regardless, visiting my parents without their grandchildren is not an option. Trips to deer camp now require a little more packing ingenuity.
My daughter Piper had gifts from grandpa waiting for her when we arrived, including a set of her very own binoculars and a youth camouflage suit. She immediately started looking for the “big deer” that Daddy had come to find. She had no shortage of viewing opportunities, as she looked in awe at the trophy shoulder mounts that hung on the wall, a testament to a lifetime of hunting and guiding in South Dakota. It was impossible to separate her from her new gifts, and she clung to the binoculars as I put her down for bed that evening.
Early morning alarms are more tolerable when you’re getting up to chase whitetail in the middle of the rut. A white noise machine in Piper’s room masked the sounds of my early morning escape, and I successfully slipped onto the porch and into the cool November air. It was one of the rare mornings every year where the Northern Lights were visible from Butte County, and I found myself locked in on the beauty above me. South Dakota is growing quickly, but it remains one of the few places where the lack of light pollution allows for a pristine viewing of the night sky.
At Dad’s suggestion, we swapped out vehicles. He’s driven the same F-150 for twenty years, and the neighbors have grown to recognize it. An unfamiliar vehicle with east river plates wouldn’t be as welcome. The truck has a distinct smell from the years of hunters and field mice that have taken rides in its cab. As you can imagine, it’s not a particularly pleasant aroma, but it’s familiar to me. The radio is permanently stuck on country radio, and I made my morning drive to the voice of Vince Gill.
After wrestling to open a rusted barb wire gate, I parked the truck and gathered my gear. My feet went on autopilot, walking me through the dark across the same field and red-rimmed ridges I’d crossed hundreds of times. The steps of the old deer stand felt rock solid as I climbed, despite the moss that had started to cover the straps and chains that held it in place. I hung my bow and leaned into the tree trunk that felt molded to me. I was home.
It didn’t take long, and I heard the tell-tale sounds of deer moving through the leaves, confirming that I had managed to slip into the stand undetected. As the pins on my sight became more and more visible, so did the outline of deer. Does slowly started filtering passed me, only to be redirected by love-struck bucks too young and naïve to tempt me into drawing my bow. Throughout the first hour of my sit, I had more than 30 deer within archery range, with seven unique bucks offering me shot opportunities. The sheer quantity of deer reminded me of the Northern Hills of my youth, where Dad and I would routinely count several hundred deer on the 15-minute drive to school each morning. The deer population in our area had seen drastic decline in recent years, with harsh winters and disease to blame.
Distracted by the excitement all around me, I looked up in time to see a doe burst over the top of a ridge with a buck in hot pursuit. It only took me a split second to recognize that the old white-faced buck was a definite shooter. In a matter of moments, the doe had crossed several hundred yards, passing right underneath my stand. Despite the initial intensity of his chase, the old buck put on the breaks, taking time to inspect the creek bottom for danger. Step by step, he cautiously made his way down my 20-yard trail, stopping to freshen several scrapes along the way. Muscle memory took over as he stepped into my shooting lane, and I felt myself drawing my bow. I settled my pin, squeezed the trigger, and watched as my arrow perfectly passed though the old buck.
A mixture of adrenaline and morning cold rushed over me like a fever, and I struggled to keep my perch in the old tree stand. As I sat and recounted the events of the hunt, I couldn’t help but feel spoiled at the opportunity. In one morning back in my favorite stand, I had experienced a season’s worth of archery deer hunting activity. From the worn deer trails to the sounds of Crow Creek trickling in the background, every scene and sound was exactly as I remembered it. And even then, the best sight of the season was waiting for me at home.
As I pulled up the gravel driveway, Piper rushed to greet me as fast as her two-year-old legs could carry her. Despite the many camouflage options available, she was sporting a bright pink winter coat. Grandpa’s binoculars were strapped around her neck, and she had a pacifier clipped to one side. She was carrying a Barbie doll microphone as if she intended to conduct a post-hunt interview or sing me a victory song. I scooped her up and we shared in the excitement of a successful hunt, creating a memory that I will treasure forever. The pictures we took together as she admired the old buck remain some of my all-time favorites.
As the weekend concluded and we headed east, the normal wave of homesickness didn’t wash over me. Instead of showing me what I was leaving behind, my rearview highlighted what I was taking back with me: a beautiful daughter that shares in my passion for the outdoors, and the tines of a Black Hills archery deer. Chasing whitetail has always been a passion, but bringing my daughter home to hunting camp was the fulfillment of a life-long dream. Thank you, Lord, for making me a father.
