Buck With A Fever

“Hey bud; you feel like going out this morning? The voice whispered interrupting my dreams of two whitetail bucks locked in battle. For a moment I thought it was my grandfather, upon hearing that gentle rasp while groggily awakening from a deep sleep. But he had passed away a little more than a year ago. “Boy, you need to get up so we can get you a buck before you go home,” it spoke again. This time I recognized that thick-Texas drawl belonging to only one person; my guide Bobby McLain. He was much younger than Papa, somewhere in his mid-70s but still very active, and at the moment, in a lot better shape than the bed-ridden man he was struggling to wake. Through a haze my swollen eyes slowly focused on the old wooden end table next to my bunk. It was littered with tissues, Tylenol, and a half empty bottle of Nyquil. The rest of the room revealed several empty beds belonging to my fellow Floridians who were already out on the morning hunt. I smiled realizing there was a wet layer of sweat saturating my lower back and forehead – thank god my fever had finally broken. After getting dressed I put on my jacket and walked outside where Bobby sat waiting in an idling buggy. “Got everything?” he asked sipping his coffee. “Think so,” I replied, pointing my gun barrel down between our seats. “You just relax were going to get you a buck,” he mumbled before we sputtered off into the hill country. The light wind cut through the Mule like ice, as life in the Edwards Plateau awakened. Yet the mesquite seemed greener than I remembered, as it had been several days since I’d left the lodge to hunt. Sheer excitement got me here, but shortly after I arrived, I came down with a miserable case of the flu to the point that nothing could get me from the cabin bed. “This temperature drop should get them going this morning,” Bobby shouted over the noise of the motor, assuming I was in tune with the weather reports from watching TV from my bed in the confines of the Baker3Ranch’s bunkhouse all week. Truth is I hadn’t felt like doing anything but sleeping, and he surely knew how much this morning meant to me, as I must’ve called pestering him at least twice a week from Orlando over the past three months leading up to the trip.  But when the day came to board my flight to San Antonio, I was just starting to feel miserable. “Try not to cough,” he whispered, as we climbed up the ladder into the old wooden box blind.  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t accommodate the request. My tonsils were raw and felt as swollen as a rutting buck’s neck, and I’d resorted to pressing my face into my jacket to stifle it each time it happened – which seemed about every 10 seconds. Nonetheless right at daybreak a few young feeder bucks came trotting in after a pair of does, followed by an old cull, but that seemed to be about it for the duration of my last morning. As the sun rose higher in the sky I had that sinking feeling that I would be leaving Texas empty handed this year. Bobby advised me to just relax. “Have a little faith son,” he whispered. “We might get a good one in here after-a- while scent-checking or something, you are in Texas after all.” He chided. I still felt defeated and thought about how lousy the timing was to get sick like this once every ten years or so and it had to be on the week of my big Texas trip. As the last of the does meandered off into the cedar, I opened another cough drop and thought about Bobby’s advice. He was right though, regardless of how the week had gone or how I felt, I should enjoy this short remainder of time before we had to leave the following morning. I was after all still smack dab in the heart of the hill country at the Baker3ranch in Rocksprings, sitting with a guide, a gun, and clear to take any buck of my choice. I thought back to the beginning of the week. Remembering how surreal it was to see folks waiting at the San Antonio airport that were dressed like me, donned in boots and camouflage, carrying rifle cases instead of neon shirts and mouse-eared hats. Hearing the rumble of two big Chevrolet pickups armed with brush guard’s roll into the terminal to pick up my friends and me. The lunch at Rudy’s barbecue, the last minute stop at Bass Pro Shops, and the sheer anticipation of what was to come always offered so much more than just the hunt itself. Shaking off the reverie, my luck was about to change at the eleventh hour. Call it the power of positive thinking but almost on cue a healthy wide horned eight point caught us both off guard, strolling out into the open by himself. Not a monster by any means, but a nice buck capable of getting my blood pumping for sure. “I told you!” hissed Bobby, as i clicked the safety off. What followed was the thunderclap of bullet shattering bone echoing across the hills signaling the end to a long and tough hunt for this Floridian. For the first time in a week I smiled deeply, as Bobby snapped a photo of me with the deer. The euphoria of taking that buck had overcome the sickness that I’d felt all week if only for the moment. Finally, my first buck with a fever!