The Old Warrior

An old warrior. He’s my first ever. An Arkansas whitetail buck! After a long hot week of bowhunting along the banks of the lower Arkansas river, it finally came together. The mosquitoes had just finished their favorite dinner, white meat sauteed in sweat with a dab of blood. I had just paid the tab when at last I spotted a small sapling shaking side to side. A buck!

He was working a tall China berry but just below the canopy, out of my view. The tree eventually stopped moving so I quickly flipped on my cameras, picked up my Oneida and waited.

It was dry. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! I could hear him coming through the dry leaves.. I was ready when the big ol boy stepped into a clearing not twenty yards out. Slock! The arrow zipped through the buck then buried my Grim Reaper Broadhead deep in the dry red clay behind him. He then took two leaps and stopped to look back.

Seconds passed. Then the old warrior hit the dirt. Some would say he’s a cull, but I say not. For he’s at least six years old but looks like he’s sixty. 250 pounds with gnarly, thick, ragged antlers and a cape covered in battle scars. He was probably the king of the swamp.

A fighter perhaps a lover as well. A buck whose story no doubt was one of strength and resilience! He’s had a tough long life. A good life, and now it’s over.

Tim Wells