Above is the picture of and below is the story of my first deer ...a very small buck on the SC Lowcountry near Hilton Head Island. 

I grew up dove hunting but never had the opportunity to deer hunt until I was 28, which was in the late 80's. It was then that I met a guy through work named Rodney, who lived down in the quaint little town of Ridgeland, SC -- close to Hilton Head Island. Ridgeland is an outdoorsman's paradise.

Rodney is a great guy who spent his entire life hunting (he has some amazing stories). He's as fine of a deer hunter and woodsman as you will ever meet. We became fast friends and he graciously hosted me on a hunt at a plantation he had access to called Mackey Point. Not only is this place gorgeous, it is teeming with wildlife in a carefully managed ecosystem. Anyway, Rodeny and his good friend Henry put me in a prime stand. Better yet, they supplied me with Rodney's beloved .243 bolt action rifle. Rodney and Henry (in their late 30's at the time) had traded this gun back and forth since they were boys, and both jokingly still laid claim to it, though Rodney had possession. But both men had used this weapon to harvest many trophy whitetails over the years -- so I was incredibly honored to have it in my tree stand.

After seeing several doe, I looked up and saw a small buck. Andy when I say small, I mean small. But I was a rookie and this deer had antlers. That is all I cared about. Wanting so desperately to succeed, I carefully raised the coveted rifle and just then he raised his head and seemed to stare straight at me (as if he sudenly became aware I was there) but thankfully, he did not bolt. I'm convinced he was divinely guided because he then quartered and resumed his grazing, providing the perfet behind-the-shoulder shot. I was preaching to myself to squeeze, not pull. Rodney had told me that if the gun-shot surprised me, I probably squeezed just right, without jerking. And the shot did surprise me. After the recoil l quickly lowered the scope back to my eye to try to find the deer but he was NOWHERE in sight. Before long, I convinced myself that I missed and that he had disappeared in the moment between my firing and looking back through the scope to find him.

At the appointed time, I finally descended the stand and met Henry and Rodney back on the road, with a sheepish expression exuding anything but confidence. When they asked about my single shot, I told 'em flat out that I missed, which they seemed to have no trouble believing, but they said it was worth a look anyway. So we headed out in the pitch black marsh, trying to marking the spot where I best recalled the deer standing when I shot. As we arrived and saw nothing at that exact spot, what little hope I had quickly disappeared. Then, just as began babbling something about missing, Rodney -- standing about ten yards to my right -- said, "what's this?" To my amazment, there at his feet laid a young, 125-lbnt buck with a shot just behind his left shoulder, deader than Elvis. Again, while this was a small, young buck by any measure, he was my trophy, and may as well have been a Boone & Crockett record breaker as far as I was concerned at the time.

I tried hard to play cool in front of these two seasoned hunters, but I will never forget the joy of that moment as long as I roam this earth. As we drug the deer back to the truck, they ribbed me saying it was only because of that lucky .243 that I dropped him. But I was so thrilled I barely heard a word. After field-dressing the deer and washing up, we settled in at Rodney's for a late supper of Frogmore Stew (shrimp, potatoes, corn and sausage) and fresh cinamon-apple crisps his wife had just taken out of the oven. 

I think the joy for me was not only in taking my first deer, but in doing so in the presence of these two men who I respected so much, and who were such accomplished hunters. And, the fact that it was my first shot at a deer, and that it was pretty-darn far at 150 yards, and that he went down right where he stood. And if it could not get better, it was on this remarkable plantation, witih Rodney's lucky rifle. It all seemed perfect; and I do believe it was.

I've had the privilege of harvesting quite a few deer since that cool October night almost 20-years ago. I've also had the remarkable privilege of never missing a deer I shot at. But no matter how big the deer, or how dramatic the hunt, I doubt any will ever top that little buck at Mackey Point. 

And I attribute it all to my friend Rodney. I knew less than nothing about deer hunting but he graciously and patiently taught me how to hunt, how to shoot a rifle, and more importnatly, he took me into his world (and into his home) like I was his younger brother. The world would be a better place if there were more men like Rodney and if more folks knew the true meaning of hospitality! So if you ever read this Rodney, hat's off my friend. I'm foreever grateful!