By Greg Williams
Opening day of West Virginia’s 2007 deer season was something my son Logan and I had looked forward to all summer. He had hunted with me at his side for three seasons, and now, a month shy of 14, he was mature enough to stay on a stand by himself.
In previous seasons, he’d taken a doe and missed a nice 7-pointer, so he was hoping to for another chance at a buck.
After hunting all morning without seeing any deer, we hooked up for lunch in the woods to discuss the evening hunt plans. I let him nap for about 45 minutes because I had seen a lot of small bucks that morning and felt that he best chance at seeing and shooting a buck would be late in the day.
After his nap, I moved him to a spot overlooking a small field near a pond where we always saw does. I set him on the side of the hill, where he would have a 70-yard shot. I told him to sit until dark, and that I would be back to pick him up. Then I walked about 700 yards to a spot I liked, never imagining that he would see anything other than does.
I was nestled in my spot, watching several does, when a monster buck came crashing through the woods. He was on a mission, and never stopped. Although I was disappointed, it didn’t last long, as I heard a voice yelling, “Dad! Dad!
My heart stopped because I wasn’t sure what was wrong. It was 4 p.m. Surely, Logan was not done hunting.
I grabbed my gear and raced downhill to see what was up. I found Logan sopping wet, sweating profusely from running around looking for me.
“I got one! I got a big one!” he yelled.
He’d taken his first buck, a tall 5-pointer that had wandered out of the woods to check on two does in the field.
Logan’s shot from his 7mm-08 rifle was on the mark, and the buck dropped instantly. It was truly an unforgettable hunt for both of us.