Dedicated hunters have one thing in common:  the a dread of losing a hard hit deer, especially archers.

Broad heads are not the same as a rifle bullet or shotgun slug. They do not violently compress tissue and dissipate shock. Tissue damage is restricted to the blade area only and because of this a hard hit deer may leave a faint, hard to follow blood trail at best.

As an archery hunter you’re always attempting to make the very best shot possible, but so many things can happen and variables differ so widely that once the arrow flies you may be presented with a tough tracking job, no fun at all I can assure you.  Hunters must be dedicated, determined and patient to succeed on those occasions.

And so it was this year. I hit a nice 8-point, heard the arrow strike, it sounded like a solid rib cage shot and watched the deer run, then circle back to the worst place possible, a grown over strip mine with goldenrod, grass, briars, brush and thorn apples with an unknown stunted tree producing little red berries that look exactly like a drop of blood.

My heart sank when I saw the deer’s direction, but what can you do?

I quickly texted my buddy Steve Colley that I’d hit a nice buck. He asked me to hang out an hour or so until he could arrive.  After all, two pairs of eyes are far better than one in every circumstance, but especially so tracking.

At first I couldn’t find my arrow. Then walking back to the stand I discovered it sticking in a log. Hmm, deer was closer than I thought. The arrow itself was covered with blood, the Rage broadhead festooned with a large clump of hair.

Following his tracks in the leaves quickly revealed a blood trail. Not a lot, but enough to make the hit appear a good one. I followed the trail to the top of the steep bank and tied a white ribbon there returning to the car to remove my heavy clothes. The temperature was 67 degrees, a perfect day to track in short sleeves.

By the time Steve arrived over an hour had passed, plenty of time for a fatal hit to have immobilized the buck.

Returning to the strip mine we walked slowly down a grassy road the deer had to have crossed.

Failing to find blood we returned to the marker I’d left and began slowly moving ahead trying to stay to either side of the trail. It was hard going, the blood had dried, a dull brown, and sharp eyes were needed to find the few drops of blood the deer was leaving.

Steve’s younger eyes excelled here and for the next 50 yards we made good progress, then the deer entered the thickets and we were slowed to a crawl. Small trails ran here and there, some leafy, others grassy offering the buck different escape routes.

At a four-way intersection we lost the scant blood trail. My nerves were really on edge, the deer was leaving so little sign it was really making things difficult. True, even a very hard hit deer doesn’t bleed heavily on many occasions, but you can’t help but begin to fret and worry in these situations.

Steve still remained upbeat, he’d been on some tough tracking jobs before, so had I, but the man who pulled the trigger bears the weight of conscience if the deer somehow escapes.

Frustrated, Steve moved ahead in the last direction the deer was headed while I moved down one trail and then up the other. After 10 long minutes I found one large drop of blood and called out excitedly. The deer had taken a 90-degree turn straight uphill.

Another 30 yards and we lost the trail again. Then I saw white above me and dashed up the hill, bending low under the thorny limbs hoping I’d spotted the deer’s white belly. No such luck, a white Clorox jug lay half buried in the leaves, a bitter disappointment.

Back to the last sign of blood and another 10 minutes of painstaking searching. Then Steve yelled he’d picked up the trail again, the buck having turned 90 degrees to his left once more and then traveling an old trail. We quickly moved another 30 yards before the drops vanished yet again. Steve moved downhill while I stood and stared looking at each and every leaf. Three feet down I finally discovered a single drop of dried blood on an oak leaf and Steve came over to check it out.

Suddenly he grabbed my arm and pointed. A sapling in front of us was smeared red for three feet up and down, another just in front similarly coated.

For the first time I felt sure the hit was a fatal one and hope gleamed brightly.

Another 20 yards and we came to a 100-foot cliff, an old exploratory strip mine dig and leaning carefully over the drop we saw my buck lying at the bottom.

We’d done it, found the elusive deer at last after a 200-yard, one-hour tracking ordeal.

Clinging to some handy grapevines we let ourselves down over the edge and used two fallen trees to make our way carefully to the bottom.

My buck had been hit high in the chest cavity; the arrow angling downward caught just the top of one lung, but nailed the second. The bleeding was almost entirely internal.

The deer was probably deceased before I climbed from my stand. The blood trail didn’t reveal that fact though, not at all.

Hunters, never give up on your deer. Take your time, get a friend and keep circling the last sign.

If you lose the trail and persevere, your diligence will many times bring its own reward.