It was in the 1980s and I had a new job. Man, that first year means no vacation, the worst hours, all the stuff newbies have to endure. But, deer season was upon us and it certainly looked like I would be unable to hunt the first day. This was a sentence of doom to me or so it seemed. I was despondent, depressed, gloomy and desperate to find a way out of this dilemma.
I was working at Wasserotts at the time as a medical equipment technician and scheduled to work the Jamestown area that Monday. As my fevered brain plotted and seethed it suddenly came to me that the Jamestown Run generally was finished by 3. I could leave a little later and still complete the run.
I pointed out this fact to my boss, Fred Savage. I could be back in town by 9:30, complete the run and if I worked any overtime there was no way the records would show it I promised. The fervor of my petition, the pleading in my eyes made him laugh and great guy that he was he agreed. What a man.
Unfortunately, it took me a long time to figure this out and I had to run out and fire my rifle at the last second. I stuck a target on a box, ran to the range during lunch and fired 1 shot. It hit 1-inch high at 100 yards. I rushed back to work. At least the trusty rifle was fine.
That Saturday I hauled the stand to my favorite area, picked a likely spot near a rub line, put it up and wondered what the following Monday would bring. Everything had been so rushed and hurried it seemed a little unreal. Was it worth all this trouble, if I could only hunt two hours? Still, it was certainly better than no time at all and hope springs eternal in the hearts of hunters.
That Sunday night I paced the house, made phone calls, missed the guys at camp and in a nutshell pretty much drove my wife Jane mad. I was a mess and now she was fed up with me. I was banished to my man cave to ferment in my own juices.
Sleep was impossible. Just before the alarm blared I arose and shut it off. I distinctly heard my dear Jane sigh when I left the bed. It’s possible she was glad to get rid of me; imagine that!
It had been a rainy night; everything was dripping in the pitch blackness as I climbed into the car and started off. The air was thick with moisture and the chill wind drove little daggers of cold through me, the car heater seemingly taking forever to warm up.
Turning onto the dirt track my headlights stabbed their bright beams into the night, twisted limbs hanging over the road, swaying in the icy breeze, their trunks dark and running with water.
Parking, I hunched against the dankness of the night and warmed a little walking to and climbing in my stand. My raingear broke the wind and as a delayed dawn slowly lighted the thick, overhanging clouds I began scanning the forest around me.
A few scattered shots sounded, none close, and I kept glancing at my watch. Normally, time crawls by on a miserable morning like this, but today with only two hours to hunt the hands seemed to hurtle around the dial. Suddenly, it was 8 o’clock, then 8:30 and I hadn’t seen a deer. Then the hands crept ever closer to 9 and I despaired of success.
I watched dejectedly as that second hand ticked to the 12 and the hour hand snapped to 9 a.m. exactly. My shoulders drooped, I looked without hope around the stand one more time and was about to climb down when a flicker of motion caught my eye.
To my amazement a fat doe stepped out of the beech brush some 60 yards away and walked slowly, but steadily at a slight angle toward me. She didn’t seem alarmed or nervous at all, just strolling past.
I stared fervently behind her, but couldn’t see a thing. Oh, how I wanted a buck to appear. The doe was now some 100 yards past the spot of her first appearance and I’d given up hope when a flash of white showed.
Could it be?
Then a deer appeared, a white rack on its head. I couldn’t believe it; was this a dream, could it really be happening?
The 7×57 rose, the safety off. I waited, shaking slightly for the buck to touch the crosshairs. When he did I squeezed and at the shot he dropped in his tracks.
How I didn’t kill myself hurtling out of the stand amazes me to this day. I ran to the buck, fell on my knees and thanked my God for this great gift. Then I gutted and dragged the deer immediately to the car, rushing to work.
When I pulled into work and demanded Fred throw his work coveralls on and help me hang my deer he thought I was kidding him. Then he just laughed and shook his head. I’d done it and my pride and joy knew no bounds.
The December company newsletter read: “Wade Robertson killed a nice buck and reported to work on time. How did he do that? Congratulations Wade.”
Oh, what a sweet, sweet memory!