A Tale of Two Arrows

The November air was crisp, the kind of late fall evening where every crunch of leaves sends a deadly dose of adrenaline and cortisol straight to the brain. My friend Kyle and I were bowhunting whitetail in the rolling hills of Kentucky. A sprawling stretch of hardwoods and thickets known for its history of producing magazine quality bucks. We’d split up that afternoon, each settling into our tree stands about a half-mile apart, one goal in mind: a shot at a cruising giant looking for love. 

I’d been in my stand for hours, muscles stiff from the cold, eyes scanning the fading light. The forest was alive—squirrels rustling, an occasional turkey—but no deer yet. Then, about an hour before dark, I caught movement of a clydesdale-like silhouette. A dream buck, ghosting through the underbrush like this had been his kingdom for years. I drew my bow, placed my single-pin just behind the front shoulder, and let the arrow fly. Call it nerves. Give me the classic excuse that my arrow hit a limb during its flight, or that the buck had ducked just enough. Either way, I could see a faint slice just an inch or two below the spine. An area bowhunters call “No man’s land”. He bolted, crashing through the brush, wounded but alive. My stomach sank. A nightmare that is inevitable for every bowhunter at least once in their life, now visited me.

I waited 30 minutes and then climbed down, just to circle a small area to see if there was any sign of a vital hit. Blood was sparse, just flecks on leaves, and with darkness closing in, I knew it’d be tough. I texted Kyle, letting him know I’d shot a big one but it wasn’t looking good. Legal shooting time was almost up, and I was slowly but surely losing hope as I played out different scenarios in my mind. Few of them ending with my hands on the bucks crown.

Meanwhile, Kyle was in his own world, perched in a stand overlooking a small food plot. He’d seen nothing but does all day, but he’s the patient type, content to wait out the dusk. Just as the last legal shooting light was fading, he caught movement. A buck—huge, head down, possibly trailing the faint scent of a hot doe that had made her way through the area prior. Kyle didn’t hesitate. He drew, aimed, and released, his arrow finding its mark. The deer stumbled, then vanished into the thicket. Kyle figured he’d made a clean shot, but with a buck of this caliber, only fools rush in. I received a text: “So…. you want to track your buck or mine first?” 

We met up shortly after, both buzzing with our own stories. I told him about my botched shot, and how we were in for a long night of tracking for even a chance of recovery. Kyle grinned and said his should be a quick track. We grabbed our flashlights, a pack of smokes and decided to track his deer first, figuring the more time we gave my buck, the better. The blood trail was solid—dark, frothy, a good lung hit. We followed it through briars and over a creek, hearts pounding, until we found him: an impressive main frame 10, with high brows and small kicker off his left G2. Even with a quick glance, it was clear this buck would score well into the 160s. Although he looked familiar for some reason.

But as we approached, something didn’t add up. The nock and fletchings of Kyle’s arrow was faintly showing just behind the bucks front shoulder, a perfect heart-lung shot. Then I saw it—another wound, just above where the lungs summit. We froze, staring at each other. “No way,” Kyle said, half-laughing, half-stunned. “It’s not possible.”

Piecing it together, it made sense. My shit shot had wounded the deer, not enough to drop him but enough to keep him moving. He must’ve run a straight line, nearly a thousand yards, spooked and hurting, right toward Kyle’s stand. By some wild stroke of luck—or fate—he’d crossed Kyle’s path just before dark, and Kyle, not seeing my hit in the low light, had taken the shot that finished him. We stood there, shaking our heads, marveling at the odds.

The buck was a beauty, with a rack that’d make any hunter’s knees weak. But more than the trophy, it was the story that hit us. Two friends, two arrows, one buck—a hunt we’d never forget. We field-dressed him under the moonlight, our breath steaming in the cold, swapping jabs about whose shot was better, even though the answer was obvious. Kyle claimed the kill, but I argued my arrow started the job, perhaps to save face. We laughed, knowing it didn’t matter. It was Kyle’s buck, but it played a part in both of our hunts. We both agreed it deserved a shoulder mount directly above the fireplace at the cabin.

Back at camp, we toasted to the hunt, the fire crackling as we recounted every detail. That night, the woods had woven our separate hunts into one, a reminder of why we do this: the unpredictability, the camaraderie, the stories that linger long after the meat’s in the freezer. That buck, with two arrows in him, was proof that the hunt never fails to surprise you.