The great hunt

Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues.

*** SHE SAID

Had you been looking just a few days before Christmas, you wouldn't have found me hanging ornaments on a tree, baking cookies or shopping for cashmere at the mall.

No, you would have needed to look harder than that, especially because I was dressed in head-to-toe camouflage and sitting inside a camouflaged ground blind.

I missed the opening weekend of Missouri whitetail firearms season because I volunteered to help my little brother move into his new house. I love Scott, but it was still a tough decision. I can only remember one other time in the last 15 years that I've missed opening morning of deer season.

But my hunt this year actually started earlier than firearms season. For the first time in my life, I tried bow hunting. I've been interested for a while, but my left shoulder is fairly useless because of a rotator cuff/AC joint injury that last year's surgery didn't entirely cure. But this year, I was eligible for a special crossbow permit that made it possible. I was great with the bow -- during my first target practice, I even managed to split an arrow with my second shot, movie-style. (My dad grumbled a little about his wasted $22 arrow.) So I hunted about every other weekend from September through November. Unfortunately, it turns out I'm pretty lousy with a bow in real-life situations. I missed opportunities for two smaller bucks because I was too clumsy or too slow.

By mid-December I was still deerless. That's not to say there hadn't been any excitement. Since July, my dad and I have been watching a pretty massive 11-point buck via game cameras. Every other day, we'd call each other for updates on what the prior night's photos showed of this deer. But this buck would never show itself in daylight close enough for a bow shot.

So the opening weekend of black powder season found my dad and me tucked into the blind while Bob once again watched Dawson and Eli. Bob's not much for hunting, but he's a pretty good sport about me doing it.

After two and half hours in the blind, we began seeing deer -- a couple of smaller bucks that our trophy had been hanging out with. And suddenly, there he was. Unlike the clumsy bow, I had no problem getting the crosshairs of the muzzleloader on his front shoulders. Through the puff of smoke after I fired, I caught sight of the deer whirling and running hard.

"I missed," I said. "Oh my gosh, I missed." My dad took a slightly more positive view: "You couldn't have missed at that distance," he said. "If you missed at that distance, you ought to be shot!"

We walked over to the tree the deer had been standing by, just to check. No blood. I buried my face in my hands and tried to stop my stomach from churning in dejection.

After a few minutes of looking, it began to get dark. My dad got a flashlight and walked a few more feet into the woods and there it was -- the tiniest drop of blood.

Fifty feet away, we found my deer. I'm still not sure who was more excited -- my dad, who has been watching this deer on a near daily basis for six months, or me.

It's been 13 years since my dad and I have hunted together. I started sitting by myself when I was about 14. But bow hunting and this deer brought us back into the blind together again. Not only that, but I've now killed the two largest deer of my life with my dad sitting right beside me. Even though I've been my own woman for quite a while now, it's nice to know I can still be my daddy's girl sometimes.

Callie Clark Miller writes for the Southeast Missourian's special publications when she's not hunting. Bob Miller is Southeast Missourian editor who would rather shoot a photo than a gun. Reach them at cmiller@semissourian.com and bmiller@semissourian.com.