It was nearly 50 years ago when I shot my first whitetail buck. I was instructed by my buddy to sit on a certain rock and watch a trail while he and a pal put on a drive. If I heard a crow cawing, that was his signal that deer were on the way. Fifteen minutes later I heard him call, and presently a forked horn whitetail appeared on the trail. I still remember my pounding heart as I tried to steady my rifle. Somehow my bullet found its mark, and I walked up to the little buck in awe. I was blooded. Killing that whitetail was a turning point in my life.
Nowadays, in some circles, I’d be ridiculed by shooting that small buck. According to a whole lot of hunters, we must let these little guys go and grow.
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