No man knows when destiny first whispers, but the moment of truth can come at any time.

The man who is ready will gladly seize the moment in triumph but the unprepared may only be left with stories of what might have been.

Destiny first whispered to me when a buck trailed a doe out of the cover near my stand in the Port Gibson hills overlooking the mighty Mississippi River.

With the sun sinking beyond the Big Muddy to the west, the buck’s white antlers glistened in the last rays of light.

But was he a shooter? That was the question of the moment.

As he entered the opening, he turned my way and posed for an instant and I was able to capture him in my binoculars for a second.

His tines were long, and the main beams spread beyond the ears signaling a mature buck. He would be a trophy in my home area but not nearly as big as some that roamed the mountains near Port Gibson.

Seconds ticked by slowly as I agonized on whether to shoot. The buck was a 9-point with a split G2 on the right side and I wouldn’t have hesitated to pull the trigger back home, but this was different.

If I pulled the trigger my hunt would be over except for hogs and antlerless deer. If the buck of a lifetime came by I would have to watch him walk on by. Three-day hunts can be very long if you’re not seeing any deer, but they go by far too fast if you’re not successful at finding and tagging one.

Dead deer don’t grow antlers. They must live long to have a trophy rack anybody would be proud of.

But you must be prepared to go home empty handed if you want to shoot the biggest deer in a state wildlife management area. Letting them walk is just part of the process. Though trophies are usually defined by the hunter, going home empty-handed leaves a hollow feeling down deep into the very core of your soul.

I know because I’ve been there, too. On this day I chose to let him live.

Instinct and intuition

On the last day of my three-day WMA hunt I reverted to hunting techniques from my past and struck out through the woods on foot, searching for my date with destiny. If it was to come it would have to be on my terms. If not, I wouldn’t go down quietly sitting on a stand waiting for something to happen- or not.

Stalking slowly while taking two or three steps before pausing to scan the horizon I scoured the woods surrounding me searching for the flick of a tail, the glint of a buck’s eye, or shine of white antlers.

Easing along the ravine filled area I hunted slowly around, through and over the rugged terrain. This WMA was teeming with deer, turkeys, hogs and squirrels, a veritable paradise that I had access to for three days only and time was dwindling now.

Reaching the crest of a hill I peered down into the lush greenery and cane filled ravine and marveled at the sight. I could go no further as I’d reached the perfect vantage point, high above the thick basin below that held my Christmas dream- or so I hoped.

All was quiet on this mid-morning hunt except for the hoot of an owl or the occasional shrill cry of a pileated woodpecker. I was immersed in nature and relaxed and satisfied on my perch as everything seemed right.

Buck in rut

Forty-five minutes after sitting on the crest of the hill I spotted a single cane move in the middle of the thicket. I studied the area with binoculars but could never see anything there, yet there was no wind to have caused it.

At 10:15, I grunted twice with my natural voice and followed up a couple minutes later with two more deep guttural buck grunts.

“Crack!” Something stepped on a limb or piece of cane in the thicket.

“Pop,” snapped another limb closer to me a few minutes later. Could it be a buck searching for a doe or another adversary?

Suddenly the cane parted and a buck sporting a rocking chair rack stood right before me approximately 125 yards below my perch. He had no clue that I was watching from above. As the buck turned to look behind him his antlers spanned well past his ears confirming his trophy status.

Settling the crosshairs between his shoulder blades, I slowly squeezed the trigger.

“Tic-Pow,” roared my .270 Remington and the trophy buck collapsed instantly.

My Christmas wish had been answered with a 200-pound buck sporting a tall rocking chair 8-point, 19-inch wide rack.

Call Mike Giles at 601-917-3898 or email mikegiles18@comast.net.