November 18th, 2012: the second day of Tennessee's gun season.
For several months leading up to deer season, I had been practicing with my then new Smith and Wesson Model 460. I practiced at various ranges and from different field positions, sending countless factory loads and handloads downrange over the course of the summer and into the fall. My confidence in my shooting abilities increasing every shooting session, I felt prepared to take to the woods armed with a handgun - a dream I've had ever since taking the hunter safety course all those years ago.
One shooting session in late September put a damper on that dream. It started out normally enough, but soon I noticed an issue arise. When I'd try to close the cylinder, it wouldn't latch into place, meaning it couldn't fire. I did what I could in an attempt to fix it, namely taking apart what I could to clean everything thoroughly, but my efforts were in vain. I took it to a gunsmith, who later informed me he had to send it off to Smith & Wesson to have the faulty cylinder locking mechanism replaced. Fortunately, that was covered under the warranty.
I hoped that it wouldn’t be a long wait, but I was wrong. Weeks passed with no word about my 460. Then muzzleloader season came and went, the opening day of which saw me bring down the first buck I’d killed on the property in three years, a respectable 8-point, just minutes before legal shooting light ended. My success, along with the prospect of even larger bucks running around as evidenced by trail cameras, continued to build up my excitement for gun season. Now if only I would get my 460 back in time.
It didn’t happen. The opening morning of gun season saw my load my old Weatherby Vanguard with five 270 Wiinchester rounds and take to the woods. However, that day was rather uneventful, with only a few does and small bucks making an appearance. I headed back to the house as night fell, ready to head out again the next morning.
November 18th, 2012. I sat in a blind positioned on the southern edge of a rectangular field roughly 400 yards wide and 200 yards long. Since I wasn’t limited by the range of a handgun, why not choose a location that may require me to reach out and shoot at extended ranges? A buck walked out just before shooting light; I couldn’t tell much about him due to the low light conditions, except that he was likely a decent buck. I passed on him, hopeful he’d return later so I could get a better look at him.
I saw the doe first, at about 7:10 that morning. She stepped out of the woods at roughly 60 yards or so to my right, walking diagonally leftward and into the field. Two fawns followed closely behind. I stupidly had positioned myself for a shot to my left, and with three pairs of eyes watching me I didn’t want to risk moving the rifle to the correct window. I had to move it, however, when I saw the buck that was following her.
It was his thick, swollen neck that first alerted me to the fact that a large buck was bearing down on my position. I only saw his antlers after he fully cleared the edge of the woods. His antlers easily spread past his ears, which is my primary criteria for shooting a buck. He couldn’t have been any more than 40 yards away; easily within handgun range, if I had mine with me.
He saw me move the rifle, but I managed to capture his attention with a grunt call just as I was inexplicably struck with a leg cramp. As he turned to face his “challenger,” I put a 130 grain Ballistic Tip in his shoulder. He began to run, but he didn’t get far. He was dead long before I reached him. I admired his rack as I waited for the pain in my leg to subside. He was, and still is, my largest buck ever, both in antler and body size.
The irony of all this? I got my 460 back the very next day.
