jerry mikeska hunt

Some traditions will never die, thank goodness, like being able to gain access to hunt somebody’s land just by asking. In this day, those places are becoming harder to find, but they do still exist. If you know who to ask.

I first met Jerry Mikeska at a poker tournament in the back woods a few miles north of Columbus, Texas. He was a friend of my grandfather’s way back in the day, and after the tournament was over, Jerry invited me to a monthly poker game he holds at his camp house. It was during those monthly games that we became good friends, and I quickly learned that Jerry was an avid hunter. He obliged the very first time I asked if I could try bow hunting his place that October, “But only take a doe,” he added.

That wasn’t a problem for me; all I wanted was to go.

Jerry owns and operates a famous BBQ place on Interstate 10 in Columbus, where at the spry age of 90, he still goes to work everyday in his usual attire of black trousers, tuxedo-style white shirt and black bow tie, and other than the room full of trophy mounts of every kind, he’s the main reason that people frequent the place.

It had been a good three years since I’d let an arrow fly at a deer. After buying a new Excalibur Exomag crossbow, I was itching to use it; I just hadn’t gotten a shot in the past three seasons. I was due.

That October, my buddy John Trapp and I headed to Jerry’s to put up a ground blind and settle in for an afternoon hunt. We decided on a large clearing in the brush where a grove of old live oaks blocked out the sky above. An old hay barn stood on the south end where the road came in, and we carved a little spot into the underbrush so that it was off to our right. There we’d have the wind in our face and the sun would set behind us. There, we had the edge.

Two hours later, the clearing came alive with movement. Does and a few small bucks cruised through in and out of view, but none within the 30 yard range that I’d set as my maximum. At sundown, the wind layed and it fell deathly quiet, leaving only our whispers and the two remaining doe milling around the clearing the only sounds I could hear. John and I both were falling into that trance that sitting still for two hours can cause… when…

Footsteps! Loud footsteps in the leaves behind us, and so close that all we could do was freeze. I cringed inside, slowly getting as low as I could and straining my eyeballs to the right. ‘This one’s gonna be close,’ I remember thinking. I knew what was about to happen. A huge heavy rack came into view just over the top of the blind and not 5 steps away. That’s all I could see at the moment, when t suddenly stopped and whipped around toward us. I could feel my heart beating and held my breath in the excitement. The buck stood there, looking through us, then leapt away and landed 15 yards away focused on the two doe. I had a shot right there if I wanted, but Jerry said does only. It was a great afternoon either way.

Half a year went by and I tried my best to forget that buck. Mostly because I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, much less get a chance to hunt him. “Did you ever get that big 8 point Jerry?” I asked during one of our summer poker games. “No, you should’ve shot him,” Jerry replied, “You can go after him this fall.” Well, that’s all I needed to hear.

Three months later, it was October again and John and I again dropped quietly out of my truck and into a brush blind that we’d set up the week before, this time on the opposite side of the clearing where a small stand of yaupon surrounded the trunk of a massive live oak. It was a perfect hiding place, and an ideal fall day to deer hunt, cool and clear and calm. We had the right wind and were set up in only a few minutes. John left to park my truck and get back as soon as he could since we had maybe two hours until dark.

Naturally, Jerry knew we were hunting, so here he came on his quad 4-wheeler to spread corn out in front of us before going back to work. I’ll never forget him in his white shirt and bow tie and grinning from ear to ear. He was having as much fun as we were.

An hour later, we sat tucked away in the northeast corner of that same clearing where we hunted the year before, the same one where we’d crossed paths with that big 8 point. The barn was off to my left this time, with its wood beginning to fade after a half century of weathering. My anticipation grew with the shadows, the same as every afternoon hunt I’d ever been on. But this wasn’t just any hunt, the rut was on, and John and I both knew what that meant. Bucks were on the move. Excitement swirled around in the air like a dying breeze as deer began to fill the clearing. Behind our blind, we started hearing hoofsteps in the leaves as more deer came in. I remember hoping we wouldn’t get busted since they were going to pass downwind at twenty yards. And we didn’t.

A spike suddenly burst out, chasing two does out from the brush. Hot on their trail was another small buck, chasing both does around for a few minutes before pushing them out into the opening. John and I sat motionless, trying hard not to move with so many eyes were in the area. When one of the does came within range, I signaled to John that I was going to take a shot. Slowly I raised up… and zing! Right over her back, my arrow skipped loudly off the ground and up into the trees. Deer scattered in every direction and in an instant they were gone.

A few minutes later, all was quiet again. In a half hour, still nothing was stirring when a buck emerged from the trees. A shooter! He looked like it to me anyway as he skirted the far side with his nose to the ground like a hound dog. The longer we watched him, the bigger he got, a big eight point. When he stopped to look our way, I knew I wanted a shot at this buck.

The buck kept going around, all the way around, eventually disappearing behind the barn and in the direction where some of the does had left earlier. I followed as long as I could before he went out of sight. “What’s he doing?” I asked John since he was sitting between me and the tree trunk and he was peeking around it to see. “Nothing. Looks like he’s going around behind us,” John whispered back, “No, he’s coming this way.” With that, I felt the rush of anticipation. I slid my bow as far left as I could just in case he came by. I needed to be ready. There was short line of oaks 15 yards to my left and if I was going to get a shot he would have to come in between them and us. And he would be real close if he did. “What’s he doing?” I pressed excitedly, “Where is he?” “He’s coming,” John said leaning against the bark, “he’s going to come right in front.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t have much time to think about it though. In the next moment, he strode right in, big as Dallas and still cruising. I leaned into the scope, found his shoulder and let an arrow fly all in one quick motion. “I got him,” I said after seeing the feathers vanish into a tiny red circle as the buck bolted off. And I kept saying it until he was 100 yards away and still going strong. He finally stopped at the tree line, finally starting to look like he was hit before slinking into the woods and disappearing. I knew he was done.