“If you consider an unsuccessful hunt to be a waste of time, then the true meaning of the chase eludes you all together.” -Fred Bear
As bowhunters we all want an epic story, rich in history with that specific, elusive whitetail deer. It’s the deer that you “know” and have “passed” numerous times, you’ve found his sheds, and know where he beds. The intimate details of his daily and even seasonal routines are documented in a library of trail camera photos. You tell your buddies, “this deer is too young to shoot. In a couple years he’ll blow into a giant!” He’ll be big enough to make the most seasoned hunter’s heart pound. That’s cool and all and sure sometimes it plays out like that, but let's be honest, it's pretty rare and nearly unheard of in New England. I have killed numerous pope and young bucks in Connecticut, and there was only one deer that I truly had history with. The rest of the deer I may have caught on camera or run into him a time or two, but they were nothing close to textbook multi-season hunts. Typically, I found sign of a big deer, made a plan, and I hunted until I harvested him. In today's industry you hear everyone naming deer and creating a “hit list” for the deer that they want to kill. I do not. The only names deer get are, “the 8” or “the 10.” I called the one and only deer with true history, “The Big 6”. The story of The Big 6 began two years ago, or so I thought. It was only after I killed him that I returned to my trail camera archives and realized the history began four years ago in a thick swamp, on the ground, with my bow.
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Many of you know that I have grown up in a family of hunters and by extension have become one myself. I began shooting a bow as young as age 6 with my first homemade stick and string longbow. As I grew older, I noticed how much it excited my dad to share this passion with me. When I was old enough to hunt, he dragged me to the local sportsman’s club for the hunter safety course, where I shot a bullseye before heading out the door to pursue my passion on the soccer field. In high school, I was consumed with sports and academics, and I allowed my perfectionist tendencies to take control. It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I realized making time to hunt would benefit me and bring me closer to my older brother, Drew. I described hunting as my father’s passion, but it is my brother’s sickness; obsession is too soft of a word.
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