Recently I had the pleasure of going on my first deer hunt. I say I had the pleasure because, despite the following events, I had fun and that's what matters to me. Let me explain.

My first deer hunt. I was excited to say the least. I had been since January, when my older brother brought home an old Winchester .30-30 and said, "Happy Birthday!" I had seen it in a small gun store. Sure there were other rifles I liked, one Marlin in particular, but when I picked up that beautiful Winchester lever action I fell in love.

I had been practicing like a mad man every weekend. Out of necessity I got into reloading. It wasn't long before I could hit a fist sized target out to a hundred yards with nothing but iron sights. Then, the big day rolled around.

All packed, my brother and I headed out for our chosen hunting spot on some public land a few hours north of us. The deer season didn't open until the next day, but we were allowed to set up stands. We set up my stand in a spot where I had found an eight-point rack shed earlier in the year. It was promising; there had been fresh sign every time we had been back there. Return to camp, quick dinner, then to sleep. We would need to be rested tomorrow.

Opening day went by in a blur, without sight or sound of anything larger than a squirrel. The next few days turned out to be more of the same.

Then on day four I got into the stand at around 2:00 PM for an afternoon hunt. No more then five minutes after I had gotten into the tree, gunshots erupted in the distance behind me. At first I figured it would help cover up the noise I was making, getting myself set up. But the shooting didn't stop. Ten minutes later, thirty minutes later, an hour later, still the shooting didn't stop. Needless to say I was aggravated, for the shots had been close enough to scare away every animal close to me, or so I thought.

After two hours of shooting, the forest went silent. I thought to myself, "Finally out of ammo." It was then that I saw a brown patch moving slowly through a bed of palmettos about 75 yards to my left. As the height of the palms diminished, I saw that the brown patch was part of a three-point buck.

I was shaking as I drew a bead on his vitals. He was moving, but slowly, so I figured I could hit him squarely. I slowly cocked my rifle, keeping a relatively steady sight picture on him. The soft clicking of my gun coming to full cock caused the deer to stop dead in his tracks, tail slightly raised. My finger slid off the side of the action, into the trigger guard.

The tip of my finger had barely even begun to touch the trigger when a shot rang out behind me. Of course the deer, already spooked, bolted, diving into some heavy brush.

I don't quite know how I maintained my self-control long enough to safely put the hammer down on my gun, but I did. After that I had completely lost it. I let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, loud enough for the offending shooters to hear me.

Because of the regulations in this area, there was no way they had been engaged in any legitimate activity. Either they were hunting birds (not allowed in this spot), or plinking (also not allowed and in any case very bad manners during deer season). Everyone in camp felt that I had every right to be angry.

All in all, despite what happened, it was a good nine days. I had at least seen a buck. I saw plenty of does, learned a lot of new things and developed a plan of action for next year.