A boy's first buck is something that's etched in his memory forever. It matters little if the buck is a pencil spike or a full-framed 10-pointer. In a young man's eyes, that first deer will always be a one-of-a-kind trophy. Like other "firsts" in a youngster's life, the experience will forever rank at the top of the list with other notable achievements. Chances are, the memory of that special event will be kept alive because the antlers of that first buck--no matter how large or how small--will become a sacred and cherished possession.

In my case, the recollection of that proud occasion is still vivid in my mind. However, one key ingredient is noticeably missing from the equation--the cherished antlers. Instead of that blessed memory revolving around a personal achievement, the remembrance of my first buck revolves around something I later recognized to be much more important--an act of friendship.

I was sixteen at the time. It was my third season of deer hunting. I was hunting on public land in central Georgia with a close high school friend. My friend's father was an avid deer hunter who belonged to a large club, and my friend and his father often invited me to hunt with them.

On Saturday morning, I went out armed with a borrowed Marlin .35 Remington lever-action carbine. I managed to locate an old field pine on the side of a gently sloping hardwood ridge near a major deer trail. The pine tree had lots of limbs, and it seemed like a perfect place to take a stand. I climbed about ten feet off the ground and found a good heavy limb to put my weight on. Balanced on one sturdy limb, I was able to lean back against another so that I was more or less in a standing position. That way, I could aim and shoot.

It was very cold that morning. After an hour or so, I began to shiver so badly I decided to climb down and walk around for a few minutes in an effort to try and warm up. No sooner had I started to climb down the tree, than I looked over and saw an approaching deer. For some unknown reason, the deer did not notice the shaking limbs or the considerable noise I was making.

I realized immediately that it was a buck. What I didn't realize at the time was the fact that this buck had only one antler. I was looking at the near side, the side with the good antler. The antler on the far side had been broken off at the base. The buck's one good antler had four points on it, though, and that's what I saw. In my mind, I was looking at a sleek, fully racked 8-point buck. Had he possessed both antlers, the buck would have been a fine trophy for anyone in the woods that day. But as a boy's first buck, he was exceptional. Now I found myself shaking for an entirely different reason.

By some miracle I was able to get my contorted body back to the limb I had been standing on. I managed to get my rifle up and placed the iron sights just behind the buck's shoulder. He was walking broadside about forty yards away, and it was a fairly easy shot even with iron sights. I squeezed the trigger, and the morning woods exploded. By sheer luck, the .35 Remington slug hit the deer solidly just behind the shoulder, right where I'd been aiming. He ran over the ridge in a blinding blur of white and gray and disappeared. I nearly fell out of the tree trying to climb down. With rubbery legs that seemed to have a mind of their own, I staggered a few yards ahead. To my utter surprise, I stumbled over a very distinct blood trail.