Too many hunters underestimate how much vocal communication goes on between whitetails and hence are missing opportunities to bring bucks to them.

I'd willed myself to stay in the stand all day, but I was dreaming of bailing out. My coffee thermos was empty by 9:30. At 10:15, two hours after I'd seen my last deer, I'd pillaged my snack bag. Louis L'Amour had me captivated by 10:45, when I began checking trails between paragraphs.

I pull off several dawn-til-dark vigils each fall, but I don't kid anyone about them being easy--or exciting. But a high-racked 10-point had me stashing my paperback in a heartbeat. He appeared at the far end of my ridge at 11:30, walking with that been-up-all-night shuffle that rutting bucks exhibit in early November.

Though headed in my general direction, the buck seemed intent on a very clear destination. If that path didn't take him past my stand, I was going to have to coax him in. When he hit the 150-yard mark, the buck slowly hoofed toward a ridge top that would take him out of my life. It was time for action.

Grabbing the lanyard holding my grunt call, I made a clear tending grunt. The buck paused. I grunted again, slightly louder. The buck stared blankly my way, exhaled visibly and scratched an ear with a hind foot. Then he continued on course, plodding until he'd disappeared over the ridge.

Not long ago, I'd have sighed deeply, sat down on my stand seat and prayed for a more aggressive buck next time. Instead, I dropped the call and reached for my rattling antlers.

"You're gonna hear me now, you bugger!" I whispered fiercely. Crashing the horns together, I created a 30-second fracas that jarred the November morning. Then I made a series of loud, bawling grunts and tossed in an estrous doe bleat from a can call.

I was about to reach for the grunter again when I spotted movement where the deer had disappeared into the trees. Tall, ivory tines were weaving through the brush, heading my way. Less than a minute later, the gorgeous Iowa buck was standing at a mock scrape I'd made on a logging road. My arrow zipped through him at 20 yards. He died within sight.

That midday trophy was perhaps the most dramatic example of the effects of aggressive calling, but it wasn't the first and certainly won't be the last.

I've been calling to whitetails for much of my hunting career, but until I started putting some volume and passion into it, my results were lackluster. Oh, I'd grunt in the odd, randy buck every so often, but overall I know I didn't place that much confidence in my ability. So many bucks ignored my efforts that I eventually viewed a grunt call and rattling antlers more as jewelry than as essentials.

These days I place them third on my list of must-haves, right behind a gun or bow and binoculars. I can forget my daypack, tree stand, even an extra layer of camo, but I don't leave the truck without my calls. Here's why.

Most of us recognize that whitetails are social, vocalizing critters. Even the greenest hunter quickly accepts grunts, snorts and bleats as bona fide deer talk. But deep in our guts, we think such conversation is more the exception than the rule. Understandable.

Compared to Canada geese, turkeys or even elk, deer seem relatively shut-mouthed. And since we don't often hear their dialogue, we figure it isn't that important. That's where we're dead-nut wrong.

I came to this realization in, of all places, a deer park. My wife, Shari, and I were on vacation one summer many years ago and, for no other reason than boredom, decided to stop at a wildlife petting zoo.

We paraded past caged bruins and incarcerated coyotes until we reached a huge enclosure where the domesticated whitetails grazed. Since there were several huge bucks in there, Shari and I slipped through the gate and wandered among the herd.