A surprising eight-point

"I am convinced that the magician Freston has changed those giants into windmills to deprive me of the glory of victory: such is the enmity he bears against me."

As his fantastic adventures would abruptly end, Cervantes' Don Quixote would often blame the sudden change of situation on the tinkerings of an imaginary Moorish magician named Freston.

The final week of deer season, I was left wondering if Freston himself had not placed himself in the 21st century deer woods of Pennsylvania.

As I hunted the final week, I focused my efforts in the places where I thought no one else would have hunted. I believed that large mature bucks would sense the lack of human presence and be hiding in these thick areas and steep hillsides.

Wednesday afternoon I was sneaking along the edge of one steep hillside. The hemlock and spruces were blanketed in snow. I was approaching a point where an incoming hollow entered the valley when I saw a doe below me.

I stalked a little farther for a better view. That was perhaps a mistake. The hillside soon exploded with numerous deer running out from underneath the snow-covered pines, a considerable distance below me, angling down the mountain.

I assumed they would cut up into the hollow to run into the wind. I scampered up the hill to cross over the top so that I could look down into the nearby hollow. I hoped I would be able to see them sneaking out the hillside through the hemlocks.

My theory was correct, but they beat me to my watch. As I crossed the top to look down over, deer were already running out the first bench below me. Immediately I glimpsed one enormous buck.

I never had a shot, and the deer kept angling up the hill to where they started breaking into the open woods on top. Then something miraculous happened. They stopped about 200 yards away. Through the trees I could just see bits and pieces of deer.

I began slowly stalking to where I had some shooting and viewing lanes. The group of deer slowly began to move. I had my gun rested on a downed tree and began scoping the deer. I scoped out a rack buck. I could easily see it was more than legal, but couldn't make out if it was the monster I had seen with the group.

After a minute or so, he turned his head, and it was unmistakable. I pushed the safety off and began to squeeze the trigger . . . and he stepped. I lost him in the trees.

I stealthily made my way to another tree where I had a viewing lane. The deer began to file through. If another shot presented itself, I wasn't going to lose the opportunity.

He stopped in the opening. I saw it was a rack buck and since I hadn't noticed any others in the group, I knew it must be him. There were trees in the way, but I had a shot at part of his chest. I took it. With the shot, the woods exploded with running deer.

Excitedly I approached where he had been standing. I found hair. I began following his tracks. Soon there was blood, but only tiny little drops. He was running hard downhill. My gun hadn't been real steady when I shot and I was down on myself, thinking it wasn't a mortal hit. I continued on, tracking him through the snow down onto the hemlock hillside.

I was halfway down the hill when I saw a deer lying below me. My heart raced with joy. I slid down the hill toward him, and then I saw his head and was confused.

The buck I had seen had a huge, high rack, with about a twenty-inch spread. This buck was considerably smaller.

It was a small eight-point, probably two and one-half years old, with a 15-inch spread. I couldn't believe it.

I had mixed emotions. I was happy that I got the buck, but disappointed it wasn't the big one that I thought I was shooting. I would have passed on this buck to let him grow another year.

I now assume there was a smaller rack buck running with the group. I never identified him through the hemlocks. When I shot, I didn't have a good view of the deer's rack.

Apparently, I shot the wrong one.

Or perhaps that Freston guy changed the buck on me after I shot it to rob me of the glory of shooting the trophy . . .