Taking the Water Less Traveled

As we landed on the beach that would serve as our access point for the next couple of days, the heavy fog engulfed the surrounding shore and the nearby timber stands. I couldn’t help but think about the multiyear journey that brought me to this point.

It had started some five or six years ago after seeing countless deer, some even mature branched bucks, on family trips to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. They would cruise the dunes, forage in what seemed uninhabitable conditions, and then fade into the cedar and other scrub brush. And while unhuntable due to the location, the allure of seeing deer with the crashing of waves resounding in the background was enough to spur my search to make it a hunting reality.

Hours, it seems, were poured into researching public lands across the Palmetto State by contacting state wildlife biologists and using HuntStand, with an emphasis on wildlife management areas that would be close to the ocean.

After finally narrowing it down to one particular island that was bow hunting only, I loaded up the old, 15-foot jon boat, outfitted with a ’78 Johnson motor, that my dad had passed down to me — a craft I fondly remember spending countless hours on as a kid fishing and crabbing. With the prospective island selected and the heirloom boat loaded, the coastal scouting trips began.

From spending time at the coast crabbing, picking oysters, fishing or simply vacationing with my kids, I knew the tides had pretty hefty swings to them that could make things interesting traveling alone. Also, there was some fear of getting stranded in knee-deep pluff mud or encountering gators during the warmer months. So, my first trek to the island was intentionally made during daylight hours, rolling in on a high tide one early November morning during the fall of 2022.

Some minor motor trouble, which may be expected with an ancient relic of an outboard, slowed my arrival to the western shore of the island, but once on land, I quickly began scouting. Game trails crisscrossed the salt marsh flats, and deer sign was abundant on the higher ground that was comprised of cabbage palmettos, pines and live oak forest stands.

As I brought my bow and a climber stand, I sat and hunted a small oak flat for a bit, but knew I had to make it back to the beach sooner rather than later, as the tide was going out, and I didn’t want to navigate back for the first time in the dark.

When I got to the beach, my boat was completely out of the water. The tide had already dropped 5-6 feet. I had to unload everything from the boat, including the gas tank and motor, to push the boat back into the water, but I managed to get it done without too much trouble. And since it was low tide, I plucked a few oysters on the way out.

The next two trips to the island, December of 2022 and October of 2023, were marked by boat troubles. During the first outing, I discovered the boat had a torn transom after making it to the island. I had called off work for three days in hopes of camping and hunting, but I never even set up a stand. The following fall my trip ended prematurely with engine throttle issues, and luckily, I wasn’t stranded. To make it back to shore, I had to take the cowling off the outboard and push the throttle with a scrap board I had in the boat for cutting bait on.

But things were different this time around, with the boat on the shore of the island for the second time in two days without any motor issues. The afternoon before, David and I had set up a mix of climber and hang-on stands in the midst of a steady rain. With tree stands strategically placed and two days with no boat troubles, it felt like the shot at successfully arrowing an island deer could be a reality this time around.

It wasn’t long before David, Justin and I were split up and heading to our respective stands on the edge of the salt marsh, just a few hundred yards from where we had secured the boat on the beach.

And I had just hoisted my gear 15 feet up into the pine when a text came across my phone — already there had been deer activity.

Justin had two does cruise past his stand, but he wasn’t yet set and had unfortunately dropped his pack from his climber. The deer had spooked and run further down the marsh past David, who also wasn’t yet set.

Still, seeing deer early is always a good sign.

The fog finally began to lift, unveiling the beauty of the island. From my perch, I gazed at the live oaks with Spanish moss draped across their branches, the pockets of water teaming with minnows that for now were stranded, and shore birds cruised the flats, feeding on small crabs and maybe periwinkles. The roar of the ocean in the distance tied the scenery together, reminding me of the unique beauty of the place I was hunting. This is the moment I had been trying to make a reality.

Though it was easy to get lost in the moment, my ears perked up as I heard distant splashing sounds like footsteps in a puddle.

I grabbed my bow and stood in my stand just in time to see the rack of a buck taking a trail toward me. I drew back, and when he stopped at 20 yards, completely broadside, I let my arrow fly. It hit its mark. The coastal buck ran back the direction he came from for just a few seconds, until I soon heard the splash of him being down.

I cannot describe the feelings that overcame me as Justin, David and I walked up on the deer together. Maybe it was the legwork over the years to make the trip a reality, the troubles that I had overcome or simply that I was sharing the experience with two friends. Either way, the successful hunt on a remote island on the coast of South Carolina is something I will not soon forget.

True adventures such as this one are out there awaiting those who are willing to take the path, or even water, less traveled.