10/01/2026
The Night Before October 1st
An Oklahoma Whitetail Tale
’Twas the night before October, and all through the house,
Not a hunter was sleeping—not even his spouse.
The broadheads were sharpened, the bowstrings were tight,
And the gear was all packed for the morning’s first light.
The boots were by the doorway, the camo laid out,
With scent-free detergent and arrows about.
The bow was tuned perfectly, the broadheads were new,
And the hunter checked everything twice—then once more, too.
His backpack was packed with his snacks and his gear,
His rangefinder, release, and a thermos of cheer.
The climbing stand waited beside the old truck,
And tomorrow, he hoped, he would finally get lucky.
Outside in the darkness, the Oklahoma wind
Moved softly through cedar and oak without end.
The moon hung above the tall prairie grass,
While dreams of a big buck continued to pass.
For months he had waited for this special day,
When October first finally opened the way.
The whitetails were moving, the rut wasn’t far,
And somewhere out there was a big Oklahoma star.
He pictured a buck with a wide, heavy rack,
Stepping from cover and never looking back.
A giant old whitetail, cautious and wise,
With dark antlers rising beneath Oklahoma skies.
Then suddenly—wait!—what was that by the door?
He grabbed up his bow and stepped onto the floor.
But no, it was nothing—just wind in the trees.
He laughed to himself, “Go to sleep, if you please.”
So back to his bed, but sleep wouldn’t come,
For visions of whitetails made rest rather numb.
He thought of the mornings, the frost and the dew,
The countless long hours that hunters all knew.
He thought of the climbs and the sits in the stand,
Of tracks in the mud and fresh rubs in the land.
Of scrapes underneath every old oak tree,
And wondered what buck tomorrow he’d see.
Then morning would come with the first hint of light,
And he’d slip through the woods while the world was still quiet.
No truck would be roaring, no voices would call—
Just footsteps and whispers and the woods waking all.
The Oklahoma sunrise would paint the sky red,
As he settled in quietly above the riverbed.
He’d nock up an arrow and wait for the day,
Knowing one moment could make all the hours pay.
And then, from the timber, perhaps he would hear
The unmistakable footsteps of a whitetail deer.
A twig would snap softly. Leaves would begin to sway.
And suddenly hunting would matter that day.
Maybe a doe would appear through the brush,
Or maybe a young buck would sneak in with a rush.
Or maybe—just maybe—the buck of his dreams
Would step into view through the morning sunbeams.
His heart would beat faster, his breathing grow slow,
As the buck took each step through the leaves down below.
He’d draw back his bow with a hunter’s control,
And trust in the practice that sharpened his soul.
But whether he filled his tag or went home empty,
He’d still count the morning as one of the plenty.
For hunting’s not only the antlers we chase—
It’s the time spent outdoors in God’s wildest place.
It’s the sunrise, the silence, the wind through the trees,
The sound of a buck moving somewhere with ease.
It’s memories made that will last through the years,
And stories we tell around campfires and beers.
So here’s to October, to whitetails and woods,
To Oklahoma mornings and hunting that’s good.
May your broadhead fly true and your patience stay strong,
And may that big buck you’ve dreamed of come along.
So pack up your gear and get ready tonight,
For tomorrow’s the day we’ve been waiting in sight.
October the first—let the Oklahoma woods call!
Happy hunting to all, and to all a great fall!
And somewhere beyond the moonlit old oak,
A big Oklahoma whitetail stepped from the smoke.
He paused in the shadows, then vanished from sight—
For tomorrow morning… the hunt starts at first light.
