A Near Record Buck

I have to talk up my cousin.
He hunts. He eats it, processes it himself, does it all as humanely as possible. He's a good guy.
Well, he saw NO deer throughout the season, so finally decided to come up and install our new floors (he's a carpenter).
He got one floor done and 2 days later, shot a doe. Big doe! He was thrilled!
Finished butchering her and came to install the second floor.
Finished the second one and shot another deer. A Buck. A Big Buck. A near record buck.

156# field dressed.

Here, in his own words, is the full story of the hunt.

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

It was December 15, 2007; a day that I thought would be the last good day to hunt the NY muzzleloader season, with a nor’easter moving in the next day.

My season had been poor, having not seen a buck since the beginning of regular season a month before. When the alarm went off, I toyed with the idea of staying in bed, but forced myself to get up. While eating breakfast, I still thought about staying in the warmth of the house. Instead I went to my hunting room, loaded the muzzleloader, and started putting on layers of clothes.

As I started up the driveway to my parents’ home where I hunt, I tried to decide what stand to spend my last hunt of the year in. Bringing the truck to a stop and shutting off the engine, I decided to sit in the brush lot below the house where I could overlook a creek bottom, and deciding not to climb the hill above the house. “What’s the difference?” I asked myself. I doubted I’d see a buck anyway.

I made my way to the stand and climbed the ladder to my perch above the creek. Soon after settling in I saw two ghostly shapes running through the brush in the creek bottom below. I grabbed my binoculars and locked on the shadow that has halted in the gray pre-dawn darkness. It looked like it could be buck, I thought, as the deer turned its head scanning its surroundings.

I stayed locked on the deer as it stood like a statue; just its head moving as it continued scanning the area. After 10 minutes, with the coming dawn pushing back the darkness of night, I could make out the spread of antlers silhouetted against the snow left from the last storm. My breath caught in my throat as its head turned back and forth. This was the widest rack I had ever seen while hunting. Minutes passed and soon it was light enough to see the long tines moving against the white background. Now, my heart was pounding!

It had been almost one-half hour since I saw him moving down the creek, and it was now legal hunting hours. He hadn’t moved 30 feet in this period of time and continued to check his surroundings. I estimated the yardage at 120 yards and, as I looked through the scope, agonized over whether I should try to get down and move in closer. “There is too much brush,” I thought. As I continued to watch him, I hoped he would bed for the morning so I could move closer. After what seemed like hours, he moved about ten feet into an opening, and I brought the gun up again searching for a clear shot through the scope.

I had it, a clear shot! I pulled the hammer back on the Winchester Apex and settled the cross hairs just behind his shoulder, slowly squeezed the trigger and …. click. Nothing! “Did I forget the primer,” I curse myself, as I dropped the breech. No, there was the primer with a dent in it. I closed the breech and pulled the hammer back again. Resting the gun on the netting in front of the stand, I put the crosshairs behind his shoulder and squeezed the trigger again … click! Panicking now, I dropped the breech and wondered … “Is it so cold the hammer is frozen and not striking the primer hard enough?” With my eyes locked on the buck, I dug the primer out and put a fresh one in its place. He had still not moved. For the third time I rested the gun and put the cross hairs behind his shoulder. I closed my eyes and prayed, “God, please let this shot go off,” as I pulled the hammer back. I tell myself, “This buck has not moved in a half hour, you have a great sight picture, don’t jerk the trigger, squeeze it!” My mind wills my finger to gently touch the trigger and begin slowly squeezing it. This time there is the loud report of the muzzleloader going off. As the buck disappeared in the cloud of smoke, I thought I saw him hunch up as the bullet hit him.

When the smoke cleared, I looked to the spot where he was standing and saw only empty snow. There was a deer running through the brush and I thought, “Did I miss him?” I began reloading and saw a buck coming to the edge of the creek looking as if he wants to cross. “You and I are getting on the same playing field,” I thought as I climbed to the ground hoping to cut him off as he crossed the creek. I crawled to the top of the cliff overlooking the creek where I could be 50 yards closer to him than in my tree stand. When I got there, I peered over and scanned the creek bottom. From my vantage point, I saw a buck trying to mount a doe and yanked the gun to my shoulder looking at the deer through my scope. I could barely make out antlers and thought, “This is not the buck I shot at; I must have hit him. There is no way he would have let that rag-horn breed that doe if he was alive.” Slowly I made my way down the bank and found a spot to cross the creek.

Getting to the other side, I looked back up trying to see my stand and get a shot path. Even with my binoculars, I cannot find my stand against the background so I began zigzagging the narrow strip of land between the creek and the mud-bottomed channel running parallel to it. Soon I found huge buck tracks with slushy mud sprayed in the snow around them, but no blood. My heart sunk as I thought I must have missed him.

Continuing my search, I decided that I should get someone to help. If I sit in my tree stand, I could direct them with radios to where the buck was and figure this out. As I turned back to the creek to go for help, I saw flecks of bright red blood sprayed across the snow and my spirits soared as I thought, “I did hit him!”

I began tracking the blood and, after 30 yards, the tracks led me to the channel. I scanned the snow on the other side looking for the blood where he exited. Then I saw him, lying in the middle of the channel with half of his rack protruding out of the water, his 10-inch G2’s look like thick daggers coming off the massive beams. My aim had been true, the bullet entered just behind the right shoulder, went through both lungs, and exited at the center of the left shoulder.

“I knew he was a good buck, but I didn’t know he was this good,” I thought! He is a 140-class buck, which is pretty outstanding for my area of New York State. He is the buck of my lifetime, and he will have a place of honor on my living room wall. I have been hunting for him all my life.

Leslie here again,
This buck was large enough, that as word spread, hunters from all over the region came to see for themselves. Being a small town, the traffic was a bit much for the roads, and believe it or not, the county sheriff's department came and directed traffic!

This was a pretty big do for the area.