It is 10:00 a.m., November 22, 1971, as I sit down to enjoy a cup of coffee from my thermos. I am very excited and thoroughly satisfied. Although it is deer season, I am content to enjoy my coffee at leisure, for several reasons. First, I am exhausted from dragging my trophy buck to this spot. Second, most of the day is still ahead of me and I don’t have too much to do. Third, I have at my feet the object of a four-year effort: a buck whose 10-point typical rack is the largest I have ever seen in this part of the country. The fact that I was hunting alone and did not blunder in stalking or shooting him contributes to my feeling of satisfaction
I was born in Oklahoma, where my grandfather was a settler when the state was accepted into the Union. My folks later moved to Indiana, where I now live on a 110-acre farm in Elkhart County. The farm is two miles north of the Elkhart River and just north of the small community of Benton.
I have hunted and fished since I was 10 years old. I also do taxidermy work, strictly as a hobby. My wife Wilma loves nature and wildlife as much as I do and is always a ready fishing companion. This mutual love of the outdoors has been inherited by our three children-one son and two daughters. On a recent trip to Rice Bay in Canada. our eight-year-old daughter caught two walleyes and 12 pike on her spinning outfit. Our son and his wife were along and also enjoyed the fishing. Our older daughter lives in Oregon, where she goes deer hunting with her husband.
I am a Mennonite minister, and my church and family responsibilities limit the amount of time I can devote to the outdoors. I have bagged deer in Michigan and Minnesota, but it had been five years since I’d shot a buck on my farm. The summer after I killed that buck, I became acquainted with the big whitetail that now lay at my feet.
I generally hunt deer alone, but at times I have hunted with partners, especially in my efforts to bag this buck. I lack the patience to remain on a stand all day, unless I know that many other hunters are moving around in the area I am hunting.
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The deer herd in Elkhart County is growing, even though the county is heavily populated. In 1971 there were 124 deer killed on our highways. Where the population is heavy, there are also a lot of dogs. I knew of two different packs (three dogs in each) that were running deer in 1970. Only one of those dogs is still living as I write this.
Normally, wildlife herds and flocks will maintain themselves or even grow if only the males are hunted. Having a lot of bucks and cocks in an area is about as necessary as having a barnyard full of bulls or a chicken house full of roosters to enlarge a herd or flock. In my area, where hunters are numerous, a buck carrying a large rack must be very smart to stay alive very long.
I first encountered the big whitetail in 1968. He was spending some time on my farm, and I decided to familiarize myself with his hoofprint and his pattern of life and then try to bag him during the fall hunting season. What I learned about his habits that first summer and fall proved to be his characteristic pattern until the day I got him.
The buck regularly visited eight one-mile-square sections. Only once did I find him bedded down in the same section two times in a row. From day to day his bedding areas usually were several miles apart. He always traveled alone. I never found him bedded with does — except on the day I got him.
The buck used a few general crossing areas and a number of trails. He did what every smart buck does: he always lay on a knoll where he could watch his incoming track, and he never traveled downwind in the daytime. During hunting season, I never found that he bedded in heavy brush or woods. Rabbit hunters probably contributed to his avoiding the thick cover, but it also seemed that he preferred spots with better visibility. Any field that had at least 18 inches of growth and a little knoll in it was his choice.
During the 1968 hunting season I never saw the big buck, but I found his track several times. A few of my neighbors saw him. Another neighbor found both of his antlers when he shed them the next spring. When I saw those antlers I became even more determined to lay claim to that trophy.
As I stood there, somewhat dumbfounded, I couldn’t help but think that the brush had been there for as long as I could remember. There I was, standing on a barren landscape one hour before shooting time on opening day.
I am a firm believer in preseason scouting. On the Wednesday evening before the 1969 season was to open (on Saturday morning), we had a nice snowfall. The snow made scouting easy for me on Thursday. I investigated an area south of the Elkhart River where I had got permission to hunt from the local farmers. I found more fresh deer sign in that area than I had ever seen anywhere else. A good deer-cover thicket lay about one-half mile south of the riverbottom woodland. A heavy briery fencerow stood between the river and the thicket, and it seemed that all the deer in the area crossed through either of two openings in the briers.
I was quietly walking over to investigate the opening when the big buck got up from behind a clump of brush about 30 feet away and loped across a large open field. I could have hit him with a slingshot.
The two openings in the fencerow were about 100 yards apart, and a good-size tree stood about midway between the two crossings. It was a perfect spot for a tree stand (permissible in Indiana). I went home knowing where I would be early on Saturday morning.
One hour before daylight on Saturday I was walking across the field toward my tree. The snow had melted on Friday, and since no moon was shining it was quite dark. But I knew the area well, and soon I was at the place where the tree was supposed to be. There was no tree, and there was no briery fencerow! I got out my flashlight and discovered that the area was as free of vegetation as our living-room rug and that it was covered with new tracks — bulldozer tracks. On Friday a contractor had cleared away the thicket, trees, and fencerow.
As I stood there, somewhat dumbfounded, I couldn’t help but think that the brush had been there for as long as I could remember. There I was, standing on a barren landscape one hour before shooting time on opening day.
The 1969 season ended as unsuccessfully as it had started. I didn’t get the big buck. But neither did anyone else.
The 1970 season came along with little prospect of snow. The big whitetail was still roaming the area and was as unpredictable as ever. He was dividing his time about equally between both sides of the river east of Benton.
One day near the end of the season I jumped him about 2 p.m. I was stillhunting alone, and he was gone before I got close enough to shoot.
There was a very light snow cover, and since the buck was running into the wind and could not scent me, I decided to follow him for a while. He ran west along the river for about a mile. Then he went southwest across an open field, crossed State Road 33, and headed through a barren field and into a small woods. He had traveled far enough from where I had spooked him that I was sure he was not very alarmed. And since a lot of open field surrounded the woods that he’d run into, I concluded that he would stay put there until dark or until someone moved him out.
A farmer was spreading fertilizer with a big tractor and spreader in the barren field that the buck had crossed to get into the woods. I walked over and asked the farmer if he had seen the buck.
“No,” he said. “And what’s more, I often see does, but I have never seen an antlered deer in my lifetime.”
It was getting late in the day, and I knew I had no time to lose. I wanted to find two drivers to push the buck on through the woodlot. I was pretty sure of where he would cross, and the wind direction was favorable for me. I had to settle for one driver, Glen Yoder, a local hunting friend.
I stationed myself, and Glen came through the woods. The buck didn’t show. Glen came over, and we discussed the situation. I told him that the buck was big and that he was still in there someplace. We had very little time left, so I said, “You go on the east side. I’ll wait here awhile and then pick up his tracks in the woods.”
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I was working through the woods when I heard a shot over Glen’s way. I went over to check and found a very excited hunter. He explained what had happened. When Glen had got over on the east side of the woods, he heard a lot of commotion coming from the direction of the farmer, and he looked in that direction. The farmer who had never seen antlers before was seeing them now, and he reacted noisily. The deer was apparently more aggravated than scared, but he changed his course and came close enough to Glen for him to chance a shot. He missed.
During the rest of the season I didn’t get close to the buck — as far as I know. He may have watched me from a hiding place when I was not aware of him. I saw him once as he was moving into a woodlot. I was watching through binoculars, and he was not scared. The wind was from the south, so I told Pete Delegrange, a neighboring farmer, to walk in from the south while Glen Yoder came in from the east. I had my wife park our car on the west side and told her to be sure to let the buck know she was there. I knew where he generally crossed to the north, so I stationed myself in a good position on that side.
All went well, and I was confident that the buck would go north. But he didn’t. He just walked about 150 feet to the side of Pete’s line of travel and stood behind some bushes until Pete went past. Then he went south and crossed the road approximately where Pete had come in.
The season ended with my deer tag unused.
About 10 days after the 1970 season ended I was driving along a road near one of the buck’s hangouts. I looked out across a field and saw him standing there with a doe. I stopped my truck and watched him through my binoculars. He soon started getting jittery, but I had a very good look at him. His rack seemed to stand even higher then than it did the next year.
I did no preseason scouting for the 1971 season. I knew that the buck was still around and that his habits hadn’t changed.
Delbert Mullet, a brother in our church who is best known for his fishing zeal but who also likes to hunt, asked to go along with me on opening day. We went over by the Elkhart River in early morning, took stands, and stayed put until around 11. Then, since few hunters were in the area that morning, we left our stands and still-hunted until midafternoon. We saw no deer, so we decided to go somewhere else.
As we were leaving the area in my pickup, we spotted the big buck moving very cautiously in the distance toward a 1 1/2-acre woodlot. He was headed into the wind, which was blowing at 35 or 40 miles an hour. He was moving rather aimlessly through a grain sorghum field, and as he cleared the fence and entered the small woods Delbert and I went into action.
Everything happened as I feared it would. The buck must have scented me when he was in mid-air, for he just landed and stopped. Had he been broadside, my chances of hitting him would have been pretty good. I figured I would have at most two seconds in which to shoot before the buck bolted.
I sat in the cover of a line fence 40 rods south of the woods. Delbert drove the truck through the field to the west side of the lot and parked. He then walked to the north side and started zigzagging through the woods. Since the woodlot was small and not very thick, we did not think that the buck would stay put. But after Delbert came through the second time and no buck appeared, I decided that our quarry must have crossed the river and given us the slip. I got up and started walking toward the truck along a drainage ditch edged by three-foot-high grass.
I was halfway to my truck when I saw the buck. He came out of the woodlot on the east side, headed south until he was about 75 yards south of it, and then turned west, in my direction. If he’d have kept running in a straight line, he would have come within 30 feet of me. But he kept that course for only a few jumps, then turned sharply to my left. This maneuver reduced my chance for a good shot to near zero. The wind was so gusty that a long-distance offhand shot was nearly impossible, and I couldn’t squat down to shoot, because the ditch grass would have obscured the buck from me. In addition, he was now heading in a direction that would enable him to scent me before he got within good range, which for a 12 gauge slug is 100 yards or less.
Legal firearms for deer in Indiana are 12, 16, and 20 gauge shotguns with rifled slugs. I have a deluxe model Mossberg pump with variable choke and thumb-operated safety. The gun is lightweight and easy to handle. I use it on full choke for fox and waterfowl, on modified for upland game, and on open cylinder for slugs. I’ve fitted it with a self-fashioned rear iron sight that enables me to shoot slugs with good accuracy.
Everything happened as I feared it would. The buck must have scented me when he was in mid-air, for he just landed and stopped. Had he been broadside, my chances of hitting him would have been pretty good. I figured I would have at most two seconds in which to shoot before the buck bolted.
I tried to hold steady in the gusty wind, but it was impossible. I felt bad as I squeezed the trigger, and I felt worse afterward. I missed. In four years of pursuit, this was the first time I had fired a shot at the big buck. And he was the only deer I’d ever shot at that I didn’t hit with the first shot.
There was no snow on the ground, but Delbert and I stayed on the buck’s track long enough to convince ourselves that he had not been hit. We left the tracks and went home. I knew that a number of hunters would be out on Sunday, and I started feeling sorry for myself since I would not be hunting then. But I soon convinced myself that forsaking a Sunday of hunting, for the sake of conscience, would not make me lose out on the buck.
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It started snowing on Sunday evening about 4. It stopped at 10 p.m., and by then we’d had a nice three-inch snowfall. Conditions would be ideal for deer hunting the next morning.
Monday morning dawned calm and clear with the temperature at 20°. I was on a stand by the riverbottom long before daylight. The sun came up bright, and I had a good view of everything around me. A fox came by, and I decided to see how close I could call him. by squeaking like a mouse. I had never called a fox before, but he responded instantly. He came within 15 feet of the tree I was in and then, apparently scenting my tracks, left in a hurry.
With the exception of the fox’s prints, the area around me was as trackless as a varnished floor. Soon after sunup I got down from the tree and walked through the bottomland toward the river. There were no tracks in that area either. Very unusual. I turned and went in the opposite direction, planning to walk along at a fast pace until I found some tracks. I was crossing a cornfield when I saw the first track — a doe’s. I knew it had been made early Sunday evening, because it had some snow in it. I followed it through a thicket and across two more fields before I came upon sign that several deer had roamed there early the previous night.
I now entered a long, narrow field of grass about 30 inches high. At its far end was a small dozer pile, which was part of the remains of the bulldozer work that had cleared out the brier fencerow two years earlier. I suddenly had a strong hunch that my buck was bedded by that small dozer pile. But I also knew that he might be bedded anywhere else in the field. I decided to hunt so that, regardless of where he was. I would not be taken by surprise and have to say afterward, “I should have expected that.” I would take a few cautious steps and then stop, look around, and listen.
I had not gone far when the dog at a farmhouse saw me. He barked so loud and excitedly that it worried me, even though the deer in this area had often heard the dog before. Suddenly he stopped barking. I was greatly relieved.
I continued to move slowly forward and had gone nearly halfway through the field when something told me to look behind me. The dog was standing about 50 feet in back of me. eyeing me suspiciously. If that deer was where I had a hunch he was, I was in serious trouble. For if the dog decided to run 50 yards to my left, his scent would carry to the buck and he would leave. If the dog started barking again, every deer in the field — if there were any — would spook. All my friends know that I am a dog lover, but my thoughts of that dog right then were not charitable.
I didn’t dare do anything that would scare the large pup. I stretched out my hand, slowly squatted down, and in a loud whisper begged him to come to me. After a lot of coaxing, he came over. So much for the danger of his barking, but how could I get rid of him? I decided to try sending him home. I spoke very gruffly in a hoarse whisper. I swung my arms at him and told him to go home. He walked 30 feet away and sat down, perplexed — a feeling I also had.
If the dog started barking again, every deer in the field — if there were any — would spook. All my friends know that I am a dog lover, but my thoughts of that dog right then were not charitable.
At this point Providence seemed to step in. I heard a door slam at the farmhouse and saw a boy come out. He started calling for his dog at the top of his voice. The dog’s ears perked up; he looked toward home, turned and looked at me, and then started for home at top speed, quickly disappearing over the ridge. I don’t recall it, but I am certain I breathed a prayer of thanks as he disappeared.
Again I turned my attention to deer hunting. I moved ahead slowly until I was within 45 yards of the dozer pile. As I intently scanned the area, I saw through the grass an object resembling a deer’s head, facing to my left. I slowly raised my binoculars. Suddenly I went tense. Though the antlers blended very well into the background, I was now seeing exactly what I had hoped to see for four hunting seasons.
Looking through an 8X glass at a buck that is only 45 yards away is always exciting. But when that buck has antlers with main beams measuring 24 inches, tines measuring up to 10 inches, and a spread of 20 inches, it’s enough to shake any hunter. And I was really shook. All I could see of the buck was his neck, head. and antlers. I had to remain standing where I was in order to keep him in sight.
I know my own ability and I know my gun, and I knew that I would have no excuses if l didn’t make a one-shot kill through the neck. The very thought of buck fever disgusted me. I said to myself that this was no time for such nonsense.
The big buck had chosen his spot well. He was facing north and could see to the riverbottom and also have a good view of the 150 acres of farmland that he had crossed to get where he was. His back was toward the dozer pile, which was on an incline in the field. His view to the west was obstructed by the tall grass, but the breeze was westerly and would betray any enemy in that direction. I’d been careful not to walk downwind while approaching this spot. Even now, the buck could put the dozer pile between us with one long leap.
I slowly lowered my glasses. Then I raised my gun to my shoulder, simultaneously releasing the thumb safety. I zeroed in on the center of the buck’s neck, six inches below his skull, and squeezed hard. He was at the edge of six-foot-high weeds that encircled the dozer pile. The gun cracked, and the buck disappeared. I chambered another shell and waited. At the far side of the dozer pile a doe leaped out and headed across the field. A second and a third doe followed her. Then all was quiet.
I lowered my gun and walked slowly forward. I found a very dead buck. The slug had entered below his left ear, crashed through the neck bone, and lodged just under his skin on the right side. I field-dressed him and then moved him to the coffee-break spot I mentioned at the start of this story. His field-dressed weight was 215 pounds.
I have not yet had my trophy measured officially by the Boone and Crockett Club, so I do not know whether his rack will make the club’s record book. His magnificent head is now mounted and hanging in my den.
This story, “End of the Stalk,” appeared in the November 1972 issue of Outdoor Life.
