by Boone
Again, I was thankful for my safety belt; otherwise, I am sure I would have fallen out of the tree. As I had seen the deer expire, I couldn’t wait the standard 20 to 30 minutes before going after the deer. I scrambled out of my treestand, raced out into the field, and admired my trophy.
I knew from the first time I saw the deer that it was an impressive animal. The magnitude of it all did not hit home until the next day, when I took it to Boone and Crockett and Pope and Young Official Measurer, Ryk Visscher. After green-scoring the buck, Ryk felt that it was quite possibly the Number 2 typical whitetail ever taken with a bow and in the top ten for Boone and Crockett.
The phrase “deer of a lifetime” is perhaps a cliché, but it is certainly an accurate description of this deer. I will continue hunting whitetails as long as I physically can, but having taken this deer, I can only look forward to the thrill and excitement of being outdoors in pursuit of one of the world’s most beautiful animals. If I do not shoot another deer for the rest of my life, I will not be surprised. However, I will always have this deer to remind me of how lucky the average hunter can be in the great outdoors.
Image from B&C Archives
Non-Typical Whitetail Deer, Scoring 258-6/8 Points, Taken by Ernest R. Hires in Edgar County, Illinois, in 1994.
Lucky
Written By Les Davenport
23rd Big Game Awards Program
LADY LUCK OFTEN SEEMS FICKLE, BUT IN REALITY, SHE TENDS TO FAVOR THOSE WHO MOST DESERVE A SHOT OF GOOD FORTUNE. THIS TRUISM PROVES ITSELF REGULARLY IN THE WHITETAIL WORLD, WHERE HARD WORK RESULTS IN CONSISTENTLY GOOD RESULTS FOR CERTAIN HUNTERS. IF YOU NEED AN EXAMPLE, CONSIDER THIS THREE-YEAR EPISODE INVOLVING A PRACTICING TROPHY HUNTER FROM EDGAR COUNTY, ILLINOIS.
An antlered deer charged onto Route 1 during an early fall evening in 1992. Brakes locked, tires screeched and everything not affixed inside Ernie Hires’ vehicle hit the floorboards. He barely avoided the whitetail, whose antler configuration was permanently etched in his memory. “Nice young buck,” thought Ernie as he regained composure. “Thank God I didn’t hit him.” The buck had emerged from a 200-acre woodland where Ernie hunted.
The buck was spared a second time that year on opening day of the mid-November shotgun season. Ernie had been practicing trophy management over the past five years, and on that day, he elected to grant the young whitetail clemency at 10 yards. The suspected two-and-a-half year old needed more mass to be a true trophy in Ernie’s eyes.
“That buck I almost hit on Route 1 escaped death a second time,” Ernie reported to his wife, Kim, that evening. “He’s a 9-pointer, and I’ve named him ‘Lucky.’
Lucky didn’t seem to live up to his name the next day though, as he took a slug in the shoulder by an unidentified hunter. Ernie helped the man follow the blood trail, but the young buck eluded his pursuers. He was not seen again during the remainder of the ‘92 season.
Twice in 1993, Ernie had Lucky just out of range in the ebbing light of archery hunts. He noticed the deer’s rack carried slightly more mass and width. Even though the overall symmetry still seemed good, the antlers appeared somewhat “different” from those he had seen the prior year.
Lucky was growing more nocturnal. It was suspected that he bedded on a large block of undeveloped acreage during daylight hours. Ernie still-hunted the waist-high cover on opening day of the ’93 firearms season, and as expected, Lucky bounded from the tall grass and crossed Route 1. The big whitetail trod through a homeowner’s front yard and into a small protected thicket. A running shot was possible, but Ernie, a respectful sportsman, refused the offering for fear of wounding the buck.
Ernie figured that if Lucky was pressured and crossed Route 1 again during the second slug season two weeks later, possibly he could be caught in transit. He repositioned his treestand in preparation for such an occurrence. Two hunters from another party foiled the scheme, however, by pushing Lucky in the opposite direction. One of the hunters fired a chancy shot and hit the buck.
Again Ernie assisted in following the blood trail, and Lucky stopped a second slug in a hind leg during that stalk. The seemingly invincible buck still refused to go down. Lucky was injured, but not mortally, and was seen later.
By legal quitting time that day, everyone but Ernie had long since given up the chase. The hunter unloaded his gun and stepped across a fence to head homeward - at which time Lucky popped out of a grass patch only 15 feet away and trotted out of sight! “Lucky was sure the perfect name for that darned deer,” Ernie thought.
Ernie caught a glimpse of his quarry in late December, and the buck appeared to be in good health. Cleft hoof prints were found on Lucky’s usual trails; apparently they were the result of the wounding incident. It surprised Ernie that Lucky had not permanently relocated to a less-pressured property.
The hoof print showed up again during Ernie’s 1994 mushroom hunt. Lucky’s rodent-chewed, left-side shed antler also was found by the hunter that spring. Harvesting this tough whitetail became even more of a priority, as he was now clearly a trophy-class buck.
The early part of the 1994 bow season turned out warm and uneventful. Ernie saw Lucky twice before the rut: once at sunrise, and once at sunset. His rack had grown considerable mass, with one drop tine off the left beam. Overall, the antlers had an odd look that couldn’t be explained without closer inspection.
Ernie and his new hunting partner, Russ Lewsader, plotted their hunt for opening day of the firearm season. They’d perch in treestands; 100 yards apart, on opposite hillsides, overlooking a small creek. The adjacent ground had been mowed, eliminating one of Lucky’s core bedding areas. Odds were fair that resident deer would now elude hunters by hanging in the rough creek bottom. Ernie and Russ hoped they each could fill either sex and antlerless permits by hunting this area from treestands.
They climbed aboard their stands shortly after 5 a.m. on opening day of gun season. It was a bluebird morning. Ernie hoped Lucky would show before another mature buck could tempt his trigger finger.
Deer began funneling back into the oak woods from fields about an hour after daybreak. Several does and three bucks meandered past Ernie at 8:15 a.m. Some of the deer walked across the creek toward Russ.
A doe and twin fawns rushed by Ernie, following the crack of Russ’ slug gun. It had been decided that only a wounding would cause either hunter to leave his stand and request the other’s help. There was no sign of Russ by 9 a.m., reasonably assuring Ernie that his friend had made a clean kill.
The doe and twins eventually bedded in knee-high grass about 75 yards away from Ernie, who watched them for an hour. Suddenly all three deer rose in unison and bounded for thicker cover. Something had spooked them. Ernie’s attention focused beyond where the deer had been holding.
A doe and a wide-antlered buck were approaching at full speed. The doe veered, but her beau jumped a fence and came headlong toward the hunter, stopping behind a tree at 35 yards. The buck’s rack carried a drop tine! Could it be Lucky?
The wary whitetail winded the air and peered from side to side for looming danger; his huge antlers swiveled like scanning radar. Ernie’s Remington 20-gauge Wingmaster spoke once as the buck stepped into full view, but there was no apparent reaction from the buck, so the hunter fired twice more at the now fleeing trophy.
The final shot upended him. Innumerable tines buried themselves deep in the mud. It was an incredible sight to behold, Ernie remembers.
Russ knew something big had gone down when he heard his partner let out a holler and whistle. Soon afterward, the two friends met near the creek and congratulated each other. Russ had filled an anterless permit, and Ernie’s dream had come true. They recapped the morning on the way to visit the elusive Route 1 buck’s final resting place. Lucky was lucky no more!
Lucky’s eye guards are his antler’s most eye-catching antler features. The right and left G-1s measure 10-2/8 and 9 inches, respectively, and sport eight matching sticker points, tallying more than 25 inches total. Jetting straight forw
ard like saw teeth, the G-1 stickers give Lucky a unique appearance.
It is likely that leg wounds on opposing sides caused the balanced growth of abnormal points on this strange rack. Why the typical frame grew symmetrically, unaffected by the injuries, remains a whitetail mystery. We can only wonder what Lucky’s typical rack would have gained in inches had he not been wounded earlier in life. Could Lucky have been a World’s Record typical in the making?
Photo from B&C Archives
Typical Coues’ Whitetail Deer, Scoring 126-1/8 Points, Taken by Robert G. McDonald in Pima County, Arizona, in 1986.
End of an Era
By Robert G. McDonald
20th Big Game Awards Program
WANT TO KILL A RECORD COUES’ DEER? BUCKLE ON YOUR BACKPACK, LIGHTEN YOUR RIFLE, AND HUNT THE WILDERNESS OF ARIZONA’S MOUNTAINS FOR 20 YEARS. I DID! IT WASN’T EASY, AND THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I WANTED TO GIVE UP, BUT THE REWARDS WERE MANY, MANY MORE THAN I ENVISIONED IN THE BEGINNING. LET ME BEGIN THIS STORY AT THE START OF MY LAST HUNT.
My muscles tensed, then recoiled upwards, propelling me to a standing position with the pack. The first steps were a bit awkward, then my strides began to flow rhythmically toward the mountain. I looked up, and it seemed to lie there, tantalizingly hiding my quarry in jumbled topography. “The climb will be tougher this year,” I thought, “with food for 17 days in the pack. How many hunts have I made for these Coues’ deer? It has to be close to 20. This is my 17th consecutive hunt since I killed the big mule deer in 1969, and I hunted them three other years, so this is the 20th one.”
“Rrrrip,” a catclaw grabs a thread from my wool pants. “Too bad I can’t wear blue jeans,” I thought, “but if it rains or snows, jeans are wet and cold compared to wool. And, it probably will rain; look at the clouds scudding across the desert to the southwest.”
I pick up the fallen sprout of a flowering yucca and use it as a walking staff. Later, it will double as a support for my binoculars, so I can glass while standing. Now the mountain steepens, so that each step is labored. “Don’t think about how far it is, just keep trudging up the mountain; it seems quicker that way,” I tell myself.
Now, I am above the cholla and catclaw. But, I can never make the climb without a stab in the calf from a shindagger.
At the first live oak, I am heartened because I remember that the ridge is less steep, and it is not far to the campsite. As I set up camp, the clouds pile up against the mountain above and a drizzle begins. Hurriedly, I tie off the fly so I have shelter in front of the tent to cook and eat.
It rained all night and was still coming down in the morning. The canyons roar with runoff, and I’m glad the season doesn’t open for five days. That will give me time to wait out the storm and then scout for my elusive buck. The tent hasn’t leaked a drop, and it is warm and cozy inside. I put down the book I am reading and I begin thinking of my first hunt for Arizona whitetail.
I met my brother Fred in Springerville, Arizona. It took us an hour, driving south on the Coronado Trail, to get to the Rim road. We turned and bumped down that road for two miles to its end. From there, only a trail tracked the Rim for eight miles west to Rose Spring. And that is what fascinated us about the area, no roads. Neither of us had made a backpack hunt before and we were excited with senses of discovery and exploration. Three miles down the trail (and down 600 feet elevation to 8,500 feet), pine, fir, and aspen forested the top of the Rim. On its steep southern face (a 2,000 foot drop, slightly less steep than bluff), Gambel and live oak, juniper, and mountain mahogany were thick. During our three-day hunt, we saw does and bucks, a cougar, and elk, but not another hunter. We were disappointed after missing shots, but the experience was so satisfying that I knew wilderness hunting would become a way of life for me.
Two years later, I shot my first Coues’ buck on the Rim. It was a mature buck, and for the moment, I was satisfied. While packing out, however, I thought, “Can I find a really big buck? One that will make the Boone and Crockett records book? Possibly, if I persist and don’t shoot the little ones.” Those thoughts spawned a change in my hunting ethic that led me down a difficult, yet rewarding, trail for the next 20 years.
I continued to hunt the Rim for several years. Every hunt there turned up a good buck, but I never saw one that met my standards. Then, I turned my focus to the mountains of southeastern Arizona. I scrutinized maps and records books. My Tucson hunting friends (and venerable Coues’ deer hunters), John Doyle, and Jim Levy gave me advice. After digesting it all, mountain ranges with names of Indian and Spanish origin (like Chiricahua, Santa Catalina, San Cayetano, and Tumacacori, to name a few) beckoned to me because of their roadless areas and frequent listings in Boone and Crockett Club’s records books.
I hunted these territories, with my oldest son, Jon, sharing my campfires for three hunts. Then, he moved from my home, and I lengthened my hunts to a full week, later to two weeks and more. Then Cosine, my Labrador retriever, became my only hunting companion, as my other friends couldn’t spend that much time.
With Cosine’s company I hunted the southern ranges for five years without finding a record buck. But I can’t say the hunts were unsuccessful; discovering the mountains and their wildlife was my reward. On my 15th hunt I finally saw what I now think was a buck well above B&C minimum. But, he was walking at a steady pace and I couldn’t be sure of his score, so I didn’t shoot. From my backpack camp, I hunted for another eight days, but I couldn’t relocate him.
Now the rain has stopped. The silence abruptly halts my reminiscing and, after lunch, this hunt begins. Taking only the camera until opening day, a routine is developed. After a freeze-dried dinner, I pack a lunch; go to bed; leave camp before dawn; and make a different circle each day, returning at dark. Deer are seen, but the mountain successfully hides the big one.
Opening day arrives and I take the .223 Ruger single-shot rifle. (I know its limitations: running or long-range shots must not be taken. However, it is worth the handicaps because the 5-1/2 pound weight, helped by a lightened barrel, is hardly noticed in the pack.) My routine continues for an additional five days, then I decide to move camp to new territory. Although the distance is not far as the crow flies, a labyrinth of a canyon intervenes and the hike takes three hours.
That afternoon, with the sun waning on the western horizon, a thunderstorm building in the foothills suddenly blossoms to full strength. It is as if a curtain is pulled across the sky, and twilight engulfs the area. The distant lightning and choruses of thunder mesmerize me; then, my trance is broken by the tinkle of a rock rolling to my left.
Looking in that direction for a minute or two, I see only empty landscape. My focus wavers, then wanders to a mesquite-dotted slope below. Again to my left, with startling suddenness, a buck is there. He stepped from behind an oak less than 20 yards away. Mutual recognition is almost instantaneous. Like a tyro, I am pinned with my rifle lying on the rock beside me.
His rack looks awesome as he stands silhouetted against burnt red clouds; for the second time ever, a sure record-book deer is in front of me. Saying a few silent epithets about the hopelessness of my situation, I s-l-o-w-l-y move my hand toward the rifle. The deer snorts, runs, and is swallowed by the boiling black clouds as the storm moves in.
That evening, while lightning bolts dance across the desert to the south, I note in my diary that the big buck’s inside spread was about 16 inches, exceptionally wide for a Coues’ deer and very likely of records-book dimensions. I stare into the flickering campfire and recall the probable record rack I saw on my 15th hunt. I hope that I will be luckier this year and relocate this big buck.
The next day, I hunt in the direction the big buck went, but I see only two does and a small buck. Time is running out. Tomorrow will be the 13th day of the hunt, and only three days supply of food remains.
The eastern sky is colored with pink pastel, but Venus still flickers visibly in the western horizon when I leave camp the following morning. I sit down on a knob east of my camp and glas
s a small buck meandering down a gently sloping ridge. I watch him for a while, then look elsewhere. I sweep the binoculars back to the buck, and I am unnerved to see a huge buck a few yards below the small one. A doe is with the big one.
They are a half-mile away, so I set up my spotting scope. Adjusting the focus to sharp, I gasp. The big buck is the one that pinned me on the rock two days earlier. My blood pressure ratchets up several notches, but years of acquired patience soon settles me down to watch until they bed. Soon they do, the small buck about 25 yards up the ridge from the doe and big buck.
The canyon runs to the desert floor to my left, and it rises to its source to my right. The opposite side of the canyon is a jumble of terrace steps punctuated with granite chimneys marching up the ridge to where the deer are. I reject a direct approach; the deer will immediately see me. I rule out a couple of other possibilities and elect to go to my right, down the ridge of the knob until I am able to drop into the canyon, out of sight of the deer.
I walk down the canyon to a sharp bend (a pre-planned spot) and climb to a lip of a terrace. I can see the deer, but I am not within range for the .223. The only way to get closer is to crawl, so I shed my pack. Then, with rifle on my belly, I slither down a rocky swale on my butt. Soon I am low enough so that a chimney rock conceals me from the deer. I climb the rock and peer over its top.
The obscure outline of the big buck is seen through a mesquite bush. The small buck is in plain view, higher up the ridge, so I can’t get any closer. But, at 120 yards, I am within range of my rifle. I decide to wait for the big guy to stand and give me a clear shot.
Maybe 30 minutes pass, then the little buck gets up and strolls over the ridge, out of my sight. “Now’s my chance,” I think, and I stealthily advance to another chimney. I peek over it and suffer mixed emotions. The big buck is in plain view at a distance of about 60 yards but he is facing directly away from me. I don’t want to risk a shot into his rear or head, so once again I restrain myself and hope the deer will soon stand. Carefully, I ease into a sitting position. The wait begins.
