Mighty Mule Deer: Hard Work for a Special Heavy-Horned Buck

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With every step, the buck continued to grow, and the realization I had just killed a deer I had only dreamed of began seeping in. Truth be told, I had no idea how much antler adorned his head when I squeezed the trigger. I knew he was mature with a decent frame, but I never imagined I was settling the crosshairs on the biggest buck of my life. Overcome with feelings of appreciation and deep respect, I sat on a protruding rock for more than an hour, admiring the fallen monarch and replaying the events that led up to this humbling experience. Hanging my tag on this buck was far more than the successful end to a memorable hunt. It was the culmination of my lifelong obsession with hunting the iconic mule deer.

My passion for mule deer began long before I could carry a rifle of my own. Growing up, I eagerly awaited every issue of hunting magazines my father subscribed to. For years, I read and often re-read every story I could find of the biggest mule deer killed across the West. Somewhere buried in those endless pages of massive mule deer, and tailing my father and grandfather on their adventures, a flame was lit, and an addiction was born.

At the age of 12, I drew my first mule deer tag in Idaho. I can still vividly recall tracking the young four-point through my scope as he tailed a group of does through the scattered sage 300 yards above us. With light fading, my father whistled, and the buck paused. The distance was further than my father wanted me to shoot, but after several days of hunting with few buck sightings, he whispered, “If you’re comfortable, kill him.” A single shot from my .25-06 echoed along the canyon walls and the buck collapsed. To this day, that is the smallest buck I have ever killed, but you could not wipe the smile off my chubby 12-year-old face. On Cloud Nine, I am pretty sure I floated up the steep hill to the fallen buck. In my mind, I was officially a mule deer hunter.

Guiding Giants

Fast forward 20 years and my obsession with hunting mature mule deer has only deepened with each passing season. I primarily hunt heavily pressured public lands and the astronomical odds of hanging a tag on truly big mule deer became readily apparent. Over that time, I have been incredibly fortunate to kill many great bucks, one that even carried a 31-inch spread, but a buck in that “next-level” trophy category had always eluded me. Eleven years ago, I also began guiding mule deer, elk and pronghorn hunts on a premier chunk of private real estate in northern Utah. Since mule deer are my forté, most of my clients are deer hunters, and I have had the opportunity to pursue giants for six to eight weeks every fall for the past decade. My time as a guide has been a continual education on hunting big bucks and has allowed me to witness many giant mule deer hitting the dirt, several breaking the magical 200-inch mark. I revel in my client’s success, but without fail, after walking up on every big deer I have ever guided, I always wondered in the back of my head if I would ever get to experience that exhilarating feeling for myself.

The Odds Are Against Me

It was difficult to not get discouraged as we drove around the unit the day before the opener only to find hordes of other hunters in nearly every drainage. I had also put some unnecessary pressure on myself by bookending an elk hunt in New Mexico that only left me three days to hunt deer here in Colorado. Fortunately, my best friend Colby, his father Ryan and I had successfully hunted this same unit last year and had some boots-on-the-ground knowledge of where we could go to escape some of the pressure.

Our scouting day proved rather fruitless with only one sighting of a semi-mature buck. Opening day found us reverting to the area we found success in the previous season, burning through the vast landscape below with our optics. From sunup to sundown, we spent hours behind the glass with little to show for our efforts but self-induced ocular migraines. It was apparent we were hunting migratory deer and this year the deer flat out were not in the same areas we had seen them in last season. Back to square one, we made plans to hunt a completely different area in the morning at a much higher elevation.

The bitter bite of a brisk wind in early November cut through every piece of clothing I had on as we glassed the steep mountainside above us the following morning. Things began to look up as the sun illuminated several groups of deer feeding in the drainage. Nothing was worth getting excited about, but we were happy to see deer and hoped a mature buck would materialize. After nearly two hours of glassing, we were frozen solid and ready to move when Colby said, “I’ve got a buck.” More than two miles away, a buck had crested the basin rim and was feeding in one of the few openings on the oak-choked hillside.

The frigid temperatures, the mirage in the spotting scope, combined with the extreme distance and steady breeze, made examining the buck’s size difficult. We could tell he had a mature body and a decent frame with a respectable back end, but his fronts looked like small crab claws. Through the distortion of our spotting scopes, we estimated this buck’s rack would hover around the mid-160 mark. Being the second day of a week-long hunt, Colby elected to pass. However, knowing I only had one more day of hunting, I was not about to let an opportunity at a very respectable, mature deer slip by.

Surveying the topography and vegetation, it was evident there was no “easy” approach. We could get a vehicle within a mile or so below the buck, but from there it would be a straight climb up an incredibly steep, snow-covered spine ridge. Below the feeding buck, a rocky knob protruded above the dense oak where I hoped I would get into a position to shoot from. But there was one major flaw with this approach. If the buck moved out of the clearing he was feeding in, the odds of getting a shot off drastically diminished. I didn’t love the plan, and in reality, I knew it was a low-percentage stalk, but with time ticking, I had to try.

Slow Going

My legs burned and doubt began to creep in as I trudged up the steep incline, battling slippery snow and mud. “What am I doing?” I thought. “There is no way that buck is still in that small opening.” The going was slow, but time was of the essence. Nearing the top, my lungs gasped for air as I desperately tried to get my heart rate under control. I had climbed 1,515 vertical feet in .92 of a mile. Cresting the ridge, I frantically glassed for the buck to no avail. My heart sank, though I had been preparing myself for that letdown.

Defeated, I glanced uphill one last time and could see a deer standing in the clearing with my naked eye. How I missed seeing him through my binoculars I will never know, but the sun reflecting off his slick gray coat lit him up like a high beam in the night sky. Unfortunately, what I thought was going to be a 300 to 400-yard shot was well over 700. Further than I felt comfortable shooting. With a new surge of enthusiasm, I dipped below the ridgeline, out of sight of the buck, and picked my way upward through the dense oak on a well-travelled game trail.

Knowing I now had to be in range, I inched up to the ridgeline, using a Volkswagen-sized boulder to shield my presence. Peaking over the rock, I immediately saw the unsuspecting buck. He hadn’t moved more than 15 yards since we first laid eyes on him more than two hours ago. The shot was still going to be a poke, but the boulder provided a solid rest, and I was extremely confident in my Browning X-Bolt McMillan Long Range rifle chambered in 6.8 Western. I dialed the Leupold CDS turret to the exact yardage, took an exaggerated deep breath, and settled the crosshairs on the crease of the shoulder. Squeezing through the trigger, the shot felt good and the audible “whack” of the 175-grain Sierra Tipped Gameking impacting flesh was music to my ears.

Deafening silence crept in as panic and doubt began to percolate, not knowing where the bullet hit or where he had disappeared to. The silence was broken when I heard the faint whoops of excitement nearly two miles away from Colby and Ryan. I knew that could only mean one thing: He was down. Elated, I slowly gathered my gear and shouldered my pack.

Pleasantly Surprised

Still unsure of exactly how big the buck was, my heart skipped several beats when I first saw the four-inch cheater protruding from his right G-3 that I had no clue he had. With every step, the buck grew: big eye guards, sweeping main beams, above-average mass, towering backend and a wrapping frontend. I was in disbelief. Hidden in the snow was a matching cheater on his left G-3—the cherry on top to one of the prettiest and biggest bucks I had ever personally seen on public land, let alone had the opportunity to hunt.

This buck will always hold a special place in my memory bank, and on my wall. But when I think of this buck, my mind drifts back to the solace of the mountain top he called home, the overwhelming feeling of gratitude and humility I felt walking up on him, and the mountain memories made with my closest friends. I may never kill a bigger mule deer, and that’s OK. But you can bet your last dollar that I will spend every fall till the day I die in mule deer country, pursuing the elusive mature bucks that call the West home.

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