Whitetail Hunting in Nebraska Produces Unicorn Trophy Buck

Affiliate Disclosure: This page contains affiliate links. We earn from qualifying purchases.

My matriarchal grandmother grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, and from all the old photos I’ve seen in her albums over the years, it was about as flat as a steamrolled pancake. You can understand my confusion when I was asked by my friend Tyler, the marketing manager at Weatherby, to go deer hunting in the state’s Sandhills region.

“Sand, sure,” I thought. “But hills?” I surely wasn’t aware of any. It’s these kinds of situations—when we say yes to adventure—that we discover and learn new things about ourselves, and in this case, geography.

It turns out the north-central region of Nebraska is aptly named, consisting of mixed-grass and native prairie-stabilized sand dunes—a crux of diverse ecological habitat that fosters numerous bird species and mammals. These unique hills were formed over thousands of years from retreating glacier sediment and wind-deposited soil that ultimately shaped and molded the terrain. It is a place where deer can hide out in untypical spots for long enough to get old and grow large, a prospect at which we were crossing our fingers and hoping for.

We put our names in the draw pool and lucked out (in most states these days, that’s half the battle). The unit permit we drew granted us the right to take either a mule deer or whitetail buck. Call it species favoritism, but leading up to the hunt, with our excitement looming, we seemed to only focus on muleys in our phone correspondence—this may be foreshadowing, but irony is always inescapable.

Is there a superior species of deer? Probably not. But in the fray of disagreements, cloaked in the gray fringe of passionate rhetoric, lie half-truths and whole preferences parading around as stubborn stalwarts of fact.

Research and Development

I am afforded ample opportunities to be in the field throughout the year testing new gear and products, but I can sincerely say this was a first. On the way to Nebraska, I stopped by Weatherby’s headquarters in Sheridan, Wyoming, to tour and get a behind-the-scenes look at their facility. This inspired further confidence in their products—culminating in us snagging two (new and unreleased at the time) Range XP 2.0 rifles fresh off the line, paint hardly dried, to take on our hunt.

We sighted in the rifles in their state-of-the-art ballistics basement, then went and stretched the rifle’s legs outside at distance to verify drops at 300-500 yards. Thankfully, my rifle was accurate, the Leupold VX-5HD 3-15x44 that came attached to it dialed true, and the Weatherby Select Plus 6.5 RPM ammo loaded with 124-grain Hammer Hunter bullets were consistent.

Hit The Road Jack

Hunting road trips are a lot like going to your kid’s dance recital—you’re excited for them, you feel the urge to sneak some snacks, you’re prepared to sit for a long time, and you really don’t know how it’s going to turn out.

Thankfully, pulling out of Sheridan, the southeastern end of the Bighorn range offered some diversity in the terrain and the conversation flowed well, accompanied by a solid Pandora playlist.

The 7-hour journey elapsed as quickly as the clock required, but quicker than we perceived. It was time to get off the pavement and hit the gravel. We were in deer country, as evident from our increasing sightings as we closed in on our destination.

Arriving with a little daylight to spare, we exchanged greetings and pleasantries with our hosts (who ended up being salt-of-the-earth people—friendly, hardworking, and filled with laughter) before unpacking quickly, grabbing water, and hopping in the buggy to do some scouting the evening before the opener.

Mule Deer Jamboree

It didn’t take long for us to get a lay of the land and what was lurking about. I started to mentally archive the muley bucks we were seeing to better comprehend the age class and genetics that were around.

Like a poker player, I also keyed in on Ty’s facial expressions and mannerisms to see if they’d tip his hand on whether he had interest in pursuing one of them the following day. Ty is from the Midwest originally, and he articulated that he had never “taken a real good muley yet,” although—what constitutes a real good muley is completely subjective, and we were seeing mature bucks.

I was graciously given the nod to be the first shooter on the opener, but I asked Ty if, in the scenario we again encounter the old bruiser muley with the huge neck, he’d like a crack at him—to which he strongly pondered.

It’s not that I had a specific number in mind when it came to antlers, it’s just that I am around and see a ton of deer where I live in Montana. I’d know just the one for me when I saw it, if I saw it. It never dawned on me that I may see a whitetail that was way larger than we typically grow in my region.

Mule deer ruled the roost from what we could tell, but there was a subtle glimpse right at dusk of a large-bodied deer with non-bifurcated antlers chasing a doe. It was tall-tined and whitetail-looking, but it was on the run, and its current haunt was off limits.

The Shuffled Deck

During the November rut, these large swaths of private land serve as epicenters of ungulate diversity—with new deer rolling in like drifting tumbleweeds on a daily basis.

There’s a good probability that the buck you scouted or observed the day prior has completely vacated the area. This variability makes it fun and challenging at the same time.

Opening morning had a cold chill in the air and the deer were on their feet. We looked over a few different groups, but only young bucks were visible and based on the echoing yips, the coyotes were active too. Determined to not be discouraged, we set out to a more remote section of the property, and our guide Dustin put the ATV in low gear and climbed up a steep yucca-clad hill that led to a plateau with a bunch of cratered pockets.

Surprise, Surprise

As we crested, we were immediately met with topographical folds that could hold and hide a good buck that wanted to duck out.

I’m not sure if I saw it first, or at the same time as the others, but we immediately looked at each other with a “holy crap gaze.” I don’t profess to be well-versed in sizing whitetails, but I know a large buck when I see one. This buck had a huge body and was trying to literally lay low, but his points were so tall that it was futile. He had one doe with him and all it took was that split second for them to flag their tails and run out of there. I recall Dustin saying something like “grab your rifle, grab it now.”

When the hoof dust settled, he looked flabbergasted and mumbled to himself under his breath, “I’ll be damned, he’s still around.”

In the interest of time, I didn’t pry about his commentary, but I could infer that he had a history with this buck and was thoroughly convinced he had already met his demise years prior.

Hot Pursuit

It was decided we had to follow the deer on foot, even if it meant bumping them again. We had the wind in our face and saw the direction the doe ran—surmising he had followed her. We tracked the fresh, dug-out hoofprints in the soft soil for close to 300 yards before coming to a knoll. We slowly peeked over, being sure not to skyline our silhouettes, and sure enough found the doe. The sun was still rising behind us and in my opinion, she had our movement pegged but was uncertain about the culprit or threat. But where was the buck?

We had a staring competition with her for about 5 minutes, until she relaxed a bit and began to feed. At that point, I was able to reposition, quell my tingly foot, and get myself ready with the rifle on my tripod. Scanning the large bowl, we turned up just a faint outline of antler tips in the tall grass. He was bedded 225 yards away, and as distinct as he was, we knew it was him—lazily keeping his eyes on his lady. I steadied my rifle on him but needed him to stand.

Stand Off

After 30 minute of waiting, this situation was beginning to deteriorate. It was decided we needed to push the envelope, slipping back behind the knoll, and repositioning 30 yards further to our right to attempt a shot at him while bedded.

The bedded shot didn’t happen as his femme fatale was disturbed by us again, and this time she trotted off. He almost immediately got up and ran in her direction. Dustin yelled, “Shoot, shoot!” but I had a gut feeling that he was only running because she was and that he’d stop to reevaluate after 30 or 40 paces. He did. And when he did, I let him have it—folding him up in his tracks with the laser-fast monometal bullet. Dustin let out a guttural sigh of relief. The 8 ½ year old  buck (aged later through Matson’s Laboratory) with a devil-horn protruding from his forehead had come to rest.

I threw my pack on and started to walk towards my buck. Dustin and Tyler pulled up in the buggy and said, “What are you doing? Hop in!” It was the first time I’ve ever had the luxury of being driven up to an animal.

I admired and thanked the animal for its life. We took some photos and loaded him up in the bed of the ATV—such a well-practiced occurrence in this region, yet, still so foreign to me. Continuing this theme of naivety on my part, we brought the buck to the pole barn processing station, which was equipped with an electric hoist for harvested game. Mind blown!

We repacked some supplies and headed back out for Tyler to do some hunting. He ended up taking a great buck—and it wasn’t a muley either.

---