by Boone
Arriving at the crossing where I had picked up the tracks before, I discovered more tracks in the mud. They indicated that the deer had returned on their back-track to this creek bottom. It took me quite awhile to figure out the direction the deer had gone when they left the bottom. After several false starts, I finally found the right trail and proceeded to follow the tracks. The deer were obviously following a well established game trail to another locality.
Although it was raining once again so that any sounds I made were muted, it was difficult to travel this muddy runway without making considerable “sloshing” sounds. I had left the runway, walking on moss, grass, and rotting wood parallel to it, when I rounded a bend in the trail and found myself face-to-face with a huge four-point buck. He was no more than 25 feet from me! I don’t know to this day what kept me from shooting that deer. He was a prize in any man’s language. I guess instinctively I must have known that he wasn’t the one. He whirled half-around and bounded 30 feet away to the creek, jumped it, and disappeared into the woods.
At the same time, a short way up the creek, I saw the ghostly figures of two other deer cross the creek and disappear. The relatively small clearing in which I was standing came to an abrupt end about 50 yards upstream. At that point, a fringe of sapling spruce made an almost solid wall. The runway went through this spruce thicket. As I moved up to peer through it, I saw the rump of a very large deer disappearing up the trail. I bent over and began to trot as best I could after the now running animal. My pursuit slowed, faltered, and came to a stop after a time, as I became winded and needed rest. I felt that unless the deer entered a clearing or an area of sparse timber, and stopped, I had lost him.
As I sat there, I could see a fairly high ridgetop over the alder trees and what appeared to be an opening on the side of the ridge. I got to my feet and began making my way toward that clearing. It was only about 150 yards through the bottom to the base of the ridge. When I arrived at the opening, I found that the clearing had been created by a massive debris torrent. Supersaturated dirt and debris had let go to slide down the ridge. In the middle of the clearing, 80 yards away, stood my buck! He was quartering away from me, looking downhill right at me. I raised my rifle and fired; the bullet struck him behind the shoulder. He went down in his tracks and never moved.
I have taken many elk in my lifetime. But, no animal has ever had the impact on me that this huge buck had when I looked down on him as he lay there on the side of that ridge.
The antlers were awesome to see with their spread, color, and symmetry. In addition, they were hanging heavy with moss and lichen that he had accumulated while feeding or “horning” the alders and willows along the creek.
I placed the game department seal on an antler and field-dressed him, putting the liver and heart in my liver bag. With my hatchet, I cut alder poles, turning the carcass belly-down on them to cool-out while protected from the rain.
With one last look at my magnificent buck, I hurried downstream to try and get help to get him out to the road. By my reckoning, the road was about three miles away.
Although this hunt began over 30 years ago, certain things are as clear now in my mind as they were then: the first time I saw him; the times he outsmarted me; and, of course, the day his luck ran out.
One of the things that keeps the hunt fresh in my mind is the never-ending stream of visitors that come to see and admire “The King,” and the letters I have received from those who pursued him in vain.
Photo from B&C Archives
Typical Sitka Blacktail Deer, Scoring 125-7/8 Points, Taken by Donald E. Thompson near Tenakee Inlet, Alaska, in 1964.
The Fun is Over
By Donald E. Thompson
20th Big Game Awards Program
NOVEMBER IN SOUTHEAST ALASKA IS ORDINARILY A BLEAK MONTH. USUALLY, YOU CAN BE ASSURED THE WIND WILL HOWL. AS I WRITE THIS PIECE, I RECALL A BIT OF DOGGEREL THAT WAS PENNED LONG AGO THAT SUMS UP NOVEMBER PERFECTLY. IT SAYS, “FIRST IT RAINED, THEN IT BLEW, THEN IT FRIZ AND THEN IT SNEW.”
The one redeeming feature of this month is the fact that the Sitka blacktail deer are in the peak of the annual rutting season. When they are about with amorous intent, the buck’s behavior can border on the verge of stupidity.
The date was November 11, 1964, and I was employed by Island Logging Company of Sitka, Alaska. They were engaged in a massive clear-cutting operation involving acres of prime old-growth Sitka spruce and western hemlock in Tenakee Inlet, Alaska. They had a floating camp that was a compact affair, situated atop logs that were cabled together with support for a cook house, office, bunk house, and other buildings integral to the logging show needs.
I was employed as a back rigger, a very vital job. When I had completed the rigging, I often had several hours of free time to pursue my own interests. Much of this time was spent glassing the surrounding mountains for big game. Deer were abundant, and often the great coastal grizzly was spotted making his rounds. The area that I was hunting is located on a magnificent, scenic inlet that pierces the heart of Chichagof Island.
As I set out on the morning of the 11th, my chief concern was for the weather, as a brisk southeaster was whipping up the inlet. I was enroute by boat to an area that had always been generous in providing big bucks for the logger table. I fondly called the area “Valley of the Kings.” Most logger-hunters were interested in the tasty steaks and tenderloins, and the antlers usually ended-up atop the gut piles, miles from camp. I have always remarked that you can barbecue, boil, bake, and make soup of these antlers, but I had never yet discovered the secret to making them a gourmet’s delight. Consequently, many an antler ended-up supplying calcium to the mice.
In the incredible quiet that lies over a pristine wilderness, sound carries remarkably well in the still air. No sooner had I secured my boat in the lee of a sheltering point than I heard the sound of two bucks in battle. In my excitement I forgot what a miserable thing an Alaskan mountainside could be. As I tried to scurry upwards, I would often slide back two steps for every one I advanced. In my eagerness, it seemed hours before I came onto the scene of the conflict. There, the one level spot in the area was ripped and torn as the bucks had fought for the favors of the does.
The climb up the mountainside had taken its toll on me. At the time I was six foot one and weighed a solid 200 pounds. I had toiled over windfalls, plowed through thickets of the spiny devils club, and clung to the berry brush, to reach the battlefield. As I brushed the moisture from my streaming face, I wondered if it was all worth it.
As I surveyed the scene I was cradling my favorite firearm. It was an ancient center-fire Winchester, Model 1894, in .30 caliber, with an octagon barrel. Little chance of this piece running low on bullets; it held 10 rounds. In spite of the ever-present threat of bears, I had chosen the .30 caliber over a veritable arsenal in the bunkhouse. Those weapons included a .300 Magnum, a .308 Norma Magnum, a .338, and a .348 Winchester.
I had picked my favorite firearm that I fondly dubbed “Old Meat Getter”. I have always had many uses for this old gun, as a walking stick, a paddle, and bringing home the bacon.
The sounds of combat had ceased, but I was nearly as excited as the combatants. Although I had killed countless deer in my long career, each hunt still contained the anxiety and anticipation of my first deer. As I paused for breath and peered intently up the wooded slope, I saw a blacktailed rump disappear behind a stand of spruce. Raising the old rifle to my shoulder, I waited. Just then a deer’s muzzle poked tentatively from the cover. Like an anxious nimrod, I nearly squeezed off on a big doe. For a shaky second I mentally castigated myself for my tension and then settled back to watch.
As the doe cast coy glances behind her, the brush parted and the great stag with his massive rack gleaming in the pale light emerged. He appeared to be in a state resembling shell-shock. He was so intent on the doe that he was oblivious to anything but her.
I placed the sight on his swollen neck and squeezed the trigger. My brass was loaded with 190
grains of powder, and when the lead hit the buck’s neck, he pitched forward and was dead when he struck the ground. Racing to my prize, I could scarcely believe the size of the animal lying before me.
The neck was enormous and the entire carcass gave off the sickening stench that only rutting bucks possess. I was quick to prepare the buck for field dressing. Alaskans say, “When you pull the trigger the fun is over.” How true.
The massive animal emptied of his viscera was still more than I could hoist on my back and carry down the mountain. The only other way to transport the animal was to drag him by the antlers. Anyone familiar with the procedure of retrieving your prize from an Alaskan mountain knows that sooner or later (usually sooner), you will have problems. The very terrain is the enemy. With a giant body in tow down the steep grades, you will become entangled in brush and often the tow picks up speed and runs over you. After being run down several times with bruising consequences, I was able to fling myself sideways as the trophy once again plunged down at me. The deer went rocketing down the grade, unhindered, and when I caught up to it, it was piled up at the bottom of a deep draw.
By now being a weary hunter, I almost wished that buck was alive and well and back with his lady love. I was scratched, bruised, and sopping wet from my exertions. All for an old buck that I figured was so tough that you’d have a hard time sticking a fork in the gravy at dinner.
Now it was decision time. The options were to cut off the head and abandon it; butcher the animal and make several trips; or find another way. (You must remember daylight in Alaska’s fall is brief and fleeting.) As I paused, a light flashed in my brain and I knew how the deer was going to remain intact (well not quite intact) as I reached down with my hunting knife and severed the lower jaw at the hinge. In some long ago jungle survival school when I was a Green Beret, I learned a trick that I had never before used, but now I put it to very good use.
Going in front of the huge beast, I put my foot on his nose and pressed the upper teeth firmly into the grade; then I grasped the antlers and leaned backwards and felt the animal move upward a few inches. It was working! Sometimes I gained a foot; at other times only inches, but the buck was moving upwards and out of the hole. Finally, a tremendous tug brought the buck over the top and I sank down atop the heavily haired carcass.
Few packs off the mountains of Chichagof are trouble-free, and the remainder of the trip was a continuation of the nightmare. Spiny brush, windfalls, brush, and muck underfoot made it interesting. The last 100 yards through the thinning timber to the beach seemed endless, and as I stumbled onto the graveled shore, I was numb with fatigue.
Even though I was at the skiff, there was still the problem of hoisting the big body on board. I wasn’t a rigger for nothing. I gathered piles of rounded drift logs and, using a pole as a pry bar, I eased the head and shoulders aboard. Little by little, the rest of the deer finally settled onto the bottom of the boat. A world-class blacktail was headed for glory at last!
At the floating camp, I nosed the skiff up to the brow log and dumped the buck unceremoniously onto the deck. I then took a handsaw and removed the rack. I compared it to the buck I had taken earlier. I found that the earlier buck was larger, but it had an odd point protruding off the main beam that destroyed its symmetry, so I luckily decided to keep the prize of the day.
In 1965, I returned to the Juneau area and married. My new bride preferred the comforts of the Juneau-Douglas area, and I was soon enroute to camp to pick up my belongings and settle down to domestic bliss. Later, the rack was put on a plaque, but the years brought it close to disaster many times. As my house lacked a den, the rack had often brushed the garbage collection. Once when a teenage son was taking shop, it was in imminent danger of being converted into bone handles for hunting knives. But at long last, its true destiny has been found as a world-class trophy.
Photo from B&C Archives
Typical Whitetail Deer, Scoring 199-5/8 Points, Taken by Don McGarvey near Edmonton, Alberta, in 1991.
Deer Diary
By Don McGarvey
21st Big Game Awards Program
AS A LIFELONG RESIDENT OF EDMONTON, ALBERTA, I WAS AWARE OF THE TROPHY WHITETAIL POTENTIAL OF THE AREA SURROUNDING MY HOMETOWN, EVEN PRIOR TO SEPTEMBER 20, 1991. ON THAT DAY, THAT TROPHY WHITETAIL POTENTIAL BECAME TROPHY WHITETAIL REALITY.
The area surrounding Edmonton, a city of 600,000 people, is a bowhunting-only zone and is comprised of farmland and woodlots. As a bowhunter for the past seven years, I was familiar with the area and had secured exclusive permission to hunt a certain parcel of land that I knew harbored a monster whitetail.
I had seen him twice during the 1990 season: once, in September, at 75 yards in a standing barley field; and another time in November, when I rattled him to within 12 yards. Unfortunately, the wily buck worked his way in behind the rattle to a position which afforded no shot. A brief change in wind direction allowed him to catch my scent, and he voiced his displeasure with my presence with an aggressive snort as he bolted away at top speed.
I have always bowhunted whitetails from treestands, usually placed at the edge of woodlots and along well-used transition routes between the bedding and feeding areas. My missed opportunity at 12 yards was the source of depression and frustration until the 1991 season began in September. Nothing was going to spoil another chance at the deer, or one of his brothers or cousins, which were undoubtedly in the area. I had seen many impressive whitetails in this area, but knew that I would have to play my cards right and be extremely lucky to harvest one of these tremendous bucks.
From the opening of the 1991 season, I had watched the whitetails intensely and used my detailed deer diary to determine which stand locations would afford the best opportunity of harvesting a nice trophy. Quite frankly, I had never expected to see the big buck again. No one deserves three sightings of such a magnificent animal, and I thought I had my last chance in November 1990.
With the use of the deer diary, I realized that the deer were favoring a route across a barley field and into an alfalfa field to feed. This forced the deer to cross through a narrow 15-yard opening in a treeline separating the two fields. The conditions would have to be perfect to avoid being detected, since I intended my treestand to face north, the direction from which the deer would be coming.
I waited for a steady northwest wind, and as I sat in my office on September 20, 1991, I realized that this could be the day. I was anxious at work and could not concentrate, so I left the office in the early afternoon, showered and went to speak with the landowner and solidify our relationship. After chatting briefly with the landowner, I made my way on foot to the stand location with small portable stand under my arm and a series of tree steps. I found a favorable tree, hastily put up the treestand, and left the area to allow the area to settle.
The north wind had a bone-chilling effect, and I silently cursed myself for not bringing my gloves. I had been in my stand for about 20 minutes when I had my first sighting — an impressive whitetail buck, approximately 100 yards to the north. The deer was almost directly in front of my stand. I had positioned it in the southeast corner of the barley field, along the opening in the tree line that ran from east to west. The buck was not the one I had seen the year before, but it was nevertheless an impressive buck. I hoped for an opportunity.
After two agonizing minutes, the deer came at a trot along the edge, toward my stand. He stopped only when he was within 15 yards of the stand. Unfortunately, the angle was all wrong. His vital organs were not properly exposed, and it would have been a risky shot. I decided to wait, especially due to the fact that the foliage was heavy, and I would have had to shoot through some leaves. I expected the deer to come directly in front of my stand through a patch of thistles and then through the tree line, but he had other ideas. He went into the brush to my right, through the tree line, and into the alfalfa field without offering me a shot.
Dejected, I turned to face northward, and the sight that awaited me was something I will ne
ver forget. A massive whitetail was working his way along the opposite edge of the barley field at approximately 200 yards. I entirely lost my composure. It is a wonder I did not drop my bow out of the tree, but somehow I managed to hang on. And thank God for safety belts! The time passed at an agonizing pace. As the buck worked eastward along the opposite edge, he came to the northeast corner of the barley field and then turned southward. He was on course to come along the same path as the previous deer.
Over the 15 minutes it took the deer to carefully and cautiously work his way toward my stand, I slowly gained a measure of control over myself. Concentration began to take over as the deer approached the corner of the field, coming within 15 yards of my stand. He stopped. He was looking intensely down the tree line toward the west, but I could not risk turning and looking to see what was attracting its attention. He must have stood there for a good three to four minutes before deciding to move. I silently prayed that he would come toward my stand and not evade me as the previous buck had done.
The measure of luck I had been dealt in seeing this deer three times was greater than I deserved. The deer began to walk slowly through the thistle patch. As he did so, the buck reached a point where I lost sight of him momentarily due to a heavily leaved, overhanging limb. I used that opportunity to carefully draw my bow. As the deer cleared the overhanging limb, my 10-yard pin sought its vital area. I released my arrow as the deer was 10 yards directly in front of me.
I cannot remember being excited at the time. Another opportunity at this deer had forced me to concentrate. Luckily, the last thing I saw, before the deer bolted northward into the barley field, was the yellow and green fletching of my arrow as it entered the deer behind the shoulder. The deer turned to the north and ran only 60 yards into the barley field before it stopped, turned, and went down.