As my brother and I loaded a packhorse and saddled two horses, our dad asked us what we were up to.
“We are going to look for a big mulie, Dad!”
He grinned, “And just where are you two going to look for him?”
At the time, I was 15 and my brother was 13. We had a couple goals in life, and one was to get a bigger bull than the perfect inline 7x7, 395" B&C bull our dad had hanging in our house. He also had two mulie bucks that were over 32" and both scored over 210". We lived in the mountains in southwest Montana right above the Yellowstone River. We grew up hunting deer and loving every minute of it.
As we swung onto our horses, we told our dad we were headed up the North Fork. He had told us that was where some of the big deer lived before the snow pushed them down. A day and a half later, we returned home, all smiles, with a 180", 28" wide mulie on our packhorse. Although slightly impressed, he asked “Why didn’t you hold out for one bigger than mine?” As he helped us unload, he said maybe we should take up whitetail hunting. Perhaps we could find a whitetail bigger than his. He had a beautiful, tall-tined 5x5, 160" buck.
Life eventually landed me in eastern Montana. Although the scenery was a little different, the mighty Yellowstone River was right out my front door. Growing up, the river meant fly fishing brown trout on hot summer days. Now, the river was home to some amazing deer hunting. Countless miles of thick river bottom filled with islands and brush made hunting them a challenge like I’d never experienced before. Hunting whitetails each fall with friends turned up some great bucks, but each fall ended with my tag still in my pack as I couldn’t find that buck that was bigger than my dad’s.
On a clear, cold November morning, I made my way down the river with my friend, Chris. We had a place in mind where we would sit and hunt deer that were headed to bed in the thick cover along the river. Growing up chasing bugling bulls in the mountains, “still” hunting whitetails with the patience, the wind, and all the tiny details it takes to be successful was not in my comfort zone. As the slightest light started to crest the hills to the east, the excitement of what the morning would hold set in. I checked the wind over and over, hoping the deer would come from south to north to keep from winding us.
Chris pointed and whispered, “Here comes a buck.”
As I raised my binos, I saw a perfect 140", 5x5 buck. He was working his way to our left.
Chris asked, “What do you think?”
As the sun rose to hit me right in the face, I smiled, “He will be a good one for next year.”
We spent the next 45 minutes small talking about life, family, and hunting trips we’d been on. Knowing as the sun rose above us that our chances were going downhill, Chris said that the weatherman said the wind would come from the east. Knowing all too well that the wind could easily keep us from seeing any more deer, we decided to start packing up. I picked up my binoculars and glassed through the river bottom one more time. It was a beautiful, clear day. I caught something moving a few hundred yards in front of us. Knowing it had to be a deer, the hunt was back on.
As a lone buck snuck through the trees, Chris said, “It’s a huge 6-point buck!”
I raised my binos as the buck turned broadside at 150 yards. Chris was right. It was a really nice buck. He asked if I was going to shoot him. I grinned and whispered, “You think we can do better?” This was one of the best bucks I had seen in the 10 years of living in eastern Montana. I could tell that if I wasn’t going to shoot this buck Chris might just shoot me.
As the buck snuck through the bush, I told Chris that when the buck cleared those trees I was shooting him. As the echo of my bullet rang out down the mighty Yellowstone, our buck fell in his tracks.
With a couple high fives, we made our way over to the buck. It was one of the heaviest, most perfect 6-point bucks I’d ever seen. As we admired our buck, I made the phone call to my dad, “Hey Dad, guess what!”
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