January 2026
Mule Deer Hunting | Idaho
Story By: Brooke Barnes
Since I was 14 and could hunt mule deer on my own, I dreamed of taking down a giant buck. I idolized family and friends who returned with massive deer in their trucks, their antlers gleaming under the sun. For me, a “giant” meant 200 inches—a threshold where great bucks became legendary. Over the years, I chased them all, from velvet-clad giants in early season to rut-crazed bruisers in snowy hills, some flirting with that magical mark. Too many chances slipped away, each blown stalk fueling frustration but also determination to succeed.
As years passed, such bucks grew scarce. Finding a monarch of the mountain became harder, and my dream of joining the “200-inch club” began to fade. My love for hunting endured, but the goal felt unrealistic. My 2024 archery season, however, changed everything.
Going into the season, I had multiple tags but limited time, as I was helping my uncle with his limited-entry elk tag, a family priority. This left me just five days for my deer tag. If I didn’t get it done, my archery deer season would end. Summer scouting focused on finding bulls for my uncle, leaving little time for deer. I spotted a few nice bucks, sparking excitement, but my expectations remained modest. Kelsie, my hunting partner for years in this unit, scouted for me the week before the season. She sent a blurry photo of a distant buck, followed by a call: “I found an absolute giant with a huge drop tine!” Videos confirmed he was massive, though missing one main beam. He was the buck I wanted.
The day before the opener, I packed my gear and headed out, tempered expectations in tow. Kelsie had seen the buck in an unfamiliar area, but I was ready to try. At the spotting point, I scanned the sagebrush through my binoculars. After an hour, vehicles appeared near the buck’s location, driving back and forth before parking. I couldn’t tell if they were hunters or passersby. Then, deer bolted 100 yards from the trucks, and in a patch of yellow grass, I spotted antlers. It was Kelsie’s giant, unmistakable despite his broken beam.
The deer vanished into a gully, and my heart sank, fearing they’d melt into the sagebrush sea. Doubts swirled, but then 10 deer crested a hill behind me, moving into a valley I’d hunted before. Frantically, I set up my spotting scope. As the image sharpened, there he was, closer and clearer, his massive frame and drop tine gleaming. My spirits soared; luck seemed to shift my way. I filmed incredible footage through my scope, capturing him with a smaller buck and several does. No other hunters were in sight, and I watched him bed down for the night.
Kelsie planned to join me that afternoon, but after I confirmed the buck’s location, she arrived that night to help on opening morning. We devised a plan: if the buck stayed put, he’d likely take a known escape route through a ravine perfect for an archery shot. I’d position myself there, waiting for the deer to feed past. The flat terrain and sparse brush made stalking nearly impossible, so patience was key.
Opening morning, my alarm buzzed before dawn. Kelsie and I headed out, adrenaline pumping. She dropped me off, and I began an exhilarating hike through the dark. I reached the hilltop above the ravine, ready to descend to my spot. In the pre-dawn haze, just before shooting light, I spotted movement. My binoculars revealed the giant buck moving away at 100 yards. Unsure if he’d seen me, I froze, watching him disappear over a hill. I called Kelsie, who said he’d returned up the valley, unbothered. The deer’s eyes prevented me from reaching my planned spot, so I crawled to a sagebrush on an open flat, unable to move further.
Huddled there, my emotions churned. Past hunts haunted me—opportunities lost, something always going wrong. Yet, I felt an unusual calm, no urge to rush. I watched the smaller buck rake his velvet off violently, my adrenaline high but my body still, as if hunting had become instinct. After what felt like hours, the smaller buck and a doe bedded down. Then another doe jumped up, spooked, staring the opposite way. All the deer stood, poised to bolt. I could only see the smaller buck’s antler tips over the ridge, and panic crept in.
I bolted 100 yards down the hill, nearly to my ravine spot, when my phone buzzed. Kelsie, voice urgent, said, “You better be in position; they’re headed your way!” Looking up, I saw the giant’s box-like rack staring at me. I dove behind a tiny sagebrush on a rock face, my only cover. On the phone, Kelsie said the deer were hesitant. Two does ran over the hill, unaware of me, and led the bucks toward the ravine. Through the sagebrush, I saw his rack bouncing 70 yards away, closing fast.
Buck fever hit hard. I grabbed my bow, looped the string, and prepared to draw. The deer dipped out of sight below me, and I struggled to draw at the low angle, feeling a pop in my shoulder. The group stopped 25 yards away, 10 deer staring at me. Through my peep, I set my 30-yard pin behind the giant’s shoulder, but a doe blocked part of his vitals. I waited, heart pounding. When she stepped aside, I settled my pin, squeezed the trigger, and watched the arrow bury into his lungs. “That’s a dead deer,” I thought. He ran 100 yards, stumbled, and piled up face-down, antlers skyward.
I sat frozen, adrenaline and shock overwhelming me. I expected to wake from a dream, but this was real—a moment I’d chased for over half my life. I flashed back to my first deer at 14, a two-point, with the same heart-pounding thrill. I called Kelsie, who hadn’t seen the shot from over the hill. She was stunned I’d hit him. I called my dad and brother, sharing the joy as Kelsie joined me.
Approaching the buck, his enormous frame and mass awed me, like mounts from expos or grandfathers’ tales. His velvet shimmered in the sunlight. I circled him for 10 minutes, hesitant to touch him, thinking his broken beam and eye guards would lower his score. Later, I learned he was well over 200 inches, fulfilling my lifelong dream despite the damage.
When asked what buck I’m after, I say, “If it’s big, mature, and gets me excited, I’ll shoot.” The 200-inch mark was my dream, nearly lost to dwindling deer numbers and doubt. In a season with little time to scout, magic happened when I least expected it. One morning turned a fading dream into reality.