January 2026
Coues Deer Hunting | Arizona
Story By: Creed Christiant
It’s a sickness we Coues deer hunters have. A disease. A spell. And there is no antidote, no vaccine, no remedy. We’re stuck with it. We have no choice but to pursue these little deer with an intense passion that wears down boot soles, strains eyes, and drains hunting budgets.
This sickness has led me across many miles of Coues country and kept me behind my optics for countless hours in search of that true, mega-giant buck. Over the last two decades, I’ve glassed up countless candidates — most of which grew into respectable bucks, some into well-above-average specimens, but only a few into true giants. This is the story of the biggest one of them all.
I first laid eyes on him in December 2021. He was a young deer, likely three years old, built well with long tines and a kicker on his right G2. He clearly had potential to become the kind of giant I was after, but I didn’t get my hopes up. I’ve watched plenty of bucks with similar promise plateau in antler growth, fall victim to the lions that roam the sky islands of southern Arizona, or simply vanish like the ghosts they are. Still, I intended to keep track of him.
The following August, I found him about half a mile from where I’d seen him the previous winter. He looked good again, carrying more mass but maintaining his tine length and that same kicker. I had already filled my tag in January, so I was just scouting. Either way, he was safe. I figured he was only four years old. I glassed for him a few more times that winter but never saw him again.
August 2023 rolled around, and once again I had no tag in my pocket. Any time spent looking was just scouting to see what he’d become. Almost exactly where he had been the year before — half a mile from my original sighting — he appeared again, only this time he had grown substantially. He now had matching kickers and tremendous mass. Both kickers grew rearward off his G2s, giving him the look of a mule deer with back forks — a rare trait in Coues. His eye guards were longer too. The brush was thick, and I only had about ten minutes to study him, but I walked away impressed. Once again, I never turned him up that winter.
In early January 2024, I filled my archery tag on another deer. That left me tagless again come August, but I made it a point to check on this buck. The weak monsoon had me worried his antler growth might be stunted, but I was proven thoroughly wrong. For the third consecutive August, he was in the exact same spot. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped the moment I glassed him. I was in disbelief. After a lifetime of looking at these deer, I had never been so taken back by a buck. He carried more mass than I thought possible, with long, thick tines and roughly seven extra points visible as he disappeared into the canyon canopy.
The next few months were torture. Two coveted elk tags and a pronghorn tag consumed my time, and between those hunts, work, and family, I never once went back to check on him. The thought of a lion or rifle hunter taking him kept me anxious. He lived deep in the wilderness, but that gave me little comfort. I monitored social media constantly, terrified of seeing his picture posted by someone else. All I could do was hope he’d survive until January, when my archery tag opened.
The two previous winters I’d failed to relocate him, so I assumed he’d be near where I’d first spotted him in December 2021. I didn’t start scouting until early December, and after several trips covering the country between his winter and August haunts, I began to worry. Coues deer earn their “Grey Ghost” nickname honestly. Maybe I was just missing him, but I was still turning up plenty of familiar small bucks. I expanded my search into a massive, vertical adjacent canyon. Days of glassing section after section turned up nothing.
January 1st, and I still hadn’t seen my dream buck since August. My close circle of friends offered to help, but my buddy Randy Landwerlen was first in line. He’s seen me arrow more deer than anyone else, and I wanted him there if I got the chance at this one. I had one stretch of canyon left to check and I decided that’s where we’d start opening morning.
After a long hike in the dark, we reached our glassing perch. As the canyon lit up, the very first deer we saw was him. After all the miles and days of scouring wilderness for a needle in a haystack, there he was, 700 yards away, glowing in the morning sun. We watched as he bounced from doe to doe, scent-checking. I stayed patient. Around 10 a.m. he bedded under a shady oak on a finger slope, and that’s when I made my move.
The wind held steady, blowing up the canyon, so I looped far above before side-hilling in. The ground was dry and loud, forcing me to place every step with care. At 60 yards I paused, orienting myself with landmarks to locate his bed. A thumbs-up from Randy across the canyon confirmed the buck was still there. The lanes I’d hoped for were blocked, so I pressed closer, edging above him. Too close for comfort, but I needed a shot window. Finally, I eased around a tree and caught a glimpse of his antlers in the grass. He was bedded facing away at 30 yards, steep terrain below. I couldn’t sit there long without spooking him, so I crawled to a nearby rock ledge where I could wait him out.
After 30 agonizing minutes, his main beam rose as he stood and stretched. Facing me, I stayed frozen until he turned broadside. He bent to groom, his head hidden. My body surged with adrenaline. I stood, stepped sideways, and drew my bow. My pin wobbled uncontrollably, big circles across his vitals. Years of dreaming about this moment, and here I was falling apart. I nearly let down. But then he lifted his head, and I had no more time. I closed my eyes, calmed my breathing, and when I opened them the pin steadied. I released.
The broadhead punched through his ribs, shredded his heart, and blew out the far side. He bolted downhill in a blur, then tumbled lifeless into the steep canyon slope.
I collapsed onto the rock, shaking, sick with adrenaline. I refused to touch him until Randy made it over. He had been with me through so many hunts, and I needed him there for this one. I can’t thank him enough. I can’t thank the few people I’d told about this buck enough for keeping it quiet and offering help. And most of all, I can’t thank my wife enough. None of this would be possible without her.