Story By: Jake Barnes
On June 25, 2025, an email from Fish and Game left me stunned. I had drawn a special late-season rifle tag for one of my favorite general season units, allowing me to hunt mule deer through November. Doubting my luck, I had family confirm the news. This tag, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, hadn’t come my way in years, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. My goal was clear: harvest my biggest buck yet, a 180-inch or better mule deer.
Local hunters warned that harsh winters in 2016 and 2022 had diminished the unit, making a 160-class buck a challenge. Discouraged but determined, I set out to prove them wrong. Scouting began early with my dad and friends Brayden and Jeb. In July, Brayden and Jeb called, thrilled about a massive buck they’d spotted, estimating him at over 200 inches. We spent the summer tracking his patterns. Despite their efforts during archery season, they couldn’t close the deal. On the general rifle season’s opening day, my sister, dad, and I located the buck at first light, but our position wasn’t ideal for a shot. As I watched him through my spotting scope, planning our move, a shot rang out. Another hunter had taken him. My dream buck was gone, and my heart sank.
With other friends’ tags to fill, I stepped back, helping Brayden harvest his best buck yet. I returned in early November, giving general hunters time to clear out. On November 9, I packed up and headed out for a week-long hunt. Dad joined me for the first few days, and we found solid bucks, but none met my 180-inch goal, so I passed. When Brayden and Jeb arrived, our extra eyes boosted my hope.
Five days in, a storm brought snow and a 20-degree temperature drop, perfect for the rut. Deer were everywhere. At 9 a.m., Jeb whispered, “There’s a nice buck by the fence line.” My spotting scope confirmed he was a shooter. Within 30 seconds, he chased a doe onto private land. We spent the day checking, hoping he’d return to public land, but he stayed put. Disappointed, we left, praying for better luck.
The next morning, we set up before dawn. The buck was still on private land, and doubt crept in. Most deer had moved off public land, and the pressure of this coveted tag weighed heavily. Past hunts taught me not to let expectations force bad decisions. I stayed committed to my goal, even if it meant going home empty-handed.
As the sun rose, it lit up the deer, and to our shock, they moved toward public land. After 45 minutes, most crossed the fence, the big buck trailing. Brayden and I hiked to get above them, while Jeb tracked the buck. Halfway up, Jeb called: the buck had crossed. My heart raced. We crossed a ravine and climbed a steep hill, moving deliberately to steady my nerves. Cresting the hill, I saw does but no buck. Scanning the hillside, I spotted him bedded in a burnt tree patch. “I see him,” I whispered. He stood at 200 yards. I set my rifle on the tripod, waited for a clear shot, and when he stepped out, I fired. Brayden shouted, “You stoned him!” Binoculars confirmed he was down.
We called Jeb, who joined us as we approached. The closer we got, the bigger he looked. Buck fever hit hard, my excitement soaring. This was my biggest buck yet, an old, mature mule deer. We laughed, celebrated, and soaked in the moment under the warm sun. After photos, we cleaned the buck, studying his antlers’ every curve.
Recent years had been a mule deer dry spell, as I focused on helping others fill tags. This hunt broke that streak, made sweeter by sharing it with family and friends. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.