The Buck That Haunts Me

How a Monster Trophy Buck Strolled into My Life...And I Didn’t Even See It

by Richard Baimbridge

Just like women, there are deer you remember, deer you miss, and deer that will haunt you forever. This is the story of the latter – a buck I’ve only ever seen in my imagination, but whose memory hangs over me like an eerie shadow. Good hunting stories don’t always have a happy ending, and I often wonder if this one is a comedy, a tragedy – or something in between.

Like the Saturday Night Fever story I published, it also involves my buddy Tom from Pennsylvania. Hunting with Tom can be intimidating, to say the least. He’s kinda quiet and understated, grew up on a farm, has been hunting his whole life, and worked for a time at an outfitter.

He’s the kind of guy who, when you go quail hunting together, birds are already hitting the ground before you’ve got your barrel lifted towards the sky. And to add insult, he’ll pick-off the ones you missed at distances that’ll make your jaw drop.

The story begins early one morning as we arrived at a property we leased for the weekend, about two hours northwest of Raleigh. We parked near a gate to the hunting area, within sight of the property owner’s house. It was dark outside, with a clear sky as we crept out into the field, taking up our positions. I was on the ground behind some cover with a perfect view of the soybean field. Tom opted for a tree stand a few yards deep into the woods, at the far-end of the field.

For some reason, the stand was set up at a weird 45-degree angle, like some kind of carnival ride where the bottom drops out and you go hurdling downwards face-first, hopefully stopping just before you hit the ground. But a few hours into the hunt, a group of deer suddenly bolted right under Tom’s position, spooked by something at the adjacent property. Despite the awkward shooting position, he managed to squeeze-off two shots in rapid succession, downing a small 6-point buck on the spot and hitting a doe.

After field-dressing the buck, we set out in search of the doe. There was a large blood trail, so we began following it deep into the woods. After over an hour of searching through heavy brush, it led us to a creek bed and eventually to a tall fence back by the access road. We had doubts she could make it over the fences to the other side of the woods after being hit like that, but decided to go have a look anyway.

We split up to cover more ground, and I was nearly to the end of the property when suddenly I came face-to-face with the doe. I could see Tom had hit her right in the scapula. She bolted right past me, headed in Tom’s direction. I yelled out to him that she was coming, and it took two more shots to finally bring her down. He said she was the strongest doe he’d ever seen.

By the evening of the last day, the sun was setting and I still hadn’t shot a deer. Tom and I took up a position near the far south end of the property on an embankment overlooking a creek bed. There was a tree trunk between the two of us, and I was facing to the north as Tom sat watching the creek.

The light was fading fast, and I was ready to pack it in and head home. But Tom didn’t want to give up just yet. He took out his deer call and bleated a few times. For some reason, each time he bleated I found it more and more funny, until I started laughing out loud. The more he bleated, the more I laughed – until finally I was rolling on the ground laughing. He looked at me like I was crazy, but kept on bleating. And the more I tried to control myself, the worse it got. I had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard.  

Then, suddenly, he became very serious. “Hey, shut up! There’s a giant buck right in front of me!” he whispered. We had agreed that the next deer would be mine. And there, just 40 yards in front of us, was a 185-inch 9-point buck, together with a younger 4-point and two does.

“I have my scope right on his head,” Tom said. “Come take the shot.” We carefully traded positions, but when I looked through the scope, I didn’t see a thing. “He’s literally right in front of you!” Tom said, taking over the gun. “How can you not see that?” I looked again — nothing. And by the time Tom decided to take the shot himself, the buck was gone, taking his entourage with him. Never to be seen again…

The ride home was a long one, and silent. I felt a terrible sense of guilt and shame. Finally, Tom broke the silence. “Man, I woulda gone straight to the taxidermist with that buck and mounted him on my wall.” I felt even worse and pulled my cap down over my face. Then, he told me the same thing happened to him once in Pennsylvania with a buck standing right smack in the middle of an open field. For some reason, he couldn’t see it, no matter how many times someone pointed it out to him.

Sometimes, I guess, it’s the light that plays tricks on you. Or maybe it’s something more supernatural -- like the mythical animal spirits that the Native Americans talk about.

But whatever it was, there’s seldom a backyard cookout with fresh venison and cold beers that he doesn’t like to remind me of that story. He even tells it to the kids, and they never get tired of hearing it.

In the end, that’s what makes a story great. It doesn’t matter whether it’s about the one you got, or the one that got away -- but how many times you can hear a story and still enjoy it. Since that day, Tom and I have smoked many a deer together. But none will ever compare to the legendary buck who haunts me to this day.

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