Every hunting trip is an adventure. The unknown is what excites hunters. You must plan for the unexpected and the uncertainty. Four days seems like adequate time, until you need the fifth. 

After making the 1,000-mile trip (Northeast Indiana to Southwest Oklahoma) with my hunting buddy Jordan, we set up camp in the old cowboy bunkhouse. It was not anything pictured on a Hollywood set, rather a dilapidated structure that honestly deserved a match. The front door didn’t close, and the floor always required some sort of footwear. It was heated by two fireplaces and the shower was the size of a phone booth. It was the perfect hunting lodge. 

The next morning, we could not get to the preferred blind due to the wind conditions. As fate would have it, a monster buck showed up on camera. At that time, I decided to go all in and do whatever it took to punch my tag on that buck. After careful consideration we decided the blind would not be accessible for this hunt. 

We decided to lay in the pasture 300-yards away. However, that meant we would be rolling around in Southern Sand Burrs and battling the elements. The wind was no friend of ours as it kept us from getting any closer.  We sat there the first evening with high hopes of his return. Deer were on the move off the river bottom and navigating their way into the lush wheat field. A couple bucks that were definite shooters on other trips appeared onto the picturesque landscape. Garrett, my friend, and guide didn’t bother to even ask what I thought of them. We were after the giant and nothing less was acceptable. We watched the Oklahoma sunset fade to darkness and quietly exited the field. A short ¾-mile hike to the truck was filled with the chatter of a gameplan for the next morning.

The next morning, the wind still was not in our favor, so we snuck into the open pasture and took the position where we had the night before. The sun started to pierce the open sky and night turned to dawn. I could see movement in the wheat field as well as under our feeder. I scanned with anticipation, but the monster buck was nowhere to be seen. As the sun rose the deer retreated to their daytime slumbers and we once again exited the pasture while talking about our evening game plan.   

The evening of the second day exploded with deer. At one point we had two shooters in the field as well as one under the feeder. We were hopeful that the giant would make his grand appearance. A shot rang in the distance bringing hope of another hunter’s success. Garrett got on the phone and contacted the other hunter for a full report as to what had happened. The report was dismal. Due to the high winds, the hunter’s shot fell errant and the buck described as having a massive body and oddly shaped rack escaped unharmed. We continued watching the sun crawl across the southern sky on its inevitable collision course with the corner of the field our feeder was in. We knew what that meant and deep down, dreaded the last minutes of this sit.

As the sun started to perch on the western horizon a very wide and mature 8-point jumped the fence and started feeding. He was very tempting, but not the one. With only a few minutes of legal light left a buck appeared behind the cattle gate. A taller framed chocolate rack that blended perfectly with the brushy background. I thought it was him and told Garrett when he jumped the gate, I was going to take him. The light was dwindling, and I knew I had a very short window to pull the shot off. I hadn’t seen his rack fully but was certain it was him, or was it the tall 8-point I had seen earlier that morning? Doubt set in like water entering a sinking ship. Both Garrett and I could not confirm the buck was in fact the giant we had set out for. Pandemonium started to strike, and the clock continued its inevitable countdown. With one minute left of legal light the buck flashed into a lit area where Garret made confirmation. However, the buck quickly retreated to the darkness. In that situation you have two choices and shooting through cattle gates in almost pure darkness is not a good idea. I flipped the safety back on as time ran out. The hike across the pasture was a little quieter this time. We knew we had done the right thing, we just wanted 10 more minutes. The buck posed for a trail camera picture as if to taunt us of his victory.

The third day the weather turned 28 degrees and windy in the morning making for a chilly sit. A few deer moved but there was a noticeable difference in the attendance. A certain big-bodied buck with an oddly shaped rack appeared, feeding vigorously. We had a bad feeling but never spoke of it. That evening was punishing, 38 degrees and nonstop rain. Like deranged lunatics we battled through it all for the slim chance of the giant’s return. Obviously, deer were smarter than us because nothing moved. 

The last day was the day I had planned for since the weather forecast was published ten days prior. Twenty-seven degrees in the morning and a light wind, a more favorable wind than we had seen the three days prior. This allowed us to move in to 200-yards. Again, we set up in the pasture and waited. At first light a buck appeared at the feeder. It became clear it was the buck who possessed a tank of a body and an oddly shaped rack. Garrett guessed him to be 6.5 years old and the dreaded Bully Buck. I am from Indiana and have read about Bully Bucks, but we do not come across them. They usually die before reaching this stage of their lives and never make it to being a cranky old soul. This old boy on the other hand seemed to be the Rocky Balboa of bucks. Any sign of testosterone and he would bristle up and run it off. Our unspoken fear quickly became a reality. This buck could be keeping our target buck out of the area. After the menacing buck retreated to the river bottom with a couple does, we slipped out of the pasture.

The entire trip came down to the last evening. We resumed hunting from our 200-yard location. Light would not be a factor this time. Like clockwork deer started making their way to the feeding grounds. One after another they piled out until a familiar buck appeared. Like a bristled up Roman warrior he entered the ring. A mesmerizing sight, of testosterone and rage. It was him, the Bully Buck. We watched as he pushed every single stature of buck out of the area. It was obviously his domain, and he would yield to nothing.

As the evening stretched on the reality set in, time was no longer a friend. The countdown had begun, and our target buck was still absent from the party. However, the Bully Buck was still very much the life of the party. With three minutes left of legal light I knew the giant was going to be a no-show. I told Garrett that I was going to take the Bully Buck out, removing him from another hunter’s equation. He stood behind the cattle gate perfectly broadsided, like a last offering. I settled on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The calmness erupted as the 30-caliber bullet found its mark. The old warrior ate it, like a last testament to his being. He ran 30 yards toward us and stood there, exhaling great steam clouds like a brahma bull ready to charge. He then collapsed. The warrior was down and with him, ended the hunt for the giant I had pursued those four days.

The next morning at 5 a.m., as we were loading up to leave, the next group of hunters rolled into the camp. We said our goodbyes and started heading Northeast. A couple hours down the road I got a FaceTime from Garrett. The next hunter that went to the red dirt pad we had made to sit for our last hunts had killed the giant at first light. All I could do was laugh and congratulate them because that is what hunters do. If you have ever wondered if that old beat-up buck keeps the pretty giants out of your area, they do. Nature is funny like that.

On to the next hunt and an uncertain adventure. I’m sure Jordan and I will be talking about this trip for a long time, while staring out the windshield for hours on our way to our next unknown expedition.