The What If Buck

What if I hadn’t booked this Alberta hunt? What if I hadn’t adjusted my scope? What if Russell and I hadn’t been at camp when Will and his guide, Sharky, came back for help? What if Russell had not glassed the mountain one more time? What if he would not have gone down to Harrison Point? What if the buck had gone 100 different directions instead of toward my stand? The answers to all these questions tell the story of a whitetail hunt I will never forget as long as
I live.

lt was Jan. 25, 1987 at the Buckmasters Classic where I would meet one of our invited deer hunting experts, Russell Thornberry of Alberta, Canada.
I had always heard of Russell and his expertise of putting deer hunters on some of the world’s largest whitetails. It was not until late one night at the Classic that it all sank in.
As everybody at the Classic brought out their pictures of big bucks and were telling all those terrible lies, Russell sat quietly eating his dinner and minding his own business.
Classic director and long-time hunting companion Alan Brewer approached Russell and asked him how his deer hunting season went this past year.

Russell looked up and said, “I thought we had a great year, and out of all our hunters, we averaged 160 inches on all whitetail bucks taken.”
When he said that, Alan and I looked at each other in total shock.
“Let me get my scrapbook and show you,” Russell said as he got up from the table.
When he returned, all doubts were removed as we thumbed through this dream book of white-tails. I had never seen bucks with body size or anthers like that before.
As I looked around, Alan had his checkbook out and was writing a check.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going with Russell this fall,” he said as he filled out the rest of the information for his deposit.
Since Alan and I have hunted together for more than 10 years, I just couldn’t let him go by himself, so I committed to go, too. With the upcoming events to follow, I would have to say this would have to be one of the greatest decisions of my life.

As the summer flew by and November was upon us, it was time to get ready for the hunt. This was a job in itself. Already having one bad experience in Canada the fall before with weather and the elements, I was emphatic it was not going to happen again.
Yes, I’m like an old bull elephant when it comes to remembering, and I’ll never forget that first morning hunt in Manitoba, Canada, with the temperature a brisk 40 below zero. Those conditions are just a little extreme for an ol’ Southern boy who just left 78-degree weather.
I’ll never forget the feeling of my toes that morning as long as I live. I sat out there for more than an hour on that first morning, and as I got colder and colder, my concentration was reaching the limit. I finally had enough and didn’t care if there was a Boone and Crockett, Betty Crockett or Davy Crockett whitetail out there. My posterior was headed for the truck.
With all these terrible memories so fresh in my mind, packing enough warm clothes for this year’s trip was number one on my list. I finally crammed my last pair of wool socks in my bag as Alan pulled up to the house.

We quickly loaded the truck and were off to the airport where five bellmen helped us unload our truckful of bags and equipment. As we checked in and boarded the flight, we were just hours away from a very eventful week.

When the plane touched down in Edmonton, Alberta, we were greeted by one of our guides, Dave. As we headed out on the two-hour drive to camp, we bombarded Dave with questions. Alberta was having terrible weather that year, and when I say terrible for Alberta, I’m talking no snow and temperatures in the 50s and 60s.

Fortunately, they had 6 inches of snow the night before we arrived. As we learned, hunting whitetails in Alberta with no slow is like funding a needle in a haystack. But the colder temperatures were just what the doctor ordered to kick off the major portion of the rut.
As we headed into camp, our anticipation grew. We were warmly greeted by Russell and his lovely wife Sharlene as we walked into the little green cabin. Russell’s other top-notch guides, Propane Shane, Bob, Ron and Sharky, all gave us a very warm greeting. Our hunting companions for the week were Texans Herchel Chadick, Wayne Falcone and Mike Szyclik, along with Louisianian Will Gray, and Dale Peterson from Pennsylvania.

We proceeded to put our gear into our rooms before leaving to go to the rifle range. The first thing Russell requires all shooters to do is make sure their rifles are zeroed before the opening morning hunt. As we drove through the open stubble fields, we came to the spot where everybody would shoot. Our guides put out some boxes with targets on them, and we drove about 100 yards away to take our shots.

Everybody took turns shooting until all our guns were dialed in. Then it was my turn to shoot. I was using a 7mm, which I had zeroed at 300 yards when I left home. Squeezing off five shots, they seemed to be pretty close together. The only problem was they were about 5 inches high at 100 yards. That was a bit higher than when I was shooting at home.

Some of the guys told me to leave it because it would probably be OK. Then Wayne walked up as I was putting away my gear, and he said he thought I needed to bring my zero down about 2 inches just to be safe for shooting at intermediate ranges. Shots in Alberta can be anywhere from 50 yards to 400, but I took his advice and lowered it the recommended 2 inches. Here again was another decision that was made during this incredible whitetail hunt. We all loaded back in the trucks and headed back to camp for our first supper.

Sitting in deer camp listening to all the stories and planning the next day’s strategy is the most fun about deer hunting to me. It is my way of getting psyched up for the big challenge. Being a former world-ranked tennis professional, I always needed a way to psyche myself up before matches. The same goes for deer hunting, and camp atmosphere is what gets me excited.

There was only one problem. This was not a Southern deer camp, and these guys were talking about record-book whitetails and how they were going to hunt them. This really blew my mind, because this is a hunter’s dream, not a reality. As the guides talked about “book deer” as they called them, I just sat back and listened. Everything mentioned was about the “book.” This was deer hunting lingo I needed to pick up if I was going to fit in. If I didn’t hear the word book mentioned more than 100 times, I didn’t hear it once. I felt like I was watching Hawaii Five-0 when they tell Dano to “book him” at the end of the show. The other thing that hit both Alan and me was the bag limit of only one buck. This might not bother a lot of hunters, but it was culture shock coming from Alabama where you can take a buck a day for about two months.

Once you see antlers in Alabama, the guesswork is over. Not so in Alberta. That is when the work begins. Alan and I were like two college students who had skipped classes all year but were going to cram all night long for the final exam the next day. We wanted to know what to look for in a buck. Was it spread? Was it tine length? Was it mass?
Russell said, “These bucks will only give you 4 seconds to make a decision and get off your shot. When you see a buck that doesn’t impress you, or if there is any hesitation in your mind, then don’t shoot. But when you see a buck and your eyes get as big as golf balls and your heart comes through your shirt, the moment of destiny has come. Pull the trigger.”
With all that on my mind, we headed for bed, although I knew there would be no sleeping on my part due to the excitement that had just been generated.

The next morning came early as the light came on me from above. I felt like I had just closed my eyes. I was sharing a room with three other guys who were making it almost impossible to sleep. I felt like I was in a cave with three hibernating bears with all the snoring that was going on. At 2 a.m., I said to heck with that and got out of my bunk and fiddled around in my shaving kit until I found my ear plugs. I was saved when I put them in. I just wish I would have done it earlier. As everybody scurried around and got dressed, we grabbed a quick breakfast and were soon off on our first morning hunt.
Russell and I drove out to the point of the snow-covered ridge that overlooks a beautiful river bottom. As the truck engine stopped, Russell said, “Well, this is it. Get the rest of your clothes on and let’s go.”

The sun was beginning to break behind the snowy ridges as we started down toward the river bottom. With all the clothes I had on, I looked like I weighed 400 pounds, but this ol’ Southern boy wasn’t about to get cold this time.

We made our way around the edge of the river until we came to a point where my Texas tower was situated. The stand was positioned on the other side of the river overlooking an open flat on the other side. The flat was about 150 yards wide and surrounded by heavy timber on three sides.
Does would often cross the flat going from timber to timber. When the rut is in full swing, bucks are often right behind the does. The stand being on the opposite side of the river helped keep our approach very quiet, plus we wouldn’t be stomping around in their bedding area on the way in. Once I got in the tower and loaded my rifle, I pulled my hat over my ears. Russell was set up right below the tower on a stool with rattling antlers.

After about 10 minutes, he tickled the tines together very softly. Off to my right about 50 yards was the timber that bordered the flat. When Russell increased his teasing of the horns, I heard limbs breaking in the timber. At first I didn’t really think anything of it, but when I looked down at Russell, he was pointing to tell me that was a buck and it was coming our way!
When he said that, my heart grew from the size of a tomato to a watermelon in five seconds.
Here I was in my stand only 10 minutes and here comes an Alberta buck. Give me a break! At least let me work into this a little bit.

The cracking limbs were getting closer to the edge of the timber. If he was going to show himself, he would likely be just 50 yards away. Then there was silence for about five minutes as I kept staring at the timber.
Russell pick up the antlers again and started thrashing the bushes before clashing them together for about 15 seconds. Limbs started breaking again, but they were farther up the river and deeper in the timber. This reminded me of turkey hunting back home as the smart old gobbler just wouldn’t come closer.

This buck was interested, but not enough to show his face. Next, a shot rang out in the distance, followed by two more. Russell whispered up to me that was someone in our party and that hewas going to see what happened.
I sat there looking over every square inch of that bottom in hope something might come across. At the farthest point of the flat, I figured it was about 300 yards before it hit timber again. From there it began to slope up to a steep ridge. As the ridge began to slope up in front of me, there would be open places anywhere from 25 to 50 yards wide and long. There was one particular opening I kept look at that I estimated was about 600 yards away. Every few minutes I would glance up at it to check things out. The next time I looked, something caught my eye. It wasn’t there previously, but at the same time it wasn’t moving.

I eased up my rifle and set my scope on 12 power and then looked over the opening. My eyes had not deceived me, because I was looking at a beautiful 10-point buck. He stood motionless up there looking down at the timber below. Knowing it was too far to shoot, I was trying to go to school as far as judging a buck.

His spread was a few inches wider than his ears, which made him more than 20 inches. I counted 4 points on the beams with 2 brow tines to go with them. He seemed to have average mass, nothing really heavy that I could judge. The tines were lot extremely long but were very symmetrical.
If I had to score him, I would say he was in the 140s. Finally he began to move across the opening with his nose to the ground. Boy, what a beautiful sight. He also seemed to have a good body size. I just couldn’t believe how much they stand out in the snow. We’re not used to snow where I come from. To think I had seen snow three times, and two of those were on TV. To me, the buck looked like a horse with antlers as it walked into the timber and out of sight.
I would have to say for my first morning hunt, I had a lot of excitement. When I finally climbed back up the ridge to the truck, I told Russell what I saw and where it was. To my amazement, Russell said the opening was about 400 yards instead of the 600 I had estimated. Thank God the buck wasn’t a monster, or I would have been sick.

Russell informed me of the misfortune of one of our hunters, Herchel Chadwick. As Herchel was eyeball to eyeball with a “book deer” at about 50 yards, his thumb, because of the heavy mitten he was wearing, accidentally touched the trigger as he was lining up the shot. As the warning shot went off, the buck bounded off, and before Herchel could compose himself, the buck was out at 200 yards, where he shot twice more to no avail. You could se the sick feeling he had in his face as we talked at the truck, so it must have been a really big buck. After talking, we loaded up and headed in for lunch.

Once we consumed our lunch, it was back to the woods. Russell had picked out a different spot for the afternoon hunt. I was going to be hunting on the opposite side of the river from my morning stand. Driving through the wide-open stubble fields, we approached the heavy timber overlooking the river bottom.
“Hop out here and walk to the bottom of the hill, and your stand will be right on the river,” Russell said. I grabbed my rifle and clothes and was on my way.
As I started down the hill, I knew I was in trouble. What they call hills here, I call a major mountain. Thinking my journey would be short, it took me more than 30 minutes to reach my stand, and that was going downhill. I was dreading having to go back up that mountain after the hunt. The stand was in the corner of a stubble field that bordered the river. Crawling under a fence to get to the stand, I noticed the fence post had been torn up by a most dominant buck. At home big bucks pick on some pretty big trees, but I had never seen one shred a fence post.

The afternoon seemed to pass quickly as I was perched up in that big tree. The only wildlife I saw was three coyotes as they played on the ice-covered river. The sun was beginning to set as I searched for movement.
Then I caught a glimpse of something walking toward me in the stubble field. Looking through my scope, I picked up some movement. I was a nice buck walking at a steady pace right toward my stand. With only a side view, I could county 5 points on one side, so I knew it had to be a 10- or 12-pointer. The buck stopped and then turned his head away. The antlers were of good length and pretty good mass. I was excited but not greatly impressed. I remember what Russell said. “If he doesn’t just
blow you away by his presence, don’t shoot.” This buck was a good buck in anybody’s book. He was bigger than anything I had taken or seen before, but he was not “Mr. Big” that I was looking for. As the buck walked off, so ended my first day of hunting.

After supper that night, I described the buck I had seen to Russell and his staff. They said he would have scored in the 150s, which really bothered me. I like wide spreads in my whitetail bucks, so that is the first thing I look for. I was informed that a lot of the “book deer” here have no more than 18-inch inside spreads but have long tines with heavy mass. Once I heard that, I threw the wide spread theory out the window. The next buck I saw that was a tad bit better than the first two was go-
ing to have lead coming his way.

On Tuesday’s hunt, I wasn’t as fortunate as I was on Monday. I didn’t see a deer in the morning or the afternoon. We did get some intense scouting down during the midday hours. Russell and I found some fresh scrapes in two different spots. On Monday, Russell had kicked snow into both scrapes, and when we checked them midday Tuesday, both had been cleaned out and worked. Our strategy was to hunt one scrape Wednesday morning and the other in the afternoon.
As Wednesday morning came around, Russell and I were in position around the first scrape area. I was about 75 yards downwind of the scrape, and Russell got about 75 yards behind me to try rattling again. Going through about five different rattling sequences, there seemed to be no buck activity as far as we were concerned. As we headed back to the truck, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bucks I passed up. There are millions of deer hunters who would have loved to have had the opportunity of the two bucks I had seen. The decisions we make as a hunter are ones we must live with, and I wasn’t coping too well with the decisions I had made so far.

While back at camp catching a bite to eat, Russell and I were excited about my afternoon stand since the buck sign was so fresh. As I was cramming a chocolate chip cookie down my mouth, one of Russell’s guides, Sharky, and will Gordy came into the cabin.
“Russell, we need some help down at Harrison Point with Will’s buck,” Sharky said. His little truck couldn’t make it down the mountain to the river to bring out the buck, so Russell and I loaded up our gear and headed down there in our big truck. Having no idea that the next few hours were going to be the most dramatic in my young deer hunting career, we set out to help our two companions.
Once arriving at the top of the ridge, we knew our work had just begun. Locking the hubs in 4-wheel drive, we eased down the mountain to Harrison Point. Harrison Point is a stand named after Phillip Harrison from Texas, who seems to have had good luck year after year in this stand, which sits out on the point of the river overlooking a large open flat. Sharky and will had gutted the deer but couldn’t get it across the river to get the truck. It was a young 10-pointer that Will mistakenly took for a big buck because the rack looked larger proportionate to the body.

Finally Russell and Sharky got him across the river, and we loaded him in the truck as we headed back up the mountain. When we got about three-quarters of the way up, our tires started spinning and we were going nowhere. This meant it was time for the snow chains. By this time it was about 3:15 in the afternoon, which meant we were late for my afternoon stand. With the snow chains on, we climbed the additional part of the mountain. We took off the chans and loaded Will’s buck into
Sharky’s truck. As Sharky and Will drove off, Russell and I were putting on our clothes so we could drive to my stand and start huntiing.
My stand was about 20 minutes away. As we pulled up to the top of the ridge, Russell said, “Let me see my binoculars so I can glass the other side of the mountain one more time before we leave.”

Moving the binoculars from left to right to cover the complete terrain, Russell stopped quickly at one point. “There’s a doe coming out of the timber on the other side of the river.”
As he continued to glass the doe, his voice raised to a high pitch: “Oh my God, what a buck! He’s book-class. What a monster!”

“Russell, let me look at him for a minute,” I pleaded. I was more nervous holding the binoculars than if it was a gun after listening to Russell’s excitement. Finally getting the binoculars fitted to my face, I began to focus on the area Russell described. I picked up the doe as she was looking back over her shoulder to her right. I moved the binoculars a hair to the right, and there stood the king of kings, a book-class whitetail buck. My hands started trembling and my heart was racing a mile a minute at this spectacular sight.

As the buck moved up behind the doe, there was a small 4-foot fence that crossed the elevator flat in which they stood. The doe went under the fence as the big buck just watched her. Then, all of a sudden, the buck leaped into the air up and over the fence like it was a piece of cake. I will never forget that sight as long as I live. His massive, wide rack gleaming in the sunlight, with his huge muscular body floating through the air was a sight to behold. When he hit the ground, he put his rack almost on the ground as he swayed his head back and forth chasing the doe.
Russell slapped me on the arm and said, “Hey, you want to try your luck at him?” Being way too late to get to my other stand and just thinking of the size of this buck, my decision was made quickly. As we grabbed our gear, we started down the mountain toward the river.
We would set up as close to the river so that we could see the open flat on the other side.
Russell’s intentions were to rattle to see if the buck would react. It would have to travel through heavy timber and into the open flat before I could shoot. With the clashing of the horns and the meshing of the tines, my anticipation grew larger and larger. The vision of the buck I witnessed in the binoculars was very clear. I could just see him sneaking out of the timber in search of our rattling.
After going through numerous rattling sequences, it was obvious Mr. Dream Buck wasn’t going to show. Russell said, “Jackie, the only other chance we have is to go down to the right here back to Harrison Point. Sometimes the does will walk that stretch of timber and come across the flat.”
Well, we had nothing to lose, so we moved briskly toward Harrison Point as the afternoon was coming to an end. I really didn’t have much confidence as we approached the stand since we were just down there talking and carrying on with Will’s buck. Russell helped me up the tower stand and then went back and sat down on his famous log. Russell then looked at me and said, “Look toward your left where the timber comes to a point. That is where the deer come out to cross the flat.”

Once he said that, I put a death stare on that particular timber. I raised my rifle and glared through my scope. A doe was running out of the timber crossing the open flat right in front of me at about 250 yards. I whispered back to Russell that it was just a doe since he couldn’t see due to the river bank blocking his view.
As the doe kept coming, I caught more movement coming out of the timber. Picking it up in my scope, I could tell it was a buck. “Russell, it’s a buck! It’s a buck!” I whispered loudly. “Can you see him? Can you see him?”
Russell replied, “I can’t see a thing. The decision is yours.”
That’s all I needed to hear. All that I could think of was the buck I saw in the binoculars. I didn’t want to shoot this buck, because I felt we might get a chance to hunt the big buck during the week.
As the buck got closer, I could only see a side view of its rack. It looked like it had good beam length. Russell said, “If he’s good, take him!”
Well, since I had already passed up two pretty good bucks and this one looked as big as they were, I decided to take him. He was moving at a steady pace now as he was trying to catch up with the doe.

The only problem was the buck was running in a swell or dip in the open flat. I could only see the middle of his body to the top of his back. As I too off the safety, I placed the crosshair in the middle of this area. I then moved it all the way to the front of his chest. With the pace he was moving, this was enough lead for me to hit his vitals.

As the crack of the 7mm echoes through the river bottom, I had moved on my decision. Quickly bolting my rifle with another cartridge, I looked back through the scope to find the buck. To my total amazement, he had stopped and was looking me eyeball to eyeball in my scope.
It was then I knew it was the same magnificent buck I had seen in the binoculars. My heart pounded fiercely as I tried to catch my composure. I just couldn’t believe I was staring at a book-class whitetail, much less just shot and missed one only to have him stand dead still and look at me.
With my nerves a little more stable now, I placed the crosshair again in the middle of the area that was exposed behind the front shoulder. The buck was still in the dip as he was when I first shot.

The second shot went off as the 7mm kicked up in the air. I quickly looked in my scope and saw nothing at the spot where I had shot. Then, all of a sudden I saw the buck trying to get up and make his way off. I aimed one more time and fired as the buck was stumbling off. I again looked through the scope and saw nothing.
Russell was asking, “Did you get him?”
I replied, “Russell, I know I hit him pretty good, and I believe it was the same buck we saw.”
“Jackie, if you got the same buck we were looking at, you’ve got one heck of a wall-hanger.
Come on. We have to cross the river if we are going to see if you got him.”
But I didn’t have any wader to use to cross the river.
Russell just looked at me and said, “This will be the best cold you ever feel if you got the buck we saw.”

As the water went over my boots, I felt cold like I never have felt. Climbing up the river bank, I hurried to the spot where I thought he was. There was no buck in sight as I covered the flat. There was no blood and no hair to be seen as I walked all the way toward the timber.
By this time I was feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn’t believe I had missed my opportunity of a lifetime. Russell had swung back to the left from the spot I thought the buck was located as I continued to search for Mr. Big.

Then Russell said, “Jackie, come here. I think I found what you’re looking for.”
As I slowly approached, I could see it was a buck. Once I was on top of him, I knew then it was Mr. Big. Mr. Big was a beautiful 12-point buck. He was a typical 10-pointer with forked briar tines. His beam length was 25 inches with a 21-inch outside spread. His gross score was 174 inches. What a beautiful sight it was!

I did notice that I had clipped his backbone on my second shot. As Russell and I jumped up and down hollering and screaming and giving high-fives in the middle of that open flat high up in Alberta, Canada, it was a day that could not be put into words.

This buck was the same as me winning Wimbledon during my tennis career. It was more than just a dream. Now it was a reality. My friends have always said I was lucky, and sometimes I might have to believe them. They say I have a horseshoe stuck in the place where the sun doesn’t shine.
That’s fine and good, because I’ll take luck any day of the week over expertise.
As we got back to camp, you would think my week was over, but that didn’t seem to be the case. From a good luck story, we went to a bad luck story.

My hunting companion Alan just couldn’t see a nice buck walk right under his stand. Then he sat at Harrison Point for two days and saw nothing. I sat there 10 minutes and got Mr. Big. He then hunted the place where I was supposed to hunt before we had to help Will and Sharky. He rattled in a spike of all things.
To make matters worse, I saw three more big bucks from the truck while waiting for Alan. Two of them were book deer. One big 10-pointer made a scrape in the wide open pasture and then walked up to within 30 yards of the truck and just stared at me while poor Alan was sitting in his stand.
That just goes to show you that being in the right place at the right time sure can come in handy.

As I look back on this incredible hunt while gleaming at Mr. Big on my den wall, all these questions stick out in my mind. What if Russell and I had not been in camp when Will and Sharky needed help? What if Russell had not glassed the mountain one more time? What if the buck hadn’t come toward Harrison Point? What if Wayne hadn’t told me to adjust my scope?
Now as this story comes to an end, you can understand why it was called the What If Buck.
You might have a what-if buck in your home area this year. If you do, my horseshoe is not for sale.