Every year, Chris Robbins schedules his weeklong vacation to coincide with Indiana's whitetail rut. In 2006, instead of bowhunting his usual spot in Jackson County, Chris hunted with friends Mike Palmer and Bill Georges at a military base north of Columbus.

Most years, the base is opened to archers four days a week, Monday through Thursday. By the end of the hunt on Thursday, four days into his vacation, Chris had seen only two deer. On Friday, he returned to similar conditions in Jackson County.

On his way home from the woods Friday night, Chris called his longtime hunting buddy Brad Shepherd. He had been in touch with Brad throughout the week, so Brad knew things had been slow. He wound up inviting his pal to spend the rest of the weekend hunting with him in Switzerland County.

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It had been two years since their last encounter, and, suddenly, only 20 feet separated Greg Holthaus, up a tree in a climbing stand, and the Illinois slammer that had haunted his dreams after back-to-back misses in 2004.

"Here it came, walking right for me, but it was leery and cagey," Greg said. "With the buck coming straight on like that, I never had a chance to draw."

Greg held his bow and quiver in front of his face, hoping the buck would continue walking and pass under his stand, possibly offering a quartering-away shot. The skyline was behind him, and the tree he'd climbed was slightly smaller than the width of his body.

"The deer came directly under my tree, stopped and looked up at me," Greg said. "I was shaking horribly, and it seemed like 10 minutes passed."

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Eighteen-year-old Steve Hunt of Sterling, Ohio, spends a lot of time hunting with his grandfather, Skip Johnson. On Dec. 27, 2006, opening day of the late muzzleloader season, the two were accompanied by a couple of Steve's friends.

Since Steve had shot a doe in the early gun season, he gave up his usual spot to one of his friends, while he headed for the other side of the road. By 7:15 that morning, he'd picked out a tree to break his outline and had sat down beside it.

There wasn't much activity during the first hour, but then Steve heard a shot pretty close, which brought him to his feet. 

While surveying the area, he glanced behind him to see a buck at a mere 50 yards. Without bothering to evaluate antlers, he shouldered his .50-caliber inline, put the crosshairs on the animal's shoulder and squeezed the trigger. After the smoke dissipated, he saw that his first-ever buck was lying on the ground.

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I met Buddy Edlin of Crooked Creek Whitetails 10 years ago on my first paid hunt. Buddy and his family have since been really good friends. And for the past seven or eight years, I have been the breakfast cook and sometimes help guide.
On Nov. 3, 2007, I arrived at camp about 8 p.m.  When I walked through the door, it felt like I'd come home. It's amazing to be able to go around the table and know everyone's name.

For eight years, my place to hunt has been a piece of ground in Schuyler County. It's made up of a mere 12 acres of timber, but it's surrounded by cornfields.

The next morning, a Sunday, I set out around 7:00 to hang my stand in the same tree from which I've taken several good deer over the years. As I walked to it, I noticed a bunch of scrapes and antler-ravaged trees. I was pumped!

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When Mike Brey returned to his truck on the morning of Dec. 9, 1994, he found a note.

"You're not welcome here," it read. "Your tag number will be given to the sheriff's department."

No big deal, he thought, tossing it on the front seat.

The then 37-year-old contractor was hunting legally on a 40-acre tract owned by a relative. He might've avoided the note if he'd parked in his cousin's yard, but he didn't want the dogs to follow him. So he'd pulled onto the shoulder of a public road. The neighbors, at least one of them, didn't care for hunters.

No problem. He wouldn't need to park there for another year, because his tag was punched. Did you hear that, world? 

HIS TAG WAS PUNCHED!

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Gene Figge had no way of knowing that the 2004 season would be his last to hunt the Jersey County, Ill., farm his family had enjoyed for nearly three decades. About a month after deer season ended, the landowner died, and the property was sold.

The new owners have not been as generous.

But while the '04 season ended on a sour note for the Figges, it began with a bang.
Literally.

Opening day of shotgun season found Gene hunting the farm with his father, Dennis. Even the worst weather couldn't keep them indoors, since the season lasted only three days.

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Nov. 29, 2007, the day I shot the 35-pointer that set tongues wagging across all of North America, wasn't the first time I saw the buck. The previous year on the very same field, my wife, Gail, and I both shot at and missed it.

I can't speak for my wife, but that whitetail rattled me so badly that I had a hard time hitting the air around it.

That was last season. This year was different. I was calm, cool and collected, and when the shot presented itself, I took my time and squeezed the trigger. Ya, right! Now I know why they put that metal guard under the trigger. I pulled so fast and hard that if it hadn't been there, I would have broken it off!

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Being in the right place at the right time generally counts for something. And this might be particularly true when it comes to hunting big whitetails.

Many tales are told of ones that got away. They were too far, too fast, or it just flat out didn't work for whatever reason. However, once in a great while a plan comes together and Lady Luck shines brightly on a hunter.

Such was the case for a 13-year-old Junction City, Kan., teen when he shot his first whitetail during the 2007 youth season near his home.

James Livingston is an eighth-grader and moved to the Sunflower State from Idaho when his father transferred to a new job. His father, Jerry, admitted Kansas' reputation as a state with a rich pheasant hunting tradition weighed on his decision to move his family there.

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It was opening day of Indiana's 2006 gun season, and Johnny Thacker was hunting with his cousin, Randy Buttery, Randy's sons Andy and Jason, and his brother-in-law, Pedy. The group leases 120 acres in southern Indiana that border a large state-owned tract. Lots of deer travel back and forth across the property, especially when the firearms season is under way.

"I was in a 17-foot ladder stand that I had used several weekends during bow season," Johnny said. "It's a great spot, about 60 yards into a wooded area from the edge of a cornfield. I could see the corn stubble from my stand as I watched the gully that ran down from the field to my left. At the bottom of the gully is a small stream."

Johnny, who lives in Ohio, had spent the previous night at Randy's home, which is much closer to the lease and allowed for more sleep. The whole crew was at the leased farm well before daybreak.

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Nov. 18, 2006, was just another morning to go deer hunting for me, though I'd had considerably less sleep than usual. Instead of counting sheep, I'd counted mileposts all the way from Mississippi to Indiana.

I have hunted Crawford County, Ind., for probably 10 years and harvested my share of trophy whitetails. There is probably no one who knows those woods better than I do.

I got in a couple of weeks of bowhunting that year before my job took me to Mississippi. I hunted morning and evening during that time and saw some really nice bucks, none of which were big enough to tempt me. I knew there were some great deer there.

After that, I took a job in Mississippi and had to abandon my hunting spot for the rest of the early bow season. But when November came around, I told my superintendent I was going back to Indiana to hunt for a week. I left late on Friday, Nov. 17.

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You'd think that a couple of bowhunters who planned for every conceivable circumstance when packing for a four-day, out-of-state hunt would have pored over maps or at least discussed the lay of the land during the nine-hour drive. Yet for all the planning, all the packing and all the fuss, the itinerary for day one was amazingly -- almost alarmingly -- simple.

When Aaron Burke and Johnny Mitchell arrived in Knox County, Ohio, that first afternoon back in November 2003, Johnny already knew where he wanted to go. The trip had been his idea; the farm belonged to his family. But his instructions to Aaron were far less specific.

"Just walk down that road and find you a place," Johnny told Aaron, who had never hunted deer outside of his native North Carolina.

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"Limpy" first appeared in Don Ehling's Hamilton, Ohio, neighborhood five years ago. The young doe's hind leg had been broken at some point. It had healed, but was essentially useless. Crippled, but by no means barren, Limpy enjoys a protected status among the 18 families who live there.

She feeds in the yards daily, and shows little fear of her human benefactors.

The horseshoe-shaped neighborhood surrounds a deep wooded depression with a creek at its center. Most of the lots are big, between 5 and 6 acres, and branch away from the drainage like spokes on a wheel.

Whenever Don, 70, wants to hunt close to home, he'll take his bow into the hub. He isn't the only hunter who ventures in there, but he has more time than most. Being retired has its advantages.

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Opening day of Missouri's 2006 rifle season was really sweet. Not only did I fill my doe tag (ending my deer drought from '05), but my cousin Matt also shot a great 9-pointer. Even my 10-year-old nephew, Colton, got in on the action, taking his first deer ever.

I will never forget the moment that Colton stripped down to his tee-shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Brandishing his new hunting knife, he announced, "I'll field-dress her, Grandpa!"

After that evening's family celebration, I asked my sister, Crissy, where she and my brother-in-law, Tom, would be hunting the next morning, a Sunday. They had planned to hunt our parents' property, too. Because I sing in our church's praise team, I had to be in from hunting early enough to get ready and be at church in time for practice.

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Calvin Mauch knew the buck had not been fooled, even though the hunter had been careful to belly-crawl along the top of the earthen dam. He wondered if his brazen attempt to get closer to the bedded buck had been in vain. If the buck bolted -- as Calvin was sure it would, at any moment -- could he rise up from his prone position quickly enough to make an accurate shot at a running target?

Calvin had just seconds to calm his nerves and steady his 7mm rifle. Worse yet, his young nephew, Blair, was watching from a short distance away. 

No pressure.

Back when Calvin's great grandfather first homesteaded a patch of grassy land in North Dakota, white-tailed deer were not seen in those parts. Now, four generations later, Calvin farms and ranches 700 acres where his forefather staked a claim in the beautiful Western wilderness.

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After twice bumping a 10-pointer that was every bit of 40 inches BIGGER than the 130ish 4x4 he'd shot during his trip to Illinois in 2003, Carson Bradford was painfully aware of how short three days can be. That's how long the state's first (of two) shotgun season lasts.

It's hard to rebound from such a misstep when you're trying to attach a tag on a mature buck.

This was the 28-year-old Tennessean's fourth visit to the Promised Land of deer hunting. He'd been hoping for a chance at a 150-class whitetail.

Carson and his dad, Steve, left Tennessee on the morning of Nov. 17, 2005, the day before the opener. They arrived in Schuyler County a few hours before dark with just enough time to do a little scouting. Their bowhunting buddies had enjoyed the run of the place for a week.

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I started deer hunting 24 years ago, after I got married. My wife's entire family hunts deer. Until then, I had not even thought about deer hunting. At that time, my wife's grandfather, Walter Boldridge Sr., was still around. He was great -- especially at the end of the day, when we would all meet back at his place to swap stories.

He got around on a walker, and, later, though he had been in a wheelchair in a nursing home, he was always ready to go out with the rest of the guys when hunting season started. I tell you about him because he really made the hunt fun.
My father-in-law, Walter Jr., is the same -- always ready with a story. But as any hunter will tell you, you do not have to actually bag a deer to have a great time hunting them.

Many of my memories are of just the different people with whom I have shared hunts. I really loved listening to my wife's grandpa. As I said, he could paint a great picture with his stories. He would also tell you where and how to set up, but many of his directions were sometimes hard to follow. He would talk of old logging roads and landmarks to look for in a particular strip of timber that were no longer there.

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With ancestors like Davy Crockett and Sgt. Alvin York, hunters from the Volunteer State can claim a pretty good bloodline when it comes to hitting what they shoot at. So what happens when a bunch of guys from Tennessee travel to Illinois when the rut is in full swing? Well, for Jason Rhoton and his friends, the trip north in the fall of 2005 was not a dull one, that's for sure.

Jason and eight friends, all Tennesseans, leased 1,200 acres of farmland there in 2002. All three farms were in Cass County. The owner leased the property to other hunters during the bow season, but Jason and his pals had exclusive use of the farms during the shotgun seasons.

"We took some pretty good bucks during the first four years, but we didn't hit the rut just right (the firearms season fell afterward) until 2005," Jason related.

The group headed north on the morning of Nov. 16, a couple of days early. The three-day season opened on Friday.

"We like to go up early and stay in a motel, to use the day before the season opens to scout around and hang stands," Jason said. "That year, the weather was in the mid-20s -- perfect for hunting. David Dyer, Wayne Harper, Gene Patterson and I were going to hunt a 450-acre tract, while the rest of the guys split the other two areas.

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Twenty-eight bowhunters were allowed into the 13,000-acre Yazoo National Wildlife Refuge in early January, having earned the coveted permits by harvesting “cull bucks” during the Sept. 30-Nov. 17 archery season.

To qualify as a cull, by the refuge’s standards, the buck had to be either a 1 1/2-year-old with five or fewer points or (minimum) 2 1/2-year-old with less than eight points.

The reward to those who succeeded was a weeklong jumpstart — a chance to hunt Mississippi’s oldest national wildlife refuge before it was reopened to all comers. From Jan. 2-7, the tail end of the rut in that part of the Delta, the place was theirs. On Jan. 8, the floodgates would open to a sea of bow-toting visitors.

Angus Catchot was among the 28. The contractor from Wiggins, Miss., has prowled the refuge for the past 16 years. Not happy with the 230-mile commute, he even built himself a second home at the nearby fish camp on Lake Washington.

“I’m there every week, 52 weeks a year,” he says. “I scout that place year ’round. Some days, I’ll walk three to four hours in the morning and another three or four in the evening.”

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Missouri’s second rifle season was winding down as I shivered in my stand on Nov. 19, my mind elsewhere. I was thinking of the incredible buck I’d shot with my bow a couple of weeks earlier. The story appeared in this magazine last month.

Truthfully, I was just going through the motions. I regretted caping out my bow buck for a shoulder mount, deciding after the fact that it deserved nothing less than full-body treatment. My wife and I had rifle tags, though, and I was looking for a big-bodied whitetail — for its hide, not its rack. My taxidermist was on the lookout for a new set of clothes for my buck as well.

Saturday was a bust. When I returned to the woods Sunday morning, the temperature had warmed, and I saw several does before breaking for church and a bite to eat. I was back in a stand, this time about 500 yards from where I’d arrowed my big buck, around 3 p.m.

Fifteen minutes after settling in, I heard a buck grunting. The accompanying ruckus sounded like it was chasing a doe. The rut was still going on there. The deer were just out of sight in the thick timber. I was then fortunate enough to hear the new sound everyone is talking about, the “buck growl.”

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By the time the buddies met at midday on Nov. 15, 2003, to discuss plans for the afternoon, the wind had already kicked up enough to rattle the windows and door on the old trailer. The 30- to 40-mph gusts were seriously dampening their opening-day enthusiasm.

Jeff Foskey spent the morning watching a couple of does in a food plot, and he had no qualms about resuming the vigil that afternoon, in the same homemade stand. But when his friend, John Walls, said that he’d been feeling sick and was considering heading home, Jeff offered to let him finish the day in his food plot stand.

John declined, however, so Jeff returned to it.

“It had gotten so windy that I had almost decided not to go myself,” Jeff said. “But it was opening day, and I don’t get a lot of time to hunt.”

The 39-year-old works two jobs, one as a correctional officer at a state prison, the other as proprietor of his own lawn and landscaping business. It’s a wonder he found the time the previous summer to fool with his food plot, a mix of oats, alfalfa and clover.

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With maps in hand and a tank full of gas, this truckload of Texans discovered what public ground in Kansas has to offer.

Judging from the drool stains on the truck’s upholstery, you’d think that a pack of St. Bernards had crowded into the vehicle with Texas plates.

Instead, it was a few friends with time on their hands, driving around and looking for deer on the day before the 2006 Kansas firearms season opened. And if anyone had been behind Marc Barnes and his pals that morning on the Jewell County roadway, they’d have rear-ended the truck that came to a screeching halt about 7:30.

Seeing a world-class whitetail with a rack sporting a sapling-thick drop tine is reason enough to risk whiplash and an increase in auto insurance premiums. The sighting left the group of Texans slack-jawed and eager to begin their planned weeklong hunt.

Marc, who had never hunted in Kansas before, didn’t care if they saw anything else. Totally smitten with that buck, he was prepared to stare at the same 4-acre woodlot for days on end — forsaking it for only a motel room pillow.

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Richard Caro might not have received a come-get-me letter from his son, Bradley, postmarked from Camp Granada. But he did get three telephone calls in less than an hour on Dec. 7, 2006.

The first time, Bradley was ready for someone to come get him. He called back a few minutes later to say that he’d changed his mind, or words to that effect. And maybe a half-hour after that, he didn’t know whether he was coming or going.

Bradley isn’t a kid; he’s a 29-year-old equipment salesman. Neither was he suffering through his first day at summer camp, like the young protagonist in the old Allan Sherman song, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.” It was indeed the first day of a father-son vacation, but he was savoring it — especially by the time he called his dad for the third time.

Deer Hunting Vacation
The Caros left Biloxi, Miss. (Bradley’s home), on Tuesday, Dec. 5, and drove 12 hours to St. Louis, where they spent the night in a motel. The next morning, they crossed the river for the first time ever into Illinois, bound for Adams County.

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Choosing a piece of public ground to hunt deer in Kentucky is fairly easy. Narrowing the list of 88 wildlife management areas down to those most likely to harbor wallhangers requires a little homework.

That was Mervin Yoder’s job in 2006, and he did it by studying the state’s annual hunting guide. He looked at locations, hunt dates and the rules and regulations before locking in on those places offering quota hunts — days set aside for a specific number of hunters, whose names are drawn by lottery.

Number 18 on the list was the Pennyrile State Forest and Tradewater Wildlife Management Area about two hours west of Mervin’s home. According to the publication, 758 hunters had applied the previous year for the 300 available slots at Pennyrile.

Mervin was the point man for a group of friends from the Amish community near Horse Cave, Ky. They all wanted nice bucks. One of the guys, Dan Miller, had even suggested they visit someplace with an antler restriction, and the Pennyrile hunt was among several in which bucks must have a minimum outside antler spread of 15 inches.

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On Friday, Oct. 27, 2006, my husband and I were the coordinators of a "permit-only" archery deer removal at a 1,000-acre regional park in a northern suburb of the Twin Cities Metro area. We had 15 other hunters in the woods, all in stands they'd selected.

I set up my stand around noon that day, getting in and out of the woods as quickly and quietly as I could, leaving as little scent as possible. I returned and was hunting in it by 3:50 p.m., safety harness securely attached. It was a beautiful late fall afternoon, cool, with a light wind blowing steadily out of the southeast.

After waiting for the woods to settle around me, I began flipping my Primos Original Can call.

About a half-hour later, I heard the cattails rattling and looked to my right. Fifty yards away, there was a beautiful, mature 10-point buck slowly making its way toward the higher ground where I was. It took a few steps, raked its antlers in the brush, and then I bleated some more.

No doubt, this guy was a "shooter." The rack had more mass, and the tines were longer than those forming the 131-inch buck I had taken a few years back.

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