On four separate occasions, while scouting with The Beast, I had spotted the buck of my dreams over by Bradshaw Basin, in a hidden pocket that no other hunter had found before. He was high, wide, lots of points, and a lot of mass. I figured it would take me 45 minutes to calm down before it got light and the games could begin.

With the new snow that had fallen, when I approached Bradshaw Basin, I didn’t anticipate.........getting stuck! Now what? I’ve got chains in the back of the truck. Maybe this is a blessing because all the other hunters will have the same problem. There are no tracks in front of me so I know I’m ahead of the pack. I fumbled to put on chains in the dark. My gloves were too thick so I ripped them off only to have my fingers freeze. Now I won’t be able to handle the rifle. Another snag in the quest for the buck of my dreams.

In four-wheel drive, with the hubs locked, chains on all four, I feel like I’m in a Sherman and can’t be stopped. My blood pressure is up and I’m steaming up the windows because I’m panting. As I start climbing from 5,000 feet, I believe the buck’s pocket is about 9,500 feet, just below tree line. The snow is getting deeper and deeper. Will I need my snowmobile? I hope not; I left it at home. And where are my snowshoes? They’re in the back; at least I didn’t forget them! I’m in snow so deep that I am pushing it with my front bumper, but the Beast just keeps pushing along at a steady snail’s pace.

Finally I arrive at the bottom of the pocket. The sun is just starting to peek over the high mountains. My timing was perfect. I pull out my binoculars and glass the pocket where I’d spotted the buck four times before. There he is! Laying down under a pine tree in the deep snow. He jumps up, looking right at me. Oh no! He’s seen me again. I haven’t even gotten out of the truck and the deer knows exactly what is going on. I guess that is how he got that big. I get my range finder focused on him (the one I’d won the year before in the local Big Buck contest). He is 786 yards away, up hill. Whoa! A tough shot for even my 30-378 Weatherby Magnum. I had killed elk from that distance, but never shooting up hill. Now I just wasn’t shooting to put meat on the table, I was going for the buck of my dreams.

The buck didn’t seem nervous, but acted as if he had read the Fish and Game Regs and knew when opening day was. It was apparent he had decided to use his escape route, the one he had used four times before. I never could figure out where he vanished to. Where did he go? The deep snow was going to make the difference to my advantage. He was struggling to make his way up the hill and every seven or eight steps he would have to stop and rest. You could see the steam blowing out his nostrils. I said to myself, "I’ve got him".

I strapped on my snowshoes, grabbed my lightweight binoculars, my backpack with my survival gear, and my trusty Weatherby. Up the hill I went. It was steep, but I was gaining ground quickly. I couldn’t even feel the cold, I was so excited. I had been hiking for close to five hours. The closer I got, the more adrenaline was rushing through my veins. I told myself I had to calm down; I might only have one shot, but I did have a box of 20 with me. Every time I crested a ridge I could see the buck clearly. I was getting closer and closer. No need for the binoculars. His antlers were so huge I could see them easily with my naked eye against the new snow. I had closed the gap; I’m within 300 yards, but there is a cliff and a pocket of trees blocking my shot. The last time I saw the deer, not only was he belly deep in the powder, but he was getting tired. He had laid down to rest under a very tiny pine tree, barely taller than his prone form. The pine tree was my marker for planning my attack because I could only see him from the nose up, having camouflaged his horns among the limbs.

It was decision time. Do I leave my snowshoes on and cross out in the open and make a b-line straight for him? No, that was too foolish and desperate. I decided to remove the snowshoes and crawl around the edge of a cliff on rocks with spotted timber, which would give me cover. I had only 100 yards to go to have a clean line of sight to the deer, who would now be below me. This would give me about a 200-yard shot, a piece of cake. The powder let me approach silently. Five more yards to go to the edge of the cliff and then, there he is. All of a sudden, my excitement changed to serenity. I sat in the snow in a trance, staring. Very slowly, I set my gun on the extended bipod. The deer was in the cross hairs. All I could see was his neck and the giant antlers. He was not looking in my direction. He didn’t have a clue that I was above him; he was focused down the hill at the bottom of the pocket, where I had originally spotted him. I put the gun on safety and set the butt into the snow. Savoring the moment, I pulled out my binoculars and just watched. He was frozen like a sculpture, majestic! It seemed like hours passed. I glanced at my watch; it had been 15 minutes that I’d been sitting, watching a Boone & Crockett monster! What in the world am I doing? I don’t even have a camera with me, and if I keep messing around I am going to miss out on my trophy buck.

The sun was out and there was a horrible glare from the snow. It was time to stop screwing around. I put the binoculars in the backpack and I slowly pulled the rifle up to my shoulder. The buck still hadn’t moved; he was still watching the bottom of the hill. All of a sudden, the edge of the bank caved in and I found myself tumbling down the cliff 150 yards. PLOP!!!! I am in five feet of fresh powder struggling to save my life. I’ve lost my backpack. I’ve lost my gun. The giant buck stands up; he’s 50 yards away and I have no gun! As I flounder in the snow, gloveless, trying to retrieve my weapon, the buck watches me. He’s belly deep in snow and I’m entertaining him. I can’t believe he’s not making a run for it. I find my gun, pull it to my shoulder. My scope is full of snow. With my frozen fingers, I try to scrape off the snow, but I can’t do it. I can’t use the scope. The buck, seeing the rifle, now knows I mean business and takes two steps to hide behind the lone pine tree. I can make out the silhouette of his body through the pine needles and see his giant rack above the tree. I shoot from the hip, aiming at his body because I couldn’t use the scope. BOOM!! The shot echoes down the canyon, causing an avalanche which took out the lone pine tree and swept the B&C 237 all the way down the hill to my truck. I crawl back up the hill to retrieve my snowshoes and backpack. It took three hours to get back to the truck and I arrived just before dark. I had to use a come-along to get the deer into the truck because it weighed 375 pounds. I was too exhausted to even gut him. I had to struggle to get the rack into the back of the Surburban. Once I got the truck started and the heater running, I just sat there thinking back over the events of the day, saying to myself, "I could never tell this story to anyone. No one would ever believe me."

You’re asking yourself, did he successfully kill the 237 with the Weatherby or was it the avalanche that took his life. That part of the story dies with me.