Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/433799
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 3 8 the bucks are oblivious. This one is tempting me. Far grander than any deer I have ever seen in the wild, certainly bigger than any horns on my wall, he trots downhill toward the draw as I track him in the scope, but I do not slip the safety, and he enters the fray. The temperature is 19 degrees, the wind is whistling though the blind, and my feet have detached themselves from my body. I've discovered the hand- warmers I purchased for the trip do not work. Violent shaking and vile curses produce not the first btu. Hearing a light tapping at the door of the blind, I slowly open it and discover Mike looking up at me. "Can I help you?" I whisper. "Okay if I come up?" "Well . . . I guess," I respond. "What's going on?" "You didn't look at your texts, did you?" he asks. "Nope. Too much going on here, deer everywhere." He sighs, "I killed a big ten-point, best buck of my life. Texted pictures to you." He settles in, shows me his gorgeous deer on the cell phone, and says, "Those hand-warmers aren't worth a dime." Now I have another set of eyes to help watch, and I must add, another opinion with which to deal. I raised this fellow, and I know he is a man who will speak his mind and plead his case or, putting it differently, he will butt in and try to run the show. I must be strong. We stay till noon, the action slows and Mike is eager to show me his buck. I wonder if I made a mistake passing on the big eight, but there are three and a half days ahead, and the prospects are delicious. Mike has killed a wonderful long-tined ten-point with near perfect symmetry and the body of a Clydesdale. The buck was on the move, actually trailing another buck when Mike spotted him. One loud grunt stopped him for a quick look through the scope, and a second grunt stopped him for the shot. Mike's hunt is over and he is thrilled. So am I. T he tiny hamlet of Goodrich, North Dakota, lies in Sheridan County, north of Bismarck, and is home to Coteau Lodge Outfitters, operated by Tim and Cody Franz whom we had hunted with before. Those were bow hunts, pre-rut, and Mike's two younger brothers and I killed good bucks over the years, but Mike came up dry each time. This is serious farming country, with tens of thousands of acres of open cropland, and far less CRP than we have seen on previous trips, the price of corn apparently having risen to the point that it's more profitable to work the land than place it in the program. The little quarter-section Mike and I are hunting is unique, an oasis of hills and brushy draws offering cover, shelter from the wind, and companionship. What more can a buck ask for? We wolf down a quick lunch, borrow hand-warmers from Tim, and head back to my blind, where the pageant continues. The big eight is back and chasing does as if his life depends on it. Mike studies him with his binoculars and declares him a "kick ass buck" that I should kill. Truth is, Mike is freezing, my blind being much more exposed to the wind than his, and an early end to the afternoon would please him mightily. I am reluctant to take this deer simply because through all my years of hunting, I've never shot a buck carrying more than eight points. It's only our first day, after all, so we watch several lesser bucks home in on the does until the big boy challenges them, and they move meekly to the sidelines. This buck, the focus thus far of our afternoon and the subject of much discussion and debate, does not suspect his hold on life grows more precarious with each passing minute. His testosterone overdose brings him, finally, to a thicket, the densest section of the oak bottom where he encounters another buck, an interloper we've not seen yet. They join without negotiation in a pitched battle, a knock-down, drag-out fight with quarter neither asked nor given. We watch, fascinated, as they close, slam together, and twist, pushing mightily, muscles knotted, breath steaming from their mouths. We can hear their antlers strike and see their hooves seeking purchase, throwing dirt and snow like bears digging for marmots. I've never seen bucks fight live and in person—on television, sure, but not like this. They're evenly matched and fully committed, and honestly, I find the spectacle unsettling, fearing one will badly injure the other. Which, of course, is curious considering I am focused on killing a deer, perhaps even one of these combatants. For several minutes they remain together, horns entwined, and we wonder if they are locked up, unable to disengage. Then, suddenly they separate and one trots resolutely out of the woods and up the far hill. It's the big eight, vanquished, and missing a brow tine, which I guess makes him, now, the big seven. Mike whispers, "Let's see what the winner looks like." To the victor go the spoils . . . or perhaps not. He is a fine, pale-horned buck, who, without pause, begins chasing does, his does, in and out of the trees, across the creek and back again. I'm tracking him in my scope when Mike says, "He's at least a nine, no a ten, and he's heavy. Shoot that buck, Daddy." I am unable to count points because the beast won't stand still, because, of course, the does won't stand still, but I know he has more mass and carries more points than any deer I've taken. Finally, a doe slips up the hill beyond the creek and the buck angles upward on her trail. He is on the move