As printed in HUNT MAGAZINE, Sept/Oct 1990 
By Maury Jones 

Scott paused in his quiet sneak-hunting to examine every inch of cover around him. Somewhere in this jungle of rocks and trees there was supposed to be a monster buck, at least that is what I, his outfitter and the man who he had paid hard-earned money to, had told him. And that's what he had traveled all the way to Jackson Hole, Wyoming to find - a Monster Buck, the dream of all deer hunters! 
"Sneak in real slow and quiet, because you can't ever tell where he will show up. We've seen him three times this season, and he's really jumpy." I whispered. 
Scott Cook, his brother, Rich, and Bill Coppola had traveled to the rugged Jackson Hole area in search of a muley buck they could put on a wall.. For an outfitter, the chances of bagging a big buck for a client might be possible, but to bag three monsters in one week would be really tough. 

Suddenly, a deer burst out of the cover near Scott, and bounded down the hill. Scott quickly threw his gun up, punched the safety off, and found the buck in the scope. Forkhorn! Got to let that one go. A couple of does also pogo-sticked away. They went over the ridge, and Scott, used to hunting blacktails in California, followed quickly - a mistake. 
He paused, telling himself to slow down. Again he examined every inch of cover. There was something strange about that short bushy pine tree. It had one big trunk and four skinny trunks. The legs of a deer! He couldn't see the body or head, so he slowly inched a few feet to the side. There, under the pine, was a large buck staring back at him. The buck's neck was stretched out, with the antlers lying back near the shoulders. Scott raised his rifle carefully, found the buck in the scope, and started to squeeze the trigger. 
It was easy to like the three hunters I was guiding. They had the right attitude about hunting trophy bucks. 
"We realize they don't grow on trees, but we know your area produces some big ones, and we were told you know how to find them We'll hunt hard, and if we don't see the buck we want, we'll still have a good time," the three of them said after meeting me at the Jackson Hole Airport. 
Now, Scott was to get his chance. As he started a slow squeeze of the trigger, he pause. This was the first day of a week long hunt. Although this was obviously a good buck, it was the first big mule deer Scott had seen. He recalled the tales he had heard of monster bucks near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. If he was seeing a buck this good on the first day, perhaps he should be a bit more picky. There had to be bigger ones around - after all, he'd seen them on magazine covers and they sure looked bigger than this one! Scott raise his head from the scope and considered the buck across the fifty yards of thin alpine air that separated them. Still undecided, he left the buttstock pressed against his shoulder. The buck, perceiving that he had been seen, turned and began to run. As he bounded away, Scott saw some cheater points sticking out from the sides of the high and wide rack. 
"That's good enough for a first mule deer buck," he said to himself, as he jerked the rifle back to his shoulder. Timing the bounds of the deer just right, he squeezed the trigger at the proper moment and sent the buck head over heels down the steep slope. The hundred yard shot on the fleeing buck had been perfect. 
"How big is he?" I asked, as Scott walked up to me later. 
"Pretty good for a first buck," was the reply. "He's got a couple of cheaters on one side, and one on the other side." 
My excitement instantly hit high gear. "Were the two cheaters on the buck's left side?" Assured that they were, I told Scott he had just killed the whopper buck we had been watching. 
When we arrived at the kill site, I was one happy outfitter. That big buck had made his final mistake. He scored 197 gross Boone and Crockett point, 187 after deductions, and his outside spread was almost 32 inches. He won the first place award from the Wyoming Outfitters Association as the best buck taken during the year. 
"Scott, this is one heck of a buck," I said with admiration. "You may hunt a lifetime and not see a bigger one. It will be hard to beat." "That's great!" he replied, "because Rich and I have a bet going as to who will kill the biggest one." 
Two days later Rich killed a buck that had a much higher and heavier rack, with a 30 inch spread. It didn't score as well as Scott's because short front forks, but was a very impressive buck. In spite of that, Rich wasn't as happy as he might have been. All he could talk about was the one that got away. 
Rich and his guide, Don Wood, had spotted a huge buck way across a canyon. They rode hard to get to it before shooting light dimmed. They tied the horses, and then eased to the top of the ridge. The buck was feeding in the shoulder-high sage brush. With his head down, his rack still rose way above his shoulders. The tines were very long, the forks deep, and it had good mass. 
Don has seen a lot of great bucks, but this one really got him excited. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the buck to raise his head, with daylight fading fast, Rich finally decided that he would have to shoot for the top of the buck's back. 
At the shot, the buck sped down through the meadow toward the aspens below. Don and Rich ran quickly to get another shot. A big buck stood in the dim light on the fringe of the aspens, facing away, but looking back at them. Rich shot and the buck high- tailed it into the trees. They found the a blood trail, but darkness finally forced them to return to camp. The next day, after much searching, they found the buck, a big 4x4. However, they had a hard time believing that it was the one Rich had shot at. It was a great buck, but it wasn't the record book buck. The first buck, the one Don swore would score 210 or better, had gone in a different direction after cresting the hill. The buck Rich had killed was just an innocent bystander with a big set of antlers. 
The third hunter who scored on a big buck that week was Bill Coppola of Dallas, Texas. He worked his tail off for his buck, but some great luck made the difference between having a trophy on the wall or just another story of the one that got away. 
On the fifth day of the hunt, guide Brian Nelson, Bill, and I were riding along the side of a large rimrock canyon. I spotted the white rump patch of a deer, got off my horse, and raised my binoculars. The deer's head was in the trees, and by the time Bill and Brian focused their binoculars on it, it walked into the trees. I quickly decided to climb toward the deer, hoping that it was a trophy buck. This particular area has produced some great bucks for us in the past, so I felt it was worth the effort to check it out. Brian was to tie the horses and then join us. 

We climbed and climbed, pausing occasionally to glass and to puff and blow. It was one steep son-of-a-gun. We followed a small finger of timber up the side of the mountain and finally got to where I figured the buck was. Carefully we worked our way the last few yards to the edge of the timber and peered out of the rocks for a look. 
I immediately spotted the buck staring at us from a small ridge 75 yards away. One glance told us he was a real keeper. Only his head was visible, looking right at us, so I told Bill to put the crosshairs between his eyes and pull the trigger. 
At the shot I saw a sapling wave right behind the buck and between his ears. I whispered to Bill to hold lower. He shot again, and again the sapling shuddered. "Hold lower, " was the repeated command. Another shot with no effect. Bill couldn't understand why he was not hitting the deer. What I couldn't understand was why the deer was just staring at us after being shot at three times. Was he deaf? "Aim right at his nose," I advised. At the shot, the buck reeled backward and disappeared. I caught a glimpse of him staggering down the ridge, just behind some krumholtz (small alpine evergreens). I quietly voiced my fears to Bill, "He acted like you shot his nose off. We might have to find you a new cape." 
"Let's find the buck first, and then we'll worry about the cape," Bill retorted. 
A really precipitous gorge separated us from the ridge the buck was on . We continued to climb the mountain, looking for a crossing. We finally found one we thought we could navigate. A small deer trail crossed but we quickly found that Bill's size eleven flatlander feet didn't fit it too well. I was having considerable problem with my own fumbling number nines, but as Bill was preoccupied with finding a loophole in the law of gravity, I hoped he wouldn't notice his guide's predicament - got to keep up my image. 
With great difficulty we made it to the other side and Bill breathed a huge sigh of relief. 
"Piece of cake!" I nonchalantly dismissed the harrowing crossing. Inwardly I said a prayer of thanks. I've never had a client go bouncing end over end down a mountain yet, but heaven knows we came close to it this time. 
Carefully we approached the spot where we had hit the buck. At the base of the bullet-riddled sapling was a deer bed. The buck had been lying down, which partially explained his reluctance to leave after the first shots. Many deer in this area are apparently unaffected by gunfire due to the large number of sonic booms heard frequently from passing jets. 
We began to track the buck. There was no blood, but after a short distance a patch of hair showed where he had fallen. The patches became more frequent as the buck tumbled down the incredibly steep slope. I grimaced and shook my head, worrying that the antlers might be broken. The buck had tumbled about 200 yards straight down, piling up against some trees. A couple of the small cheater points were broken off and one of the main tines was missing five or six inches, but he was still a beautiful 7x9 buck with a 28 inch spread. And the cape was perfect! No bullet hole that I could see. 
"I guess you scared him to death, Bill," I kidded. "Either that or he died laughing at your lousy shooting." Bill just grinned and said, "I didn't want to hit him until I knew the shot was perfect. Look here." The bullet had entered the buck's mouth, just barely creasing one lip. 

As the three proud hunters, Rich, Bill, and Scott, posed with their racks in front of the camp lodge, we reflected on how much of a challenge big buck hunting really is. Each one of them had put forth the skill and effort needed to hang a real trophy mule deer on the wall. A good dose of luck had also helped and is a common ingredient in all successful trophy hunts. I couldn't refrain from using the opportunity to give my favorite lecture. "Contrary to popular belief," I preached, "killing a big buck is not difficult at all. It is really very simple. All you have to do is to be in the right place at the right time, and shoot straight." 

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