Would You Pay $180 for a Giant 180-Inch Whitetail?

Would you pay $180 to hunt a 180-inch buck?

OK, technically, he wasn’t 180 inches — he was 174 7/8. And, strictly speaking, I didn’t know I’d be hunting him when I clicked “submit bid.” I was simply donating to a non-profit. It was a warm summer night in June. I was watching the Royals beat the Tigers while scrolling through Facebook. I saw a post from a local conservation group; they were hosting an online benefit auction that evening. I appreciate this organization; they manage a large prairie in southern Nebraska. So, when I saw “Deer Hunt for One Person,” I submitted a bid of $180. No one bid against me. I received an email the next morning informing me I’d won the opportunity to archery hunt a 20-acre parcel of land about 20 minutes south of our house.

Unexpected Opportunity

Even though I won the bid, I didn’t think very seriously about hunting that land. Our family owns a small tract of land along the Platte River. That’s my go-to spot for deer and turkeys. Additionally, when I pulled up the satellite image of the 20-acre parcel, I noticed there were very few trees. It looked like a narrow draw leading down to a muddy pond. While surrounded by beautiful grassland, this particular property just didn’t seem ideal for deer.

The opportunity remained in the back of my mind from June until the middle of October. Then, on a Sunday afternoon, Oct. 20, when my wife Jamie mentioned she was going to take a nap, I said, “I think I’ll take a ground blind out to that prairie and find a place to set it up.”

I hadn’t scouted the property. I’d never even been on that land before. I pulled up the Facebook post with the auction item to find the driving directions and parking instructions. With about three hours of daylight remaining, I carried the ground blind on my back, my bow in one hand and a chair in the other, and struck out toward the pond. The parking area was 500 yards from the pond. It was a warm October afternoon, so I took my time; I didn’t want sweaty clothes ruining my chances if a deer happened to come in for a drink.

Seeing a deer didn’t seem likely, though. As deer hunters, we all know those moments when we’re walking to a new hunting area, and things just feel deery. The hairs on the back of our necks stand up with anticipation. Something about the situation feels magical, like anything could happen. This wasn’t one of those moments. Quite the opposite. I had expected to sit outside on a beautiful day and read a few chapters of Moby Dick, a book I’d promised myself I’d finish by the end of the year.

When I reached the pond, I scared six wood ducks off the water. The farm pond was only about half an acre in size, so I walked around it, looking for deer tracks. There were quite a few; most of them funneled between the water and the dike. There was one tree near the pond: a willow situated in the middle of the dike. Its long, droopy branches made an ideal place to tuck a ground blind. I placed several dead logs on the ground to hide the bottom half of the tent, then climbed in, set up my chair, and jumped back into the story of obsessive Captain Ahab chasing the white whale from the deck of the Pequod.

Five minutes after sunset, four does hopped the fence to my right. The fence was 75 yards away and straight up a steep hill. The deer meandered down the slope, then began drinking from the pond about 40 yards from me. They stayed near the pond and didn’t seem to have any plans of leaving soon. Fifteen minutes after shooting light ended, I decided I’d get out of my blind, knowing it would probably spook them. I unzipped the tent, grabbed my bow and started walking toward the truck. I turned to look back at the sunset. To the east, where I’d parked, the sky was already a dark, blue-gray. But in the west, it was still red, yellow and orange. It never hurts to feast your eyes one last time on a Midwest sunset.

When I turned around for that final feast, I saw him. He stood motionless at the fence, not far from where the does had jumped earlier in the evening. He was facing me, his antlers straight in the air, silhouetted by the red, yellow and orange. He was so big and so still that I began to wonder if someone was playing a prank on me. Perhaps a friend owns that land across the fence, and he was holding up a massive deer mount he’d pulled off his wall just to have a bit of fun. I pulled out my phone and snapped several photos from a few different settings, hoping one might turn out despite the low light and distance.

The buck never moved. He won the stare down. If we’d have been playing chicken, it would’ve been my car in the ditch. While he stood by the fence, I slipped my phone into my pocket and walked back to the truck. I drove home quickly. I couldn’t wait to tell Jamie what I’d seen. I told her the story, showed her the pictures and then said, “What a night! But I’ll never see that guy again. He’s onto me.”

Back For More

Not expecting to see Sentinel — that’s what I named the buck that seemed to be standing guard the night we met — didn’t keep me from going back. I went back on Monday and Tuesday afternoons. I arrived an hour before sundown and, like clockwork, deer came in the second the sun dropped below the horizon. I saw several does and small bucks on those two days, but not the majestic creature that had won the Sunday night stare down.

I didn’t plan on going to the blind on Wednesday, but when my last appointment cancelled, I decided to give it another try. The wind was perfect, blowing across the pond and directing my scent to the north, away from any approaching deer. For the first time in four days, nothing showed up right at sundown. With 10 minutes of shooting light left, it was getting dark in the blind. Something had better show up in the next few minutes for me to have a chance, I thought. Just then, I saw two young bucks standing by the fence. They jumped the wire and worked down the hill toward the backside of the pond. A moment later, a medium-sized 2-year-old hopped the fence and worked toward the far side of the water.

About 30 seconds later, a massive buck appeared at the fence. I couldn’t tell for sure if it was Sentinel, but when I looked at him through the binoculars, I could tell he was a shooter. I put down my binos and picked up my bow. I clipped onto the D-loop and then watched the buck work down the hill toward my side of the pond. When he reached the pond, he leaned forward to drink. I pulled back and put my 20-yard pin on the middle of his body. I knew he was a bit beyond 20 yards. So, I raised my pin a bit before squeezing the trigger on my release. There was silence, and then there was that solid-hit thud we all like to hear.

The buck exploded into the pond, running straight through the shallow water before bursting out the other side. The buck ran about 20 yards up the hill, toward the east, before crashing to the ground. He never left my sight. Three minutes after the shot, he was motionless. I got out of the blind, nocked another arrow and worked my way toward the buck.

I still didn’t know what I’d shot. I thought it was Sentinel, but I wasn’t sure. As I moved closer and closer, I doubted more and more. Our minds are funny like that; when we want something so badly, they seem to prepare us for disappointment.

By the time I reached the deer, I was so sure it couldn’t be him, I gasped in shock. It is him! No way!

I pulled up the photo from my phone and then picked up the buck’s head to examine its antlers. He had the same short brow tines. He had the same outstretched G4 on his left side. There was no mistaking it; the bruiser that had won the game of chicken Sunday night just lost the game to me on Wednesday.

The Last Laugh

I called Jamie. Before I could say anything, she said, “You got him, didn’t you?”

“I did!” I replied. “How did you know?”

“I can hear it in how you’re breathing,” she said. The long-married keep no secrets.

My next few phone calls were to strong, highly committed friends; the kind of buddies who will leave their house at 9 o’clock on a Wednesday night to help a friend drag a deer up a hill. Travis Purkerson, his son, Dillon, and Nate Krug met me at 9:30, and we had the buck loaded into the truck an hour later. From the property, we drove the deer to a scale. He weighed 280 pounds on the hoof! After getting the weight, we went to Nate’s brother’s house. Sam and Lauren, along with their son, Jack, and Nate and Sam’s dad, Norm, joined in the celebration. Lauren Krug is a professional photographer, and she took several photos to help memorialize that special moment.

I buzzed with excitement for several days following that hunt. It was a solid week before I slowed down and picked up Moby Dick to continue reading about the obsessive, if not mad-crazy, boat captain. I opened to the place where I’d placed my bookmark the night of the hunt. I backed up and reread the last line I’d read just minutes before spotting Sentinel. Stubb, one of the ship’s mates, describes the way he looks at each day at sea. He declares, “I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing.”

That statement struck me as the same mantra we bowhunters take to the field. It’s certainly what that hunt last October reinforced in my heart. I never know what will happen when I enter the wild, but “be it what it will,” I’m always optimistic. Always excited. Always laughing on the inside.

Nebraska bowhunter Zeke Pipher is a pastor, book author and freelance outdoor writer. His latest book, “The Far Bank: 40 Devotions for Anglers,” was published in August. Learn more at zekepipher.com

Author's Notes

On this hunt, I shot a Mathews V3 bow and Gold Tip Pro Hunter arrows tipped with SEVR broadheads. I used an Ameristep ground blind and attached an Ozonics ozone unit to the top hub to neutralize my human odor and keep me concealed from approaching deer.

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