Most of my whitetail hunting has been in northern Minnesota, where I’ve encountered numerous alder swamps—tracts of interlacing, 8- to 10-foot-tall, multi-trunked bushes growing from mossy hummocks amid dark pools of inches to knee-deep water—that most deer hunters wisely avoid. Having discovered that deer were using some such swamps to avoid hunters during hunting seasons, I regularly stand hunted near the peripheries of several of them, though with limited success.

One, about 25 acres in size with a small, lazy stream flowing through it, was especially interesting. For two years, it was closely ringed by a deer trail marked with antler rubs on tree trunks 4 to 6 inches in diameter, and regularly renewed ground scrapes 3 or more feet in diameter with damaged tree branches dangling over them, in late October and early November. It was obviously the home of an especially large buck.

While heading back to my deer camp along a nearby highland deer trail while it was beginning to snow and fast becoming dark one evening, I suddenly spotted the black silhouette of an enormous buck. It was standing in snow on that ringing trail, about 150 yards downhill. Upon stumbling to a stop and raising my rifle, it only took about two seconds for that buck to disappear into those alders.

Ordinarily, quite a bit of time passes between the period I begin my pre-season scouting each year, and the moment in November when my rifle scope finally centers on a mature buck that I have never seen before. In this case, however, it only took about two seconds to decide where I would next be seated one hour before sunrise.

It was snowing hard when I turned right onto a deer trail leading downhill past a cedar swamp on my right, to get to the site where that buck had been standing. Because of the weather, I figured it probably hadn’t had moved far.

Just past the low ridge that curved around the west end of that alder swamp, downwind, I brushed a 2-inch layer of fluffy, new-fallen snow off the trunk of a fallen tree. I then sat down to wait until I could see my surroundings well enough to decide where it would be best to sit.

About 30 minutes later, something unseen began loudly breaking through ice east of where I sat. It had to be the buck. With snow yet falling heavily, helping to screen my movements, I cautiously headed east into the alders, stepping cautiously from hummock to hummock on which the alders grew to avoid breaking ice myself. A fallen evergreen a short distance ahead not only provided a comfortable seat, but its upturned roots provided great concealment as well.

As the sky above began to brighten, it quit snowing, and all was silent. About 25 yards east of where I sat, I finally noticed some tree branches and their background that formed a perfect image of the side view of a buck’s head and enormous antlers. I had occasionally been fooled by unmoving objects that appeared to be deer in the past, but weren’t, and some that were. In this case, if that was truly a buck, I certainly didn’t want to mess up a chance of firing at it. I therefore decided to remain absolutely motionless as long as necessary to determine whether or not that was actually a buck. During the following 15 minutes or so, it didn’t move a bit, finally proving, I thought, that it couldn’t be a deer.

After scanning surrounding areas via eye movements only, I finally returned my gaze to the deer-like object. It was gone. I then began frantically searching for movements in the direction the deer had been facing. Suddenly, there it was, sneaking silently through a dense stand of young black ash trees (trees that also prefer wet feet) about 50 yards away. Sighting ahead of it, the moment it entered a narrow opening, I fired, after which it disappeared without making a sound.

Figuring it was down, I waited 10 minutes before heading to the last spot where the buck was visible. The only thing I found there, however, was some scattered fragments of bark on the far side of a 3-inch-diameter ash tree with a ragged hole through it about 30 inches above the ground. Three feet beyond that ash tree was a deer trail coursing toward the southeast. Down the center of it were fresh, 4-inch-long tracks made by a walking deer, obviously the buck. There was no evidence within sight that indicated the buck had been hit, however. It had simply kept walking along that trail.

Though now wondering if this was another incident during which an intervening object had caused my fast-moving, 150-grain, 7 mm Remington Magnum bullet to fragment or ricochet and therefore miss what I aimed at, I nonetheless began following the buck’s fresh tracks in the snow.

About the time I was almost ready to give up, I spotted several spots of dark blood in the snow ahead. At this moment, the warming sun appeared in the breaking clouds above and the wind was calm, meaning that our newly-fallen snow could soon begin to melt, making tracking very difficult—and a two-man task at best. After marking the buck’s trail with a red handkerchief where I left off, I headed straight back to camp to enlist some aid, dig out a roll of toilet tissue, some bottles of water and a drag rope. Hoping in the meantime that the wounded buck would soon lie down and become too disabled to travel far before I returned with help to begin the recovery.

The only person in camp when I arrived was my brother-in-law, Gale. While returning to the alder swamp, I explained to him how I wanted to trail this buck: With one of us silently concentrating (no talking out loud at any time) on following deer signs made by the buck, and often marking the trail by hanging several squares of toilet tissue on overhanging tree branches; while the other hunter kept to one side, constantly ready to fire at the buck the moment it was sighted ahead. This plan was good until the snow melted, which was soon after we discovered where this buck had bedded. Blood in the bed revealed that it was hemorrhaging from three or more wounds, the most serious one likely involving its liver.

Many of the trees growing in the area, through which the buck was managing to keep out of sight ahead of us, were sugar maples, meaning that the snowless ground was now covered with lots of red and yellow leaves with red spots on them. Spots of red on yellow leaves that smeared when rubbed with a finger were spots of blood—sometimes our only deer signs that revealed we were still on the buck’s trail. Sometimes, the long line of toilet tissues on branches behind us was our only means of determining where ahead to search for more of such spots. Sometimes, leaves scuffed up by the buck’s hooves while traveling ahead of us were the only deer signs that indicated where to search next; but we kept at it.

After nearly two hours, we decided to take a break, sitting with our backs against the grassy embankment of an ancient logging trail, much to the ire of a nearby red squirrel that refused to quit its loud squawking and “hicuppy” barking. After about five minutes of this, it suddenly occurred to me that angry squirrel was on the opposite side of a dense stand of spruce trees about 50 yards away on our left, meaning that something else was angering that squirrel. I therefore jumped to my feet, grabbed my rifle and sprinted up the logging trail to a spot where I could see the opposite side of those spruces. There, in the middle of a sparsely wooded hillside about 70 yards ahead, walked the largest white-tailed buck I had ever seen in the woods. One well-placed shot immediately ended the chase.

This hunt was successful for three reasons. Number one was, I had taken quick advantage of what I had most recently learned of value about this buck. Number two was unusually helpful weather: heavy snowfall that enabled me to move to within 25 yards of that buck without being identified. Number three was my unyielding determination to finish this buck as quickly and humanely as possible, being firmly of the opinion that successfully recovering a wounded deer is another important hunting skill that every whitetail hunter should take very seriously.

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