To date, I have only done a shoulder mount on one deer of all the bucks I have taken over the years. Every other buck has been a European mount. Now Bucky hangs in our family room above the fireplace, and he is not a Boone and Crockett buck, and he is in no way the biggest buck I have harvested, but Bucky has a story.

Back in the 1989 deer season in Georgia, my native state, my wife and I had been back in country (I had been overseas with the Air Force since 1984) since 1988, and we had just settled back in the Macon, GA. area. We had been married since 1984, and in June of '89 our first child, Patricia was born. My wife knew how excited I was to be back in Georgia, as my grandfather owned a small farm, and that is where I had learned to hunt as a young boy. Knowing this, and how much I had missed hunting while overseas, my wife knew that there was no way she could keep me out of the woods, but she did ask me one thing: she asked me to stop hunting once I shot a deer. After all, we had a baby at home. I agreed.

Now, let me make one thing clear, when I struck the bargain with my wife, I figured I would get to hunt all season, as deer did not bed down on Pop's farm, but usually passed through to feed or move in and out of a swampy area that was adjacent to the property. We say deer on the property, but back in those days, bucks were far and few between.  Anyway, opening morning, I used a climbing stand close to a trail that ran along a nice creek. The tree was on a slope, and I had a commanding view of the woods that sat on the back of the farm. I had been in the stand about 30 minutes, and the light was just getting good, when I heard a sound on the top of the hill behind me. The sound got closer...I could hear something moving through the thick cover of dead leaves on the ground. I looked back and there he was, a nice big 8 pt buck. He continued coming down the slope toward the trail I was set up on. I took aim with my Marlin .30-30 lever action (the official deer rifle of the southeastern U.S.), and fired. The buck ran for about 25 yards before falling and rolling down the hill into the creek.

I was 28 years old, and man was I excited! By far the biggest buck I had ever killed, and definately the biggest buck I had seen on Pop's farm. I climbed that stand back down that poplar tree, and rushed to the buck. He was beautiful, and BIG! Perfectly symmetrical rack, and a huge body. Thankfully, I was only a year removed from military service, and was in excellent shape. I drug that deer out of the woods like he weighed nothing. I put the buck in the back of Pop's pickup, and went back to his house to crow and share the glory.

Man, Pop was proud when I pulled up with that buck! He (we) drove that deer around and showed him to everybody in Butts County. We had a ball. My Pop and I really enjoyed that day.

Once the joy subsided, and the deer was dressed and processed, it dawned on me. My hunting season was over! Rats. What was I going to do? It couldn't be over. Four years of dreaming about hunting season while I was overseas, and one day? I was grateful for the buck, but man, I wanted to hunt some more. What was I going to do? It was simple, I lied. As far as my wife knew, I didn't shoot a deer that entire season! I hunted and hunted, but just never seemed to have any luck!

Imagine her surprise when Bucky showed up after hunting season was over!

Well, that was 17 years ago, I am old and fat, my daughter is getting ready for college, and Pop is in a nursing home, not doing well. As I sit here now writing this, looking at Bucky on the mantle, and the Christmas decorations all around him, I have fond memories of younger days, and loved ones that I truly hold dear. That is why Bucky has a special place and will never be moved or replaced. Some things just mean more than a big rack!

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