Hunting in Alberta has always been special to me, but this past season was one for the books. It was my third giant buck in as many years, but this one almost got away.
I’d been scouting a thick patch of timber for weeks, where I’d seen signs of a massive, old whitetail buck. His tracks were deep, and the rubs on the trees were high and gnarled. This buck was smart and cautious, clearly a seasoned survivor.
The morning was cold, with frost clinging to the brush as I made my way to a well-hidden stand overlooking a narrow clearing. I settled in, my breath visible in the crisp air. Hours passed with no movement, but patience is a hunter’s greatest weapon.
Just as the sun started to dip, a shadowy figure appeared at the edge of the clearing. It was him – the gnarly old buck I’d been chasing. His antlers were heavy and twisted, a true warrior of the woods. My heart pounded as he cautiously stepped into the open, nose in the wind, testing the air.
I raised my rifle slowly, my finger resting lightly on the trigger. But just as I lined up the shot, he froze, his head snapping up, eyes fixed on my stand. Had he seen me? The buck’s muscles tensed as he prepared to bolt, and I knew it was now or never.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied my aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed through the cold air, and the buck leaped forward, disappearing into the timber. My heart sank – had I missed? I waited, replaying the moment in my mind, before climbing down to follow the trail.
It wasn’t long before I found the first sign. Blood dotted the snow, leading deeper into the woods. Every step felt like an eternity as I followed the trail. Finally, there he was, lying beneath a twisted old tree. His antlers were even more impressive up close, each point worn and weathered from years of battle.
This gnarly old Alberta whitetail had almost gotten away, but patience and perseverance had paid off once again. Three years, three giant bucks – each one a memory etched in my heart forever.
