The "Keag Buck" - You Won't Believe It!

Most my northern Maine deer hunting was done in the Haynesville woods area, south of Houlton during my younger years. We'd haul campers north, staying in the woods for 7-10 days each November. Camping like this, allowed “out the door” hunting. I killed several nice bucks while learning the skill of tracking, but no 200 pounders until 1988. This is the story of “The Keag” buck.

The weather had turned incredibly cold, freezing the woods and leaves. It was a day for still hunting. I was excited to hunt around a few new clear-cuts found while scouting. All morning, I crept along the edge of a cut, finding good sign. There was several rubs on the edge  of the cut where a brook ran through making a boundary between the clear-cut and the uncut woods. The deer were using a shallow spot to cross the brook. What a place for a stand, I thought. Thick conifer made still hunting real tough, making me rethink my plan. The buck sign convince me to find a elevated spot and sit down. Not the way I wanted to hunt, but the conditions and heavy deer sign knocked me in the head. I found a downed beech tree that I could climb onto and get nestled between a couple of limbs. It was comfortable while breaking the bitter wind.

I'm not a sitter, so an hour into things, I'm getting antsy. I stood up to stretch. Holy Shit !! A big buck was just getting to the water crossing. He stopped, checking the air. I had all the time in the world. He stood facing me, letting me set the crosshairs on his chest. Pow.....he dips, jumps the brook and crashing through the softwoods. I sat a while, reliving the scene. He was a huge buck. Big rack of eight or ten points. This was my first 200 pound buck....I said....Over and over and over.

I checked the spot he was standing. A little blood. Enough to track him in the leaves but not a vital hit. I tracked him for a while losing blood occasionally. He never lied down. The blood was getting scarce and the track hard to keep. I never found the buck. I was broken. That night at camp, I told the story dozens of times between guzzles of whiskey. My buddies shook their heads, turning in before I could tell it a dozen more times.

Two mornings later, I went back to the scene. I sat closer to the woods on this morning. As soon as I got sat down, two does came out of the clear-cut splashing across the brook. They ran down into the thickets. I thought they smelled me, but no. A buck hurried up behind them, stepping into the brook. I raised my Savage 110L and squeezed. NOTHING !! Did I forget to load? I slid the bolt up, saw the bullet, removed it and squeezed again. Pow...the buck dropped in his tracks.

What just happened? I had no idea and, to this day, I don't know why that round didn't go off. I got up from a stump, stumbling over to the buck. He was a beauty. Eight points and big. Not the buck I wounded the day before. I didn't believe he'd hit 200 pounds, but the scales at Blind Joe's Store read 200 pounds. Never will I forget those two days. Whenever I get asked about my first 200 pound buck, I always say: “Sit down, this takes a while”