The following comments were written by Mike Handley of Buckmasters after his November 2007 Bowhunt.
"I´ve hunted some of the best whitetail real estate in North America, and I have my favorite places: Nebraska, Illinois, Texas and Louisiana, to name a few. Most all of these hot spots are in some way connected to a big deer I´ve shot. Kansas is at the top of my list not because I have a glass-eyed memento hanging on my wall (yet), but because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could wind up with a real monster. I saw 20 bucks that day, the majority with respectable to bodacious racks. The only ones that didn’t have me clipping my release to the bowstring were a couple of yearling spikes and one juvenile 6-pointer that ultimately cost me a shot."
"Every time I go there, I wind up meeting wonderful new people and scoring deer that would reduce most of us to blithering idiots if we saw them on the hoof."
Other comments about Jefferson County, KS:
"When those two bucks started fighting, THEY LOOKED AS BIG AS ELEPHANTS!" Steve-from Tennessee
"That Buck looked like an elk climbing a mountain when he went up that bluff." Jackie-from South Carolina.
"The buck under my stand was the biggest I´d ever seen, but the top of his back was torn up and he had some broke off points. I decided to wait to see the buck who had won the fight. Later that day I encountered 3 bucks big enough to have done the damage." Mason-from South Carolina
Late Season Bow Hunt-December 31, 2008
"Yesterday morning was unbelievable! I lost count on how many different bucks I saw, but it was least 12 different bucks. One was 5 x 5 150 and another was a 6 x 6 165. Both lived through the season, but it was really close with the 6 x 6! I really enjoyed hunting that property.
Thanks!"
Old School Guide Service has hosted many noteworthy guests in past years including Outdoor Channel’s Gone Huntin’ three times, Heartland Adventure’s Outdoor Show twice, One-Eighty Outdoors twice, Winchester’s Whitetail Revolution and Goin’ Fishing. Even more noteworthy, Buckmasters Rack Magazine managing editor Mike Handley has published ten stories from his previous trips. The following is our all-time favorite hunting story.
Dorothy Was Right, “there’s no place like home” or,
The Best Day EVER
By Mike Handley – Buckmasters Magazine October 2008
By the time I reached the pick-up point well past sundown, headlights were igniting the tall grass at the edge of “Buckzilla Woods,” so named for a 200-plus-inch whitetail a friend videotaped there the year before I fell in love with Jefferson County, Kan. As soon as I opened the little SUV’s door, I blurted, “This was my best day of deer hunting EVER!”
Mike Nickels beamed, I think. It was hard to tell, since the beams from the trio of lights attached to the brim of his cap were hitting me squarely in the eyes. But I’m fairly sure I saw dimples.
“Well, tell me about it,” he prompted.
I took my time, composing my response while depositing my bow in the backseat and stripping off my gloves, skullcap and neck-gaiter and stuffing them on the dashboard.
“I don’t know where to start,” I replied, torn between regaling him with a chronological account of my first full day or cutting straight to the chase – my last two blissful, yet frustrating hours in the stand. I opted for the latter, visions of a 170-inch 10-pointer overloading my memory card.
Somewhere near 4 p.m., I happened to glance at a hillside and caught the flash of antler. Eventually, what began as a Tinkerbell light materialized into the largest rack I’ve ever seen on a deer while hunting. The buck wore a clean 5x5 crown: 8-inch brow tines, foot-long P-2s and -3s, P-4s of at least 6 inches, and all of them atop an 18- or 19-inch wide set of main beams that were wrist-thick at the bases.
As if that weren’t enough, the buck easily weighed 300 pounds – far beefier than the 17 others I’d seen earlier and bigger than the three I saw afterward. I saw 20 bucks that day, the majority with respectable to bodacious racks. The only ones that didn’t have me clipping my release to the bowstring were a couple of yearling spikes and one juvenile 6-pointer that ultimately cost me a shot.
The granddaddy was a sight to behold, and I beheld it for a solid hour. I spoke to it. Whispered sweet nothin’s. Belched out challenges. It approached to within 50 yards, and it wanted to come closer. But it didn’t want to leave the hot little doe playing in the creek like a toddler in a plastic bathtub. I’ve never seen a deer act the way she did.
The only thing missing was a rubber ducky!
A couple of years ago, I wrote of a surreal experience I had grunting and bleating to bucks in that same setting. I was the “buck whisperer” that day, on the ground, when I twice lured a 2 ½-year-old buck to within a startling 5 feet. I stopped talking to it out of fear that it might actually gore me.
But for the splash-happy doe, it was almost déjà vu all over again in 2007.
My tube call is capable of producing both bleats and grunts, and I employed it to the fullest. Every bleat caused the buck to stare at me, while its ears rotated like tandem satellites. The grunts caused it to puff up like a Chia deer and stamp its feet. One minute it wanted to love me; the next, to kick my butt.
But – it – would – NOT – leave – its – girlfriend.
When the doe eventually tired of cavorting in the creek 40 yards from my ladder stand, she took off on a dead run back uphill. Her suitor gave me one last look before giving chase. When they were gone, I felt like I’d given birth. The temperature might have been plummeting, and the wind blowing scissors, but I was literally sweating.
I’d been so enamored of and locked in on the monstrous 10-pointer, I hadn’t even noticed that a yearling 6-pointer had crept in and was lying in the leaves 15 yards in front of me, chewing its cud with its eyes closed.
Within minutes, I saw another buck barreling up the creek bottom toward me. It probably would’ve passed within a few yards of my tree had it not caught the hot doe’s scent in her bath water and veered sharply onto her trail – not at all bothered by the tarsal-rich odor of its brutish predecessor. The new arrival was a shooter, too; another 5x5 that might’ve tallied in the mid- to high 140s.
As soon as that buck disappeared over the hill, the 6-pointer rose and began slowly ambling to the creek. Soon after it crossed, I saw yet another 10-pointer following the exact same path its twin had scorched a few minutes earlier. Oblivious to the little cud-chewer maybe 20 yards to my right, I began bleating in hopes of getting the 5x5’s attention BEFORE it caught a whiff of the recently departed estrous doe.
My plan worked. The 10-pointer passed right by the hot crossing and was coming to me. When its head passed behind a small tree, I drew my bow … in full view of the 6-pointer I’d forgotten. The young buck snorted and ran about 20 yards before stopping for a double-take, and my target stopped and glared in my direction.
I was rushed, my nerves were frayed, but I took the shot. Unfortunately, I’d neglected to change my mind’s 25-yard plan. The buck hadn’t yet reached my predicted window; it was at 30 yards. My arrow sailed barely underneath it, and the animal didn’t give me a second chance.
All this happened during the last two hours of Nov. 14, and I haven’t even mentioned the 16 bucks I saw leading up to that period. I’d had a perfect textbook opportunity at a record book 8-pointer about an hour after sunrise. It was exhausted from chasing does, oblivious to my presence and standing broadside at 17 yards – looking for the doe I’d pretended to be.
I could practically see the saliva dripping from its extended tongue.
In any other state, I’d have had trouble letting a book buck go along its merry way. But I was in the Land of Giants. If you care anything at all about antlers, you don’t settle for 130-inchers in Kansas. And besides, I’d already collected venison a few days earlier in Nebraska.
I’d hit the peak of the Kansas rut, at least inside the Buckzilla Woods. It was so unbelievably awesome that I was convinced the other guys in camp that week would think me a liar. I wanted to stand on the kitchen table and wow them with everything I saw (including the dive-bombing of hapless squirrels by myriad redheaded woodpeckers).
After learning of my new friends’ less-than-stellar experiences that day, I decided not to depress them. However, my tales didn’t seem too preposterous by the end of the week. We all experienced the rut at its finest, and we all had shot opportunities.
I’ve hunted some of the best whitetail real estate in North America, and I have my favorite places: Nebraska, Illinois, Texas and Louisiana, to name a few. Most all of these hot spots are in some way connected to a big deer I’ve shot. Kansas is at the top of my list not because I have a glass-eyed memento hanging on my wall (yet), but because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could wind up with a real monster.
Every time I go there, I wind up meeting wonderful new people and scoring deer that would reduce most of us to blithering idiots if we saw them on the hoof.
Editor’s Note: If you’d like to see why the author is smitten with a place despite a five-year jinx, give Mike Nickels a call at (785) 393-9308 or e-mail him at nickelsfarms@yahoo.com. Mike, the only outfitter in Jefferson County, Kan., operates Old School Guide Service out of McLouth. He’ll tell you when and how to apply for tags.
Outfitter’s Note:
In December 2009Mr. Handley took his best whitetail ever and broke the Kansas Jinx while hunting with us. His story will appear in an upcoming issue of ‘Buckmasters Magazine’.
First Deer: As is the case for most hunters and their first whitetail, there is a blend of excitement, uncertainty, joy and remorse leading up to and during the hunt. This one was no different. After striking out in 2006 Mark and I were determined to break the ice and tag his first whitetail. He had earlier assured me he was not caught up in all the buck-mania that can surround the Kansas deer season and for his first deer wanted a good doe to put in the freezer.
The Kansas youth season in September gave us the opportunity to hunt in ideal conditions for a young hunter. Warm days and cool nights did not require heavy layers of clothing that could make it tough for a small framed hunter to handle his gun effectively. Sitting in a deer stand on a cool, quiet morning in the dim, first light is a great moment for hunters young and old. And when the deer start to silently appear, as they did that day, it gets better than great. First one, then others appeared on the food plot in front of the stand. With five deer in front of us, calmly gathering to head to bed for the day, it was easy to single out The One for this, his first. She was tall, long necked and much heavier that the others and seemed to be in charge. Just right for the freezer. But could he make the shot? As Mark lined up the shot, he assured me he was ready and clicked the safety off as I nervously watched. |
At the sound of the shot, there was little reaction from all those deer in front of us. Evidently the echo of gunfire in the secluded hollow made it difficult to tell where the noise came from. And, the lead doe was still standing. I handed another round across the blind and Mark reloaded and made ready for a second try, if the deer stayed put. They did and, at the shot, I thought I saw the doe flinch but she did not bolt for the safety of the tall grass. We repeated the reloading process for two more tries until finally, most of the deer sprinted for cover. Except, the doe walked over to the field edge before melting into the tall grass. My last glimpse of her told me maybe, just maybe she had bedded down. Mark was anxious, uncertain and fearful he had missed a golden opportunity. We went home to let things, including Mark, settle down before conducting a search for the doe.
We returned later to find no blood where the deer had first stood and none along the edge where they had vanished into the grass. Wandering through the 6 foot tall grass proved futile as not even Mark’s blaze orange cap was visible to me in the thick cover. Knowing that chasing a wounded deer now would only push her farther in and less likely to recover before the coyotes did, I posted Mark on the edge where we last saw the deer. At least there he was visible and provided a point of reference from which to look. From 70 yards up the hill I started to walk back to a disappointed hunting partner but as I closed the distance a slight rustle in the grass caught my attention. We were only a few yards apart when the grass parted to reveal the prize we thought was lost. A first deer! After the elation and joy faded into a methodical photo taking session, I left the proud hunter alone with his prize while I went for the trailer. When I returned, there was a much calmer and even tearful boy sitting beside the deer. Thoughts raced through my mind about how to handle this situation and the emotions and possible sadness Mark could be feeling now. As I attempted to explain to him how this could be a somewhat happy and sad event, He quickly set my mind at ease by assuring me as he said, “No Dad, it’s all glad!” His were entirely tears of joy.
Mark has now established a new Buckmasters Records Category named: Biggest, Oldest, Longest Nosed Doe for a First Deer.
A Southerner in King Winter’s Court
Padding into the vacation home’s living room to the smell of coffee brewing and microwaved breakfast sandwiches, I hesitated just long enough to glance at the local news from Topeka. The bottom of the television screen revealed the temperature: a jarring minus-2 degrees.
Ever mindful of how I’ll begin one of my how-the-deer-hit-the-dirt stories, I almost snapped a photo of the screen.
That was midway into my five-day rifle hunt with friend Mike Nickels of McLouth, Kan., an almost last-minute arrangement that would’ve never happened if the state had not had leftover rifle tags for his unit in Jefferson County.
The previous day had begun at 12 degrees, although 20- to 30-mph gusts made it seem much colder. There was 6 to 8 inches of snow on the ground. And Spirit Lake, a couple hundred yards from our rental house, was frozen. Canada geese were waddling across, rather than swimming in it.
Although I’ve hunted deer in 15 states as well as Saskatchewan, I’d never experienced negative temperatures. Windchill yes, but never the mercury that low. And that’s my excuse for the dumb thing I did before striking out in weather that froze my breath to my mustache.
It stands to reason that if one of the stick-on Toasti Toes foot warmers works wonders in the zero-to-32-degree range, then three would be the ticket for minus-2. Right?
In the true logic-trumps-instruction-reading spirit that afflicts many guys, I followed my instincts and stuck Toasti Toes pads below my toes, above them and in my arches. After all, I’d carried a whole bag of them. Why not put them to good use?
Two hours into my planned daylong vigil, my feet went on strike. To take my mind off the pain and to jumpstart my inner heater, I devoured every granola bar I’d stuffed into my oversized pockets. Didn’t work. I left a grumpy message on my home answering machine, basically affirming the rumor that deer hunters have loose screws. And then I called Mike.
Not wanting to seem too unmanly, I asked him to collect me in an hour.
When we got back to the house, I wriggled out of my boots and bee-lined it to the bathroom, where I retrieved the courtesy hair dryer and blow-heated my feet. When the blood thawed and my circulation returned, I grabbed a pack of Toasti Toes and read it.
“Don’t use more than one,” the package said.
Turns out, too much heat will make your feet sweat. It’s sort of an invisible sweat, I guess, since I never felt the squish I always imagined whenever someone used that phrase in the past. Anyhow, in a battle of sweaty wool socks vs. minus-2-degree leather, the leather wins; the feet pay the price.
The next day was a balmy 5 degrees. As the instructions dictated, I used only one Toasti Toes pad per foot. And they worked like a charm, even with turkey hunting-weight leather boots, one pair of wool socks and insulated liners.
I’m also a fan of the little shake-em-up packages called HotHands, which I clench in my gloved hands. I began the day with two -- one in each hand. When my planned daylong sit was cut short a couple of hours later, it wasn’t because I was cold.
A 150-inch 10-pointer was to blame.
Somewhere under the snow in Kansas, there are two HotHands pouches and a spent .30-06 cartridge. I have no clue what happened to them when that buck entered the picture.
NOTE: HeatMax, the company that manufactures HotHands and Toasti Toes, also makes Foot Warm-Ups. Their website says the Warm-Ups are better suited for hunters who will be more stationary. And, by the way, if you’re looking for a reasonable hunt in the Land of Giants, give Mike a call. He won’t tell anyone about your dumb moves, and he’ll box up and FedEx your trophy to you. You can learn more at www.oldschoolguideservice.com. And that 150-inch 5x5? You can read the rest of the story in Buckmasters Whitetail Magazine next fall.
- Mike Handley, editor, RACK magazine
KANSAS, AGAIN ?? 2009 Edition or, WHAT JINX ?
By Mike Handley
I'd hunted with Mike at least five times and never popped or stuck anything. The reason I kept going back is that I like him a lot. I also knew the possibility of tagging a monster was very real.
Two of my most memorable hunts happened there.
Once, while standing completely naked (not literally) on the ground, I lured a 2 1/2-year-old buck to within 5 F-E-E-T by grunting and bleating. I had to scare him away out of fear of being either gored or mounted. (I repeat: I was not actually naked.)
The other time, I whispered sweet-nothins for an hour to the largest whitetail I've ever encountered in the field. It was a clean 10-pointer, wearing at least 170 inches and easily weighing 300 pounds. It stood and stared at me from 20 yards beyond bow range until his little playmate took him away. He was among two dozen great bucks I saw during that incredible day.
I have to say, too, that Mike could've easily written me off as just another writer looking for a handout. He either felt sorry for me, or maybe he's a glutton for letdowns. Not any more.
Ours was a five-day hunt in 2009. I sat in a couple of shooting houses, in one ladder stand and even on a log (to which my pants froze) before being introduced to the pop-up blind on the next-to-last day.
If I'd seen that place on day one, I'd have given it my entire week. Geographically, the setup was perfect. Logistically, far from it.
That anybody was taken there was a real Hail Mary because Mike couldn't wrap his head around the wisdom of driving in along the edge of a picked cornfield -- right beside primo bedding cover -- to reach the little cut. Do it in the pre-dawn, and you run deer out of the field. Do it in the middle of the day, and you risk pushing them out of their beds.
But people do desperate things at the 11th hour's approach.
When I trudged through 6 inches of snow to the blind that morning, it was a balmy 5 degrees. It had been minus-2 the previous day. The number of fresh deer tracks passing within inches of my beloved hiding place was enough to keep me warm.
All I needed was one -- the right one -- to pass that way again. Two hours later, it did, and I never bothered reaching for my binoculars.
I eased my rifle barrel out of the front window, only to realize that I had no shot. The Chia buck with the tall rack had too much spring in his step. So I slid it back in and over to the next opening. Praise the deer gods, the animal stopped and looked the other way.
A nanosecond later, it reared up like a stallion before running headlong into a tree and melting into the snow like a certain coyote trying to chase a roadrunner through a wall. (Do they still show that cartoon?)
"Hey, Mike ... The jinx is over," I grinned, oblivious to the tongue-on-a-flagpole feel of bare hand touching cell phone.
(The full story of Mike Handley’s 2009 Kansas Hunt will appear in an upcoming issue of Buckmasters Magazine)
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