Every hunter dreams of big bucks.

Some hope for a wide, evenly balanced, typical rack and others
lean toward the non-typical, drop tined variety, with points
sticking out in every direction.

Bradford’s Jim Minich, like any other hunter, hoped some day to
bag one of these trophies, but after 39 years of hunting he was
beginning to have serious doubts about it ever happening.

Deer hunting for the Minichs has always been a family affair.
Ever since he was 12 years old, Jim had hunted with his dad, Cal,
his brothers and other close relatives. Deer season was a special
time, filled with the magic and camaraderie of camp and the big
woods.

Jim, who has bagged more than his share of bucks, often asked
his dad why he couldn’t seem to meet up with that trophy deer. Cal
would smile, and tell him he just had to be patient.

There were some things mere mortals couldn’t make happen and
attempting to make a big, smart buck run a certain direction, past
a select person was one of them. Keep hunting and when things were
right, he would get his opportunity.

The years passed, but the opportunity never presented
itself.

Cal passed away in 2006 and it was a tough time for the family.
Things would never be quite the same, but deer camp, their
tradition and close family ties carried everyone through. There
were times when it seemed as if Cal were actually in the room,
laughing with them, glad they were together, doing what they loved.
There was a comfort there, invisible, but deeply felt and
reassuring.

Jim hunted with all his old enthusiasm, but he was beginning to
wonder if he would even be able to bag a doe, more or less a buck.
The low number of deer, lack of snow, and especially, a little
luck, all seemed to be lacking. But hope springs eternal in the
hearts of all hunters and you can never predict what might
happen.

The last Saturday of the season rolled quickly around and Jim,
his two sons, Dan and Brian, brother Bill and nephew Billy rose
early and drove to Riterville. There were two large, overgrown
clear cuts in the area and a rash of well-rubbed saplings. There
were bucks here and from the size of several of the bark-stripped,
gouged-up trees, one buck at least had some very respectable horns
on his head. Best of all, some snow finally covered the ground.

Their plan was simple. Three of the hunters would drive and
three would watch. The first drive was a bust, not a single deer.
Well, that wasn’t encouraging.

The hunters then moved to the next clear cut and the watchers
again took their places. Jim moved into a sag at the top of the
valley and took position next to an old skid trail, beside a large
hemlock. The weekend before Billy had jumped a large buck in this
same area and took a crack at him. He never touched the deer, but
the buck had some serious antlers on his head.

He glanced at his watch, 10:30 a.m.

Jim was carrying his favorite rifle, a .243 Sako with a 3×12
scope. After about 20 minutes he suddenly saw flickers of motion
coming at him through the clear cut.

Deer!

Almost at the same instant Jim saw horns! Gulping with
excitement, he slipped off the safety and watched intently. The
buck and two other deer were trotting quickly through the cover and
headed almost directly at him. Closer and closer they came. It
became apparent they were not going to stop and Jim searched
desperately for the clearest shot. At 20 yards he held in front of
the rapidly moving buck and when the cross hairs touched the
brisket he fired!

The deer hunched and broke into a run, disappearing into the
brush. Jim found his hands were shaking. Had his hurried shot been
true? Suddenly, Billy, one of the drivers, came on the radio.

“You got him!” he shouted. “He’s down right in front of me and
this buck is a whopper.”

Soon the entire group stood around this magnificent trophy and
there were tears in their eyes as they looked at each other.
Sometimes the veil that separates the living from the dead becomes
very thin. Then the heart hears and feels what our other senses
cannot.

The magnificent nine-point buck had a 18-inch spread and long
even tines. He scored 121 Boone and Crockett and would win the
Zippo Big Buck Contest.

But to the group surrounding this very special deer, there was
no doubt that something much more significant had taken place this
morning. After almost 40 years, a greater power had influenced the
outcome of the hunt; the much missed hunter had not been so absent
after all.

“Thanks dad,” Jim whispered, a lump in his throat.