I’m 45 years old and have been bowhunting since I was 13. A lifelong friend—my wife’s cousin—introduced my dad and me to deer hunting in December of 1993. Those first sub-zero hunts changed the trajectory of our lives. From that point on, my younger brothers, my dad, and I built a bond rooted deeply in our passion for whitetail deer and bowhunting. It’s hard to imagine life without it. I’m forever grateful for that introduction, and my family has been blessed with countless memories built around our shared passion for the outdoors.

One thing I know and hear from others is that it’s truly special how we approach everything as a team—whether it’s hanging stands, putting in plots, setting cameras, or scouting. It might be difficult for others to imagine, but I often enjoy it more when my dad or brothers tag one of our targets because I get the same excitement but still get to continue hunting. I don’t take the bond for granted, and I know they don’t either.

The Beginning of Gonzo

The story of “Gonzo” began back in 2019. I didn’t realize it at the time, but after harvesting him, I was able to piece together some old summer photos. (I knew we had him from 2020 on.) We estimated him then at about 3½ years old in 2019—an average 8-pointer, but his heavy body and large brow tines already stood out. Those were the features that helped identify him, along with the photos taken during the same time of year in the same locations.

By the summer and fall of 2020, we had more pictures of him. He always disappeared from our property between October 13th and October 20th, earning him the name “Gonzo.” That year, we figured he was 4½—roughly a 135-inch 9-point. At that point, he wasn’t a target and not really a deer we kept tabs on.

In 2021, he injured his right side and grew an uneven rack—one side a 5x and the other a clustered 5-point with a broken tine that made it look like a turkey foot. My dad and niece even had an encounter with him from the ground using a crossbow, but he caught their wind and escaped. Later that December, he appeared on another property we hunt. My dad passed him at 20 yards while targeting a different buck. Gonzo wasn’t overly impressive that year—maybe 145 inches—but his body was huge. I saw him on this property as well on a cold, misty evening, feeding in bean stubble a few hundred yards away.

Growing into a Legend

In June of 2022, he showed up on camera again. At first glance, I wasn’t positive who he was since it was early in his growth, but I did finally recognize him because of his massive body, basic frame, and signature brow tines. He had also been on this same camera location in years past during June. He had the start of two drop tines and a hook coming off his left beam. As the summer went on, he became more regular on camera and quickly moved to the top of our hit list. He’d exploded into a deer easily north of 175 inches. His typical frame from 2022 through 2025 stayed similar in size but varied in point configuration.

That year, my dad, brothers, and I hunted him hard those first two weeks of the season, knowing we’d have a short window. He was extremely nocturnal—I had just one photo of him in legal shooting light, and that was only two minutes after first light in one of our food plots. From experience, if you’re only getting nighttime photos, your cameras probably aren’t close enough to his bedding area. We suspected he was bedding on the neighboring property, slipping onto ours under cover of darkness.

In hindsight, he might have always been bedding on us, just deep enough in the woods that he wasn’t getting to our ambush spots and cameras until dark. Later that season, we prepared to ambush him on the property where he’d shown up the previous December. We feared he’d been shot during gun season, though no pictures surfaced. Then, late November, a buddy texted me a trail-cam photo of him—sent from an out-of-state hunter visiting over Thanksgiving. This started the craziness and randomness of the facts we gathered in the coming years. Hope was restored.

Sure enough, he appeared on our other hunting farm in early December. We never saw him in person, but a friend spotted him from the road. Someone later found his left shed, confirming he survived the season.

Ups and Downs

In 2023, he reappeared that summer but broke off a drop tine in mid-July. He showed up only a few times that fall and was basically a ghost all season. We worried he might start to decline with age.

Then came 2024. Once again, he showed up on camera—still massive, though maybe not quite as big as before—and he was the primary target. That year, my brother Micah killed our biggest buck to date: a 178-inch typical. I had a few minutes of legal light but was staring at the dead buck lying in front of me at 70 yards and was ready to get Micah and put our hands on him. As soon as I took my release off, I caught movement over my right shoulder. I couldn’t believe it, but Gonzo was walking right at me and passed me at 20 yards broadside. I fumbled to get my release back on and even came to full draw; however, he stopped at about 50 yards, and it was low light—I didn’t have a clear or good shot. That was only my second in-person sighting of Gonzo, and I knew how close I’d come. If I didn’t have the excitement of Micah’s harvest, I may have handled it worse, but I was pretty sickened because I should have ended the saga that evening.

A week later, my brother Tyler had Gonzo at last light, making a scrape just out of range. He chose not to risk a poor-angle shot—an ethical call we all stand by. By then, it was clear Gonzo had almost supernatural instincts.

We knew time was running out. For those who’ve hunted 30+ years, you understand: getting a mature buck in bow range in daylight takes countless variables aligning—weather, wind, moon, food source, and a little divine favor. On October 16th, I climbed into the stand hoping to connect the dots—moon phase, temperature, wind, and feeding pattern—but Gonzo’s unpredictability won again. That evening, he walked past a camera 180 yards away in a spot he’d never visited in daylight in four years. That was the last sighting of him on that farm that year.

By November, he’d become somewhat of a local legend. A video surfaced of him chasing a doe through a backyard—right past a swing set. His distinctive sweeping drop tines made him unmistakable.

Later that month, on another property, Dad climbed into a stand after we got a fresh trail photo. Gonzo came in chasing a hot doe, and Dad came to full draw as Gonzo closed to 20 yards—only to watch him bolt off after another buck. Moments later, Tyler had another close call but couldn’t draw. Gonzo then ran back past Dad at five yards—face to face—but again offered no shot. A neighboring hunter we knew shot and grazed him soon after. Thankfully, it wasn’t lethal, though we all feared it might be.

A few days later, a photo surfaced showing him alive and healthy. He had returned to the same property where we’d first gotten him that summer and early October. One rainy December night, he appeared on camera in our food plot—alive, well, and uninjured. We knew we had another chance. My mom even saw him from the house in mid-December, just 15 yards away. That was the last sighting of the 2024 season.

The Final Chapter

Going into 2026, we necessarily have high hopes. If he’d survived, he’d be 9½ years old, and I feared his body or rack might decline—or worse, that he wouldn’t make it through winter. But in early July, the first picture I pulled from my camera was Gonzo. Not only had he survived, but it looked like he might be wearing his biggest rack yet. His signature drop tines were back, with new non-typical points. His split brow tines had shifted to split G2s, and he’d grown a large hook off his left pedicle with an extra point, similar to something he had in 2022.

We knew he was special—but he also seemed nearly unkillable. One thing we noticed the previous season was that he seemed to move more in daylight than in earlier years, and I wondered if that pattern would continue. I really thought because of his age, he might become more of a slave to his stomach and perhaps even let his guard down.

That summer, my family and I made a strategic decision. The property lacked a consistent water source, so we built a water hole at the edge of the property where we could refill it easily without intrusion. That small change would ultimately lead to his demise.

One August day, my youngest son, Truett (5½), came with me to plant food plots. After finishing, we drove by to take a photo of the finished product. I rolled the truck window down, snapped a picture, and Truett shouted, “Hey, it’s Gonzo!” Sure enough, he was standing dead center in the background of the photo. It was pretty cool—he saw him before I did and even recognized the deer. We slowly drove off, and he never budged. It was one of those surreal moments: even my 5-year-old could spot this legendary buck instantly.

Season of Faith

Late September brought an unexpected setback. The power company came through to clear trees along the powerlines, right by our best setup. It opened the area visually, and Gonzo vanished until early October. I told my family, “This is a sign—we’re going to kill him.”

On September 30th, the day before season, he reappeared on camera. Then another disruption hit the property, but soon we got a daylight picture of him at the new water hole. The temps were in the 90s—far from ideal for daylight movement—but finally, a cold front pushed through.

With a favorable wind, Tyler hunted and watched Gonzo appear at 60 yards. Instead of entering the food plot, he turned and slipped toward the water hole, perfectly playing the northwest wind. After that night, we knew: if we could get that same pattern with the right wind, we might finally get him.

On October 12th, we had a straight east wind—perfect for the water-hole setup. After picking up my daughter from softball practice, I told her it would take a miracle for Gonzo to come in with the advantage in my favor, but that maybe his unpredictability would work for me this time.

That evening felt right. Mild temps, 3–5 mph wind—a little less than preferable—but we had a red moon, conditions that have produced many of my best October hunts. The year of 2025 had been filled with personal challenges and big life changes—selling my insurance agency, stepping into a new business with my cousin as a mindset coach, and walking through one of the toughest internal battles of my life. I received a random text that pertained to one of these life struggles and was overwhelmed with angst and the negative thoughts that had accompanied the situation.

One thing I’d noticed over the years, and heard on a hunting podcast I related to, was that I had never killed a target buck if my mind wasn’t right. Sitting in that stand, I started praying—not about the hunt, but about surrender.

I asked God to take everything—my worries, my plans, my pride—and felt a peace that truly surpassed understanding. Gratitude washed over me: for my family, my faith, the hardships and trials that had shaped me, and the blessing of being in His creation. I’ll never forget the feeling of peace I had and how I was able to get lost in the present moment. Moments later, I spotted a couple of does feeding off in the distance, and it’s difficult to explain, but I’d had the feeling a couple of times before while hunting—I knew tonight was going to have a special ending.

The Encounter

I spotted two small bucks entering the plot and feeding east into the bean field. Then I saw antlers—Gonzo—moving through the trees, following their path. He paused, surveyed the field, and then turned toward the water hole. He nibbled on the oats and rye for about 30 seconds and then lifted his head and committed.

When he crested the hill, every step was deliberate—calculated. I drew before he entered my ten-yard shooting window. He started to angle slightly away, veering east toward my patch of woods. If I didn’t shoot now, I might not get another chance.

I settled my 40-yard pin just behind his leg and squeezed the trigger. The arrow hit at the last rib—fatal, but a bit back. I sat down, called my wife, and simply said, “I got him.”

This time, excitement mixed with relief—and even sadness. The deer older than my youngest two children was gone. After years of pursuit, I knew it was over. I texted my brothers, dad, and cousin, then sat quietly thanking God. In the grand scheme of life, it’s small—but in the world that has bonded my dad, brothers, and me, this was our Super Bowl.

That night, I waited. My arrow showed dark red blood—a liver hit. Out of caution, I waited until 11 a.m. the next morning to trail him. Deep down, I knew he was dead. My brothers, dad, cousin, and a close friend joined the track, and within minutes we came upon his first bed after being shot—which would also be his last. It was truly a surreal moment that I was so fortunate to share with others. I had a lot of emotions, but I was just thankful and reflected on the last year and the entire story.

Standing in his bed, we could see he had chosen the perfect spot—two gullies came together, and he was bedded on a small knoll right between them. We realized that from a couple of our stands, he could probably catch our wind no matter if it was an east or westerly breeze. I think the only reason we were finally able to get him was because we hunted the very edge—far away from his bedding area—and it was likely the only place he hadn’t caught a hunter’s wind over the past five years. We also realized he didn’t always bed there, but this particular spot was bulletproof. I’m certain that’s why he rarely appeared in daylight while we were hunting.

We’d killed several good bucks in those same woods over the years, but he was the one who always got away—and his quirkiness is what kept him alive. My brothers, dad, cousin, and friend all joined me on the blood trail after I’d tracked him back to that bed, and we found him just a few minutes later. The celebration had begun.

It was a surreal moment grabbing his rack for the first time. Something that really hadn’t crossed our minds with this deer was just how large he had become. This isn’t to say we don’t admire the size of other deer we’ve harvested, but this buck was more than inches or score—he was a story, a legend, and a symbol of my dad and brothers hunting bond.

A Family Hunt

What makes our story special is that we’ve always hunted as a team. When one of us tags a target buck, it’s a win for all. I meant it when I texted, “We got him.”

Even my sister—who doesn’t hunt—called me shortly after to celebrate. She jokes that she doesn’t “get our deer game,” but she knows what cold fronts and moon phases mean. My wife and kids were ecstatic; they’ve followed the story for years. They called him “Gonzo, Haddy Honzo and shared in the excitement every season.

I’m humbled by how God used this moment. I’ve learned that He cares more about the posture of our hearts than the outcome of our hunts. That night, my heart was right—and God gave me a gift my whole family could celebrate together. 

The Deer

The deer itself was a true giant, with a rack that defied words. (Final score and details to be added.)Beams were both over 27 inches. Scored 203 4/8 before the 60 day drying period.. Over 45 inches of nontyppical