Where’s Waldo: The Legend of Iron Mountain

The 80/20 of the Hunt — Where Suspense Meets the Unknown

 According to the Pareto Principle—the 80/20 rule—eighty percent of hunting suspense happens in those electric, real-time moments of stalking. Still, the other twenty percent lingers in the background: long-term suspense built over years of observation, the kind that can be summed up in a single rare photograph stored in a guide’s phone.

As guides, it’s our responsibility to be realistic with clients—to present respectable, scouted bucks when the time is right. But under it all, there’s always that quiet hope: that a monster no one has tracked or patterned, a buck closer to myth than memory, will step out of the shadows. For us, that buck had a name: Waldo. 

Eric, one of our pro guides, named the buck Waldo. Eric was also the only one to capture Waldo twice on camera. The first sighting came at night in 2014, right at Home-Base Cabin, with two hunters who would return the following year: Scott and Eddie. The second was on July 27, 2015, when Waldo—knowing it wasn’t season—teased Eric for over an hour while shading under a tree just one hundred yards away. Waldo existed in our minds and in our cell phone galleries, but he couldn’t be hunted, patterned, or even openly spoken of. He was a ghost—one that only perfect timing, dumb luck, and expert stalking could ever materialize.

Every hunter enters new country with some expectation of the exceptional. Sometimes it’s gossip, sometimes it’s a fleeting sighting by someone in the right place at the right time. But regardless of the source, the information is gold. At the ranch in partnership with the outfitter and landowner Dave, those stories hang in the air like campfire smoke on a cold, wet, rainy, socked-in day. Boss-man Dennis once spotted a rare young piebald deer—a half-albino—with antlers scoring 170 at just three years old. For three seasons the “Piebald” was seen by multiple people, and then it vanished. Despite countless attempts, it remained a shadow creature.

Waldo followed the same path of elusiveness, also with a nickname that identified uniqueness in his structure that made us guides drool a little. Originally nicknamed “Trash” for his antler extras and stickers, he first entered our lives on October 15, 2014. When Eric spotted him again in 2015, the name changed. From that point forward, he was simply Waldo. Elusive. Obscure. Magnificent. Every now and then, one of these bucks slips up—just ask Eddie about the “Ghost Buck.” 

The Return for Redemption

Fast forward to the hunt of October 15, 2015. Eddie and Scott were back. Mike guided Eddie while Scott hunted with me.

Scott and I had unfinished business from the previous season. In 2014, we worked ourselves ragged, only to see a shooter buck for less than five seconds—you know, carefully side-stepping our way through a honey hole, aimlessly through the sage, to suddenly find your eyes resolving a stick that shouldn’t be there—glistening bright in the sun only twenty yards in front of you.

The moment your brain stitches the data into antlers, the antlers turn sideways, rise, and then float over the hill. His tag went unfilled. It didn’t sit well with either of us. Redemption was paramount for 2015.

This time, I built an insurance plan for Scott: a 180-class typical mule deer known as “The Cabin Buck,” a 170-class “Left-Side Sticker” at Annie’s, and the wide “Peter Buck” I’d spotted while elk hunting the week before. With five full days ahead and multiple solid options, success seemed inevitable. That gave us the freedom to chase legends—the mythological beasts of Iron Mountain: Waldo and the Piebald.

Day 1 started as all days usually do. The horizon glowed red, bands of blue and violet pressing against the infinite darkness overhead, spotlit by a waning moon, only a day or two from going dark. By 6:15 AM, perched high on a rock pile, the eye could finally begin to pick out the subtleties of the land. Slowly the silhouetted branches of a 200-year-old tree, or a convoluted rock pile stacked precariously by God himself, came into view. The sage fields coalesced into a green blanket that hid the ruggedness of the terrain, framed by tall brown grass shining in the dawn light.

We were blessed by neighboring planets shining over the brightening horizon—Mars or Venus, I think. Terrible distractions when you’re supposed to be glassing for deer. We were in the “Winter Pasture,” which I believed could hold a monster buck. Here the sage grows four feet tall, the terrain endless. The high plains of Wyoming fall away into wandering guts and valleys, twisting for miles before they finally drain into Chug Creek. It was an Eden home for any deer.

We glassed for ages, and deer weren’t scarce. The trick was catching them in binoculars, then getting them into the scope before they vanished into the sage. Each buck gave us maybe two minutes at most. No giants yet, no beasts… and certainly no myths. It went on like this for days—strategic repositioning, adjusting for wind, working every angle of the country—yet we came up empty.

Day two deserves mention. I failed to note earlier that Scott and Eddie also carried bull tags. Eddie tagged out on opening day with Mike B. I don’t have all the details, but I’ll never forget the hair-raising drive into the kill—Eric’s off-road training and his badass Tacoma eating up gnarly sage-canyon country. Eric liked to find limits for all his toys, and the Tacoma was no exception. One year, he went so far as to replace the tires with tracks, just to prove he could drive that truck anywhere he wanted. The elk was winched into the truck in no time.

Scott’s bull, however, was a story of its own, starting at our daily lunch breaks back at Home-Base Cabin. By 11:00 AM, the hot sun cooked the land so much that mirages formed like a scene out of the Serengeti, rendering our expensive glass useless and our high-tech clothing unable to wick sweat fast enough. We’d retreat to the cabin, eat, and trade the morning’s stories—reminiscent of those who once hunted these Great Plains not in a cabin, but in a shelter built of stone. On that second day, Eddie—nicknamed “Steven Spielberg” for his camera work—escorted by commentator Mike B., described a bull they’d jumped on the road back to camp. Chat logs and video documented the encounter. After some lively speculation, we agreed it was one of the biggest bulls spotted on the ranch that season—roughly 315, judged by Mike, Eric, and me.

After glassing the prime country with no results, we focused on the Concrete-Crossing—one of the best vantage points on the northwest side of the ranch. I struck out glassing, but soon Scott shouted, “There’s a bull!” I grabbed the scope and locked on. “Little bull… little 6-point… nice 5-point,” I sputtered. “Oh wait—there’s your bull, up and to the right. Take a look and see if you want him.”

It was a mile stalk and pretty straightforward; the wind was also perfect. After 20 minutes of walking, our reality was warped and the terrain didn’t match the scope’s implied topography. The elk had moved and traveled a few ridges further and then nestled into an impossible patch of trees on an exposed knob. The knob, or watchtower, protruded near the end of the finger just before the terrain dropped off into the valley below. Fortunately, the finger itself had a grade to it such that only 50 yards of the finger could be seen at any given time. “I can do this,” I told Scott. “Here’s the plan: we start at the top of the finger and keep going down it as the wind allows. We stalk until I see antlers before heads. Then we’ll go from there.”

This kind of stalking demands patience—half-steps toward the elk, glassing every subtle rim of the hill. Each half-step gives one or two more degrees of view. We crept closer and closer toward the trees where the elk had bedded when suddenly, unmistakably, a rack loomed over the sagebrush. Perfect: we could see him only when standing, not when kneeling. We’d closed as much distance as the terrain allowed—120 yards.

“Now we wait,” I whispered. “It’ll be dark in three hours. The elk will move sometime before then. If they go right, it dies. If they go left, we scurry to that rock pile 40 yards out and it still dies.”

So we hunkered in. Lying prone, absolutely still, we blended into the grass flats like another twisted tree root. The next two hours we spent betting how close the antelope would feed to us. There must have been 50 or 60 all around. “If one knocks your gun over, I get a $1,000 entertainment bonus,” I joked. The antelope followed the sun, grazing over an adjacent knob and down into a valley out of sight.

“I see antlers!” I whispered. Adrenaline surged, pushing back the chill. The elk was the 5-point, feeding right—exactly as planned. Any second, I thought… and then Mother Nature’s alarm clock went off. An antelope busted us. It must have caught wind of us as the fading sun shifted air currents, stuck in a battle: the valley breeze versus the dominant westward trade winds. The goat barked nonstop—like that one drunk friend at the bar killing your shot at a lady.

I glassed the 5-point—on full alert, ears twitching, mouth frozen mid-bite. “Where are the other bulls?” I muttered. Fifteen minutes of light remained. Painfully slowly, the bull turned, walked 180 degrees, and melted back into the trees.

I stood, binoculars glued to my eyes. No bulls in sight. “Time to go,” I said. Scott jumped up and, hunched, we scurried toward the rock pile. Again, glass pressed to my face, I rounded the rock—and nearly swallowed my heart. The huge 6-point had fed right to our cover, filling my binoculars’ entire lens. I snapped back behind the rock, bug-eyed. “He’s right there—literally behind this rock!”

We had ten minutes of shooting light left. “Get up into that window in the rocks,” I whispered. Scott climbed up, and I followed. Busted, I thought—hand in the cookie jar. 

The bull, fully aware of our presence but not identifying us as hunters, barked and snarled at us to scare us off like we were just another pesky scavenger. To our right, the antelope barked. In front of us, the bull barked. “Slowly lift your gun and shoot him in one motion,” I instructed. The motion of lifting a weapon must be hardwired in all prey. It is the universal gesture of something being very not right. Performing this maneuver would set a chain of events into action that could not be reversed. Doing it slowly buys us hunters seconds, whereas a swift motion would invoke a reflex reaction to run in the elk.

As Scott leveled the rifle, I saw the bull’s muscles tighten, his neck straighten. Every instinct in my body screamed: shoot now. Scott must have felt it too—he fired. A perfect harvest. The bull dropped in his tracks.

Scott broke into high fives. Soon Dennis joined us, and together we admired a beautifully framed 323-class elk. 

Day Three: Chasing Deer and Legends

Day three rolled around, and big bucks were going down! Two of the four deer tags were filled. First was the “Peter Buck,” taken by Dennis and Emery that afternoon. The previous night, Eric and Kelly had also filled a tag. This buck hadn’t been mentioned before, and it was an awesome one at that. That left two tags still open: Scott’s and Eddie’s. Despite early deer bedding and unseasonably high temperatures, Scott and I persisted—as did Mike and Eddie.

Our Day Three adrenaline rush was shared with Mike and Eddie, though we didn’t know it at the time. I had spotted what appeared to be a 31-inch-wide 3x4 about a mile out. Intrigued, we put a stalk on it to get a better look. After closing the gap with the truck, we hiked about half a mile and perched in some rocks under the only tree around. We enjoyed the UV relief and chose a route for our stalk.

“Don’t move!” I hissed at Scott. Four bucks were bailing off the adjacent ridge and ran straight toward us, stopping just 80 yards out. There was a nice 4x4, two smaller bucks, and the wide 3x4. After careful review, we passed. Still, I had a nagging feeling something wasn’t right.

I slowly turned back to where I’d first spotted the deer. Sure enough, that beautiful Opt-Fade camo came into view—Mike was lying on the ridge. We were in their line of sight between them and the deer. They must have jumped a different group of deer from the road over the hill.

“They’re going to shoot,” I whispered to Scott. “I’m not shooting it,” he replied. “Not you—Eddie!” I tried to clarify. “What?” Scott squinted back at me.

“Shit!” I exclaimed. Time to bust the deer. Sorry, Eddie. I stood up, and the bucks ran a few hundred yards. I did this because Scott and I had found ourselves in the line of fire. As I did this, in the same moment, Eddie joined Mike on the ridge. We walked out to get their attention. And with this, this stalk was over.

On the way back to the truck, I asked Scott if he’d been fooling around with Eddie’s wife—because that was the best setup for a “hunting accident” I’d ever seen. Nonetheless, we were spared a mile stalk in the hot sun.

The Day Three hail-Mary afternoon play was a mile walk to the rim of Chug Creek. It was brutally hot, and I was more vigilant about spotting snakes than deer. When we arrived at the rim, I poked my head over the edge and caught a deer’s rear end slipping behind some rocks at 20 yards. Archery practice time, I thought—figuring that if it was a big buck, it would bust out to 200 yards and stop so Scott could shoot.

I crept to the point where I was literally standing on the rock the deer were bedded beneath. I threw my arms up in disbelief—one of those “what the heck” moments for sure. My jacket then caught on a small buck-brush and made the tiniest scraping sound. It was greeted by the deep breath of a large animal standing up. One, two, three bucks rose just six yards from me and bolted. At 200 yards they stopped. All little bucks. Darn.

This wasn’t working out. Time to regroup at the cabin. By mid-day, we all gathered for lunch. Along with socializing, Eddie entertained us by snatching his cured beef from the hands of Dave, the landowner, refusing to let him use it on his sandwich. It was all in good fun—but still a bold play by Eddie. Eddie is a professional sandwich connoisseur. He had brought just enough shaved beef to feed Eric his favorite breakfast: “Shit on Shingles.” Even Dave didn’t warrant the risk of putting Eric off his game.

The evening hunt for Scott and me was a bust. We set up high in a rock pile in lower Chug Creek, on a piece of land Dave had recently acquired. We weren’t there five minutes before the wind betrayed us—switching from west to south. It ruined ninety percent of the set, which was frustrating because the terrain was perfect. We hunted until an hour before dark but knew it wasn’t in the cards.

We hopped in the truck and raced to the big rock pile near the cabin. At this point, something had to happen in the next 15 minutes, or there wouldn’t be enough light left to make a stalk. We struck out. Disappointed by not seeing a shooter buck in three straight days, we drove back to the cabin.

Meanwhile, Mike and Eddie’s luck had changed—with Eric’s help. It was the “Cabin Buck,” and by the time we got back, he was already caped at the cabin…go figure. A beautiful 182-class typical buck.

Although I was happy for Eddie, I knew my insurance plan was expiring fast. With no other bucks found, I was feeling the heat. Despite my urge to go back to the Winter Pasture to hunt for the monster I was certain lived there, I defaulted to insurance plan C: the “2-inch Left Side Sticker Buck” at Annie’s. This would be the plan for the next morning.

All the deer tags were filled except for Scott’s. There were three pro guides available to scout for him—myself included—and Eddie to push, drive, or pick us up if needed. Mike was on the Cabin Rock Pile, the same spot Scott and I had set up the night before. Eric was doing his “Eric thing,” checking all those secret spots he keeps in his back pocket, or where his truck could go. Scott, Eddie, and I were glassing from the west end of Lil’ Ragged Top. 

Lil’ Ragged Top is a beautiful spot that unveils a magical 300-degree panorama of the middle of the ranch. There is a fairly easy trail that leads to its summit and requires you to skirt the edge of a shelf-like granite protrusion. Once on top, the guide is overwhelmed by where to start glassing for animals. This spot was certainly used by Native Americans to hunt as well. Evidence was found by Dennis in the form of an arrowhead.

Through the glass, I found what looked to be a heavy, mature buck. I couldn’t see a sticker, so I thought: cool—mystery meat. It was a mile and a half out, but it showed promise. Suddenly my leg buzzed—a text from Mike: “Got one!! Big. Come to Rock Pile. Really heavy 3x4, I think.” My first reaction, of course, was: BS, whatever dude. I’m not running up there for a 3x4, lol.

I replied, “We got two nice ones too. How big?” Afraid of a texting cluster—and possibly passing on a big 4x4 for a 3x4—I wasn’t sure what to do. Seconds later my phone buzzed again. Mike wrote: “Long ways off. But thought he was Waldo when I first saw him. 180s.” 

Holy hell, I thought. A 180-class 3x4 is nothing to pass on—far better than anything at Lil’ Ragged Top. Let’s roll.

Finding Waldo

Mind you, Eric and I had spotted a huge 3x4 in that area during archery season. The buck Mike had found was definitely worth another look.

On the drive from Lil’ Ragged Top to the Cabin Rock Pile, we would pass the big buck I had just glassed. Due diligence pushed me into making a stalk on this one—insurance, I thought. We parked a mile off and stalked to within 500 yards. Through the scope, I saw a great 4x4 with a perfect frame. Solid deer—but not 180 class, not even 170. Cabin Rock Pile it is.

We pulled up and parked beside Mike’s and Eric’s trucks. Eric had beaten us to the scene. We hiked three-eighths of a mile up to the rock pile where Mike had his scope trained on a particular ridge. It was late morning, and the buck was bedded out of sight. The wind had picked up to the point communication was failing.

I looked through Mike’s scope, analyzed the rock pile, and had a quick discussion with Eric. Then we set off to get a better angle. With two pro guides—Eric and Mike—overwatching the valley, we had backup if I busted the buck on the stalk. That gave all of us some comfort.

We drove south on King Mountain Road again and parked near the ridge. Then we slipped up a small gully. The gully was very exposed and ran through the high plains, cutting massive scars into the prairie. Along its flood banks lay the remains of an occasional tree, long dead from wind, drought, and the brutal winters of southern Wyoming—its struggle captured in tightly twisted remains.

At the top, I glassed the rock pile where the 3x4 was supposed to be. I caught a glimpse of a deer’s body and set up my scope.

I focused, paused, and whispered, “Scott, Eddie, do you have Eric’s number?” “Yeah,” Eddie said. “Why?” “Send him a text real quick.” “What do you want me to say?” Eddie asked. “Tell him I found Waldo.”

I tried to say it as calmly and discreetly as possible. “Get the f&#% out!” Scott exclaimed. “Simmer down! Don’t freakin’ move—he’s looking right at us,” I snapped back.

The Stalk of a Lifetime

Slowly, watching Waldo, I reached for the rangefinder. Five hundred twelve yards. Not good enough—especially in that stiff crosswind. “Wait for it… wait for it… NOW. Move back behind the hill—his head is turned,” I said, holding back a surge of adrenaline.

We crawled into cover behind the rock pile, where I set the scope again—this time tucked behind a dead tree, well out of sight of the resting giant. “Scott, see for yourself,” I said, motioning him over. I’m pretty sure he thought I was joking. Eddie wasn’t so lucky—he didn’t get a peek. The sun was climbing, and Waldo would soon move to the north-facing side of the pile. We couldn’t dawdle here all day.

It was time to go. We retreated to the trucks, shed extra clothing and gear, and prepped for what would become one of the best stalks I’ve ever been part of.

Any other buck, and this stalk would have been half as long. This was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences and would only succeed if we were mindful of every detail. We looped and looped through guts and trees, skirting and avoiding lingering antelope. I definitely didn’t want that alarm clock going off again.

We reached our destination—chosen by Mother Nature—a neighboring rock pile 150 yards from Waldo, out in the middle of the grass flats. By sheer luck, Waldo had bedded himself between two rocks and was completely hidden from our predacious stalk. From atop the rock pile, we could only see the last three inches of his rack. Success. We had made it this far without being busted.

However, a whole line of dead trees stood between us and Waldo. If he stood, the chance of a clean shot through that tangle was less than 10%. Eddie put it best: “That beast knows exactly where to be to make it impossible to get to him.” 

Not on my watch. Let’s proceed.

The far west edge of our rock cropping—directly in line with Waldo—had one last boulder before giving way to open expanses of prairie. This rock was the end of the line and stood about three feet tall, bypassing all the dead trees. We reached it with a sigh of relief. I ranged the boulder obscuring Waldo and it read 109 yards. Perfect.

At this point, our outfield team was joined by Dennis. Now we had two pro guides and the boss watching and filming our stalk under 45x magnification. Additionally, Eddie was locked in on his camcorder, intent on capturing every detail. No pressure, right? Not to mention, this was the biggest buck ever seen on the ranch. I’m not going to lie, this was a career-killer moment if not handled appropriately, and I was feeling it.

Can’t think about that now. Decision time—what happens next? We were all wondering. I judged the angles and realized that even if Waldo stood where he was, we wouldn’t get a kill shot. Our position was too low. No worries, though. All deer eventually get out of the sun and seek shade.

“Scott, get on that rock and keep your gun pointed at the rock Waldo is behind at all times. We’re stuck here, and we’ll sit till dark if that’s what it takes. At any measure, you’re not moving, so suck it up,” I said.

Once again, Scott complied—despite an ever-numbing leg and what looked like a brutal neck cramp. “I want some water,” Scott grumbled. “I have none,” I replied—thinking, the biggest buck ever is 100 yards in front of us, forget water. Fortunately, Eddie had some.

Two hours passed before Waldo finally threw us a bone by standing up. As predicted, all we could see was his ginormous rack down to his eyes. The antlers glistened in the sun, and even to the naked eye it was obvious—this was a magnificent beast.

Waldo stretched his back, spun 180 degrees, and lay back down. We waited another half hour before Scott caught him up again. Eric and Mike must have missed this bit, as Dennis caught them sleeping in the grass.

This time Eddie, Scott, and I watched Waldo feed left, behind another giant boulder. We waited, hearts pounding, when Eddie suddenly blurted: “I see his rack—he’s coming out!” 

After hours of adrenaline surges, Scott was starting to look a little flustered. Good thing he’d eaten that giant bowl of Raisin Bran for breakfast because it did not hold him over at all. Now, though, a record buck was feeding only 100 yards out—and a giant dead tree stood between us.

The tree wasn’t in our rock pile—it was in Waldo’s. Every few seconds, a tiny window between limbs offered a potential kill shot. But with so much at stake, that notion felt reckless. In other words, Waldo was just feeding, oblivious to the twelve peering eyes drooling over him. So why get excited yet?

The rock pile Waldo had chosen as his bed was impressive—not for the type of rock or its size, but for how perfectly it served a deer’s needs. It had a central passage for quick access to sun or shade, and both sides were cluttered with dead pines that made visibility nearly impossible. There was a north exit through massive beetle-kill, and a south chute where he was currently browsing.

One of two things was about to happen: Waldo would either feed down past the dead tree and get shot, or feed up toward the shady side of the rock pile—still under the cover of that damn tree. Seconds, minutes—whatever it was—we watched in absolute frustration. 

Finally, Waldo favored the upside of the pile. We were screwed. Damn that tree, with its massive dead limbs tracking his vitals every step! It was unbelievable. One six-inch limb ran perfectly parallel to the slope Waldo was climbing, hanging directly over his heart. 

I said, “We’re doing this, and we have to break some rules.” We skirted the south end of our perfect hiding spot and army-crawled into the open, timing it exactly when Waldo put his head down to refill his cud. This damn tree—it wouldn’t give way. Scott was starting to steam. I caught a few words from him, not for the children, but clear enough in tone.

The thick air was cut by Eddie, still hidden in our original set: “I have a perfect shot here—get over here!” We said okay and crawled back. But within a minute of retracing our steps, Waldo stepped left and that same damn tree trashed the set again. The perfect kill shot Eddie had found was gone.

Urgency and tension were building fast. Waldo was topping out on the rock pile, and in minutes he might disappear for good. If he reached the shady side, an entirely new set of obstacles and variables would be waiting for us.

It was like a scene straight out of Adam Sandler’s Happy Gilmore—him screaming at a golf ball, except in our case it was a tree.

“Fine, it is what it is. Scott, let’s go back to our bellies,” I said. “One way or another, it ends today. I don’t care if we lie here till dark—we’re getting him.” I tried to say it with as much reassurance as I could muster.

This situation was fickle. We crawled back to where we had just been and watched Waldo, now only 15 feet from the top of his pile—behind that stupid tree, of course—hunkered in tighter than ever.

In desperation, I reviewed my options and made a call. “Scott, every time Waldo puts his head down to feed, take a giant skootch sideways,” I whispered.

It went on like this for minutes. I’d skootch with Scott, then peer at Waldo through my binoculars, praying not to catch him staring back with that “oh really, you dumbass” look. 

At this point, we were twenty yards from cover, in the bright sun, on an open grass flat—only 100 yards from Waldo. Astonished we’d made it this far, I chose not to push our luck and put the ball back in Waldo’s court. One step from him was all we needed.

It had been check-and-check for hours. One of us was on the brink of a checkmate move. 

Waldo stepped. I couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a shot yet. “Shoot that thing, man!” I hissed—or screamed. Nothing. Inside, I was freaking out. I had a kill shot. Scott was to my left, which meant he had an even better one. What was the deal? 

Finally—right before I was about to take his gun and shoot Waldo myself (I did have a tag)—Scott let one rip. A perfect vital shot.

Waldo turned and ran toward the center of the rock pile. Scott, riding some kind of power trip after hitting him, fired another round—straight into a rock, killing that rock dead. (A Dennis saying.) Meanwhile, Waldo stopped, hunched up, and fell. It was over.

The Shot and the Revelation

Having been a guide for four years now, I’m a pretty good judge of how people react after a harvest. But a Boone and Crockett buck, taken by a guy whose life quest was to kill a giant mule deer—after spending thousands of dollars, waiting two years for the chance, and now the buck lay dead only 100 yards away? Well, it went like this: 

I remember some hooting and hollering, then Scott’s eyes locked on mine. Not a “hey buddy, nice work” look, but more like a hungry grizzly bear protecting her cub. He delivered a bone-crushing high-five, then suddenly I was in the air, twirling around. (I clearly noted three distinct back cracks—a blessing after all the glassing I’d done in the days prior.) In my peripherals I caught Eddie twirling too, hollering like mad.

When I finally got my bearings, I saw Scott and Eddie sprinting toward Waldo. “Don’t forget your gun!” I shouted. Regroup—simmer down. Then we all took off together, amped to the core—50 yards, 20 yards, 10 yards—and the tears began rolling down Scott’s cheeks. It had really happened.

A chord had been struck. Waldo was even more magnificent than we’d imagined. We approached and just stared. Words fell away. We let out the occasional whoop or cheer, but mostly we stood silent, trying to compare this moment to anything else we’d experienced—and nothing measured up.

Out of the woodwork came two running bodies—Dennis and Mike—followed by Eric in his Tacoma. They approached, jaws dropped, and together we circled Waldo, basking in the aura of accomplishment. It was perfect.

We had all just witnessed the harvest of one of our mystery monster bucks. Now, standing only feet away, we gawked at his unreal rack. Stories from the stalk came pouring out from each of us, retold from our unique angles.

Then Dennis, still in awe, was the first to really process what he was seeing: “That is a Piebald buck!” he shouted. “No way!” we all reacted. I shifted my eyes from Waldo’s antlers to his cape, and sure enough, clear as day—he was Piebald. No, he was the Piebald buck. 

“Dude, you have to full-body mount this buck,” Mike blurted. “Indeed, it must be done,” we all agreed.

Both Waldo and the Piebald—our two legendary mystery bucks—were in fact one and the same. A full-body mount was the only way to do him justice. Scott agreed, without hesitation.

The next hours turned into a photo shoot—similar to a wedding, no kidding. We carried Waldo to multiple spots for the best angles, capturing the moment again and again. 

Even Dave, along with his daughter and her boyfriend, made the 45-minute drive to see Waldo. Dave summed it up perfectly in one line: “Wouldn’t it be a shame for this buck to die in a gully and never be seen again?”

Scott, without missing a beat, replied: “His antlers will live forever at my house.” Well said. 

It was an epic hunt with Scott, Eddie, and the crew. Waldo grossed 224, with a typical score of 191 wet—scored conservatively.

May Waldo’s genetics live on forever at the ranch.