The date was Oct. 29, 2022. Leaves blanketed the ground in Ohio’s hardwood forest, only the red oaks still hanging onto their dried russet foliage. Those leaves rustled faintly as a breeze crept across the hills and up the draws, creating a bit of diversion as Logan Charles clipped a release to his bowstring and shifted his feet on the treestand platform, readying for a shot. A nice buck was working its way into his shooting lane, and as it stopped, he drew back and bounced an arrow off the top of the buck’s back. Little did he know how momentous this miss would prove to be for his family’s 2023 whitetail season.
Early fall of 2023 found Logan’s younger brother, Landyn, and their father, Jeff, setting trail cameras and monitoring the buck activity on several properties they like to hunt. One of those places has been a favorite for decades, and the Charles’ tend to harvest one or two mature bucks from the property each year. They have a good old-fashioned arrangement with the farmer and his wife: Jeff and his boys help out on the farm in trade for hunting privileges. It’s the best kind of hunting “lease,” based on mutual long-term respect, friendship and trust. Jeff harvested his personal-best buck on this farm, a spectacular mid-170s behemoth shot with a bow.
The Charles family is a unique group of people. Jeff and Logan are some of the finest shots with bow or rifle that I’ve ever seen, routinely finding their names at or near the top of the scoreboards on their local archery and small-bore leagues. In past years they’ve come west to hunt elk with me, and have never failed to make good on a shot opportunity. Landyn doesn’t shoot competitively but inherited his dad’s strong passion for hunting. Summer scouting, fall hunting and winter shed hunting are deep-seated obsessions in Landyn’s young life. Jeff and his wife and kids form one of the tightest families I know—they fuss and squabble like most families, but at the end of the day they possess a fierce love and loyalty for each other that is inspiring. They drink beer, watch hockey, eat Tuesday night Buffalo wings at Shorty’s Place and work hard. They are the kind of people who form the heart’s blood of America.
Years ago, I was archery hunting in Ohio with the Charles’ when Logan took 7-year-old Landyn to sit in a double-ladder stand in hopes of killing his first deer. Jeff gave them careful instructions before sending them off, and then he and I went and climbed into our own trees. Using a crossbow he was barely big enough to handle, Landyn placed a perfect arrow through a fat doe that evening. His little face just beamed when we picked them up and loaded his first deer in the truck. Little did we know that 15 years later history would repeat itself with a deer of gargantuan proportions.
Stickers Makes an Entrance
On Oct. 3, 2023, Landyn got a daytime trail-camera photo of a buck bigger than anything the Charles’ had ever seen in their neck of the woods. The buck had already shed its velvet and sported a rack replete with extra tines, superb width and unholy mass. It was apparent from the shape of the rack and the “stickers” jutting out and back that this was the same deer Logan had encountered a year earlier—but it’d exploded in size. The buck became a regular on their favorite property, and soon dominated the family’s hunting strategy for the fall. Landyn became obsessed, and thanks to his savings account and single marital status, made the choice to quit his job and dedicate his entire season to hunting one buck: the deer they named Stickers.
Landyn’s first in-person encounter with the buck came the day immediately following the day that first trail-cam image was captured, Oct. 4, under a northwest wind. Stickers lived in a thicket where capricious winds stood guard, tumbling, rolling and circulating. The buck was only huntable with specific and somewhat rare wind conditions, and the Charles men were wise enough to stay out of his core area unless the wind was ideal. They knew that one unfortunate encounter would likely send the buck to another property where some other hunter might kill him. Stickers was well out of bow range when Landyn saw him, but the encounter was enough to cement the hunter’s resolve; this was the buck he would hunt till either the deer was harvested or the season was over.
October 7 showed a favorable wind for hunting Stickers, and Jeff climbed into a giant red oak downwind of where he expected the monster buck to appear. And appear he did, scent-checking does in circles across a bean field. Closer and closer he came, but dusk came faster. Eventually the deer passed right under Jeff’s stand. He could have taken a shot, but the light was poor and he wasn’t willing to risk making a bad hit. The massive buck moved on and, almost relieved, Jeff slipped out of his treestand and away into the darkness. Experience and maturity had prevented him from making a mistake. Stickers was still undisturbed and still huntable.
Just a few days later, Jeff climbed a tall ridge-top tree on another property and set up, recurve bow in hand. This was out of Stickers’ area, but the wind was good for this spot. A beautiful 13-point buck moved up the ridge and Jeff placed a traditional arrow through its vitals. He was out of the hunt for Stickers.
Another encounter with the behemoth buck was slow in coming. The right wind proved elusive and the Charles boys hunted fringe areas on the chance that the buck might wander. As November rolled by, Logan arrowed a beautiful, heavy-beamed non-typical buck. The hunt for Stickers was now up to Landyn.
On Nov. 21 the wind was finally good for an evening hunt, so Landyn climbed into a tree on the edge of the bean field. Right on cue Stickers showed up, again chasing does around the field. A 40-yard shot opportunity presented but the buck was amped up and on edge, likely to jump the string. With admirable restraint, Landyn passed the marginal opportunity. It was the last time he would see the buck during archery season.
A lot of years had passed since I’d been able to join Jeff and his boys for a deer hunt, but the Saturday after Thanksgiving found us all deep in the woods of Pennsylvania. We enjoyed a historic deer camp that Jeff’s grandpa had built, told stories, and Jeff and I managed to harvest nice PA public-land bucks. I heard the stories of Stickers and learned of Landyn’s plan for what he figured might be his last chance to kill the monster buck. Opening day of Ohio’s gun hunt was Monday, and it looked like the wind would be favorable. With luck and good fortune, the monster buck would walk into the open one more time.
Landyn had a pop-up ground blind set up and brushed in on the downwind edge of the beanfield, and he planned to stand vigil the entire day in hopes that Stickers would show. The weather was predicted to be frigid, which was good, and windy, which was not so good.
As Monday’s dawn reached its icy fingers across the frozen soil of the bean field, Landyn watched from his blind with a mixture of hope and despair. He’d hunted his guts out for this buck, and if he didn’t kill Stickers today, the fuss and hullabaloo of gun season was likely to send the buck underground for the remainder of the year. It was his last chance. The final bell was about to ring.
The Whims of Fortune
As Landyn snuck into his ground blind on the corner of Stickers’ cut bean field, I climbed high into a ridge-top stand a few miles away. The wind was howling and my stand, set skyscraper-high in a chestnut oak tree, swayed like a half-drunken sailor. I was grateful that I don’t suffer from motion sickness as I watched dawn usher the darkness from the woods around me. Nothing moved, and thanks to wearing my entire wardrobe as well as some of Jeff’s I stayed reasonably comfortable, though not warm. On my lap rested a Winchester XPR bolt-action rifle chambered in Winchester’s brand new 400 Legend cartridge, a lovely straight-walled round designed specifically for hunting states like Ohio, where standard high-powered hunting rounds are prohibited. It’s a great little cartridge, and I’d begun to develop a love affair with it. I was excited for the chance to test it on a heavy-bodied Ohio buck.
After showing me to my stand, Jeff had slipped into a little ridge-side draw to set up for the morning. Given the windy conditions, he figured there was a chance deer would skirt the ridge rather than follow their regular route past my stand. If they did, he hoped to bump them my way. This was an area where anything could happen. Other hunters were in the woods, deer would be pressured and on the move—no telling what might show up.
Nothing showed up but the wind. For several hours it howled and blustered, doing its best to bluff me out of my tree. At 10 minutes to 9 a.m., Jeff texted to ask if I’d seen anything. His morning had been devoid of deer as well. “We’ll stay till 9,” he said. Then he’d come get me.
At 9 a.m. my phone buzzed again in my pocket. Digging it out, I was surprised to see Jeff’s name on the screen. Why would he be calling when he planned to just walk to my stand? I answered. Without even saying hello Jeff whispered, “There’s a really nice buck headed your way chasing a doe. Look behind you!”
I readied my rifle and looked behind me. Seconds ticked by before I saw movement, two deer slipping in my direction. Nervous, they hesitated and then broke into a fast run through the timber, broadside to my position. Catching the buck in my crosshairs, I knew it was now or never as he would be gone in seconds. After waiting for an opening in the dense timber, I swung through the deer’s vitals and broke the trigger. The 58-yard shot felt good, but I saw no visible sign of a hit. The deer vanished into a wooded draw, but only the doe emerged from the far side. A good sign, but the buck could easily have turned down the draw and away without my ever seeing him again. I leaned back against my tree and breathed, trying to settle my heart rate. That happened mighty fast.
Jeff’s face was dismal when we met at the base of my tree. He told me the buck had a big drop-tine on one side and my heart rate immediately ramped up again. I hadn’t seen that. Jeff was under the impression that I had missed, knowing the buck was running when I shot. I informed him that I thought I’d made a good shot and we excitedly snuck through the woods to where the buck had disappeared. And there he lay, old and regal amid the russet leaves and drifting frost. As I lifted his heavy antlers and a big T-bone drop-tine emerged from the leaves I almost had a come-apart. It was probably the best hunting shot I’ve ever made, on one of the coolest bucks I’ve ever seen. The 215-grain Winchester Power-Point had passed completely though, and the buck left a massive but short blood trail on the leaves. As we admired that magnificent buck, I knew I was officially in love with the 400 Legend.
My hunt was an incredibly fortuitous interlude during the quest for Stickers. As Jeff and I knelt there in the woods by the drop-tine buck I knew he was happy for me, mixed with a pang of longing for what might have been. My buck was incredibly unique, and I understood that Jeff would have been over the moon to harvest this deer. He looked at me and said, “I think even Landyn would have shot this buck.” That told me how special he thought my drop-tine deer was. We dragged the buck off the ridge and loaded it in Jeff’s truck. Then we pointed the hood toward home.
Landyn met us there. He’d intended to stay in his blind the entire day but news of my buck lured him away. He was excited for me, but frustrated with his morning hunt. I think he felt his opportunity to close the deal on Stickers slipping away.
One Last Encounter
When Landyn returned to his blind there were already deer in his bean field. Temps had grown even colder and the deer were foraging, trying to build a belly full of food against the chill. Bucks were scent-checking does and chasing around the field, but Stickers wasn’t there. Landyn carefully zipped the blind closed behind him and set his .450 Bushmaster on its shooting rest. The shot could occur at any distance from 20 to 275 yards. He checked the dial on his scope and set his rangefinder to hand. He was ready.
The wind continued to blow, gusting across the treetops, tormenting dry leaves as they scuttled across the field. It swirled a couple times and Landyn feared the deer would catch his scent. If the wind switched directions he would be forced to leave. The deer in the field stayed calm though, and the wind seemed to settle a little as dusk approached. The time was here. If Stickers was to show, it must be soon, or it would be too dark to shoot. Landyn desperately scanned the field full of deer, searching for Stickers and his massive rack.
Only minutes of shooting light remained when a huge form appeared moving left-to-right, making its way toward the other deer. Antlers reached up and outward, heavy in the failing light. Landyn settled in behind his rifle. No need to range the buck; he was close. Landyn’s finger found the trigger. This was the moment he had dedicated his entire fall hunting season to.
Jeff and I were sitting at their kitchen counter, munching on snacks and telling stories as darkness fell. We wondered if Stickers would show, and I think we both secretly wished we were out there in the dusk with Landyn. Would the buck show up? Would Landyn get a shot? All we could do was eat another snack and tell another story. Finally, the phone rang. Mercifully, Jeff set his phone to speaker mode.
“I think I got him, Dad! I got him! I think I got him!” Landyn’s voice broke with emotion as he spilled out the story, repeatedly interjecting, “I think I got him!” Mom Kathy joined us at the counter, listening and smiling. She knew how hard her son had worked for this moment. Jeff assured him we would get there as soon as we could, suggested he call Logan so he could come too, and hung up the phone. Landyn planned to stay put in his blind until we arrived to help look for the buck.
The evening was surreal as we searched our way into the bean field, studying the frosted dirt under the light of our headlamps. Landyn figured the buck had been about 40 yards distant when he shot, and was cautiously confident that he had made a good hit. But with so much at stake it’s easy to start second-guessing yourself, and when we found no blood Landyn did. An agony of fear mixed with the jubilation in his voice as time went on and we found no sign of a hit. Spread out, we worked down the side of the bean field in the darkness. Suddenly, I caught the overpowering scent of a rutting whitetail buck. “I smell a buck!” I whisper-shouted. “I think I smell him!”
Landyn Charles’ Ohio buck has it all: mass, a giant frame, many points. The big fella scored 190 2/8 points on the Safari Club International system.
Landyn dashed into the brushy tree line, face to the wind. The jubilation in his voice was unmistakable now; he’d found his buck. Crashing into the brush around him, we all stopped to stare. The buck was magnificent. He was heavy-bodied with massive bladed antlers, double handfuls of extra tines and width. Landyn was beside himself, alternately hugging everyone and examining the buck.
We stood there in awe for a long time. This was a moment dreams are made of. A bit of sadness held sway as well. No longer would Ol’ Stickers roam the woods.
The next night we walked into Shorty’s Place. It was Buffalo wings night, and the place is a local legend. Owner Punch McGaffic met us at the door, shook Landyn’s hand and told him to bring in the rack where folks could see it. Atop the pool table it went, and Punch handed Landyn an 8x10 photo to autograph before it went on the wall. Already, Landyn and his buck, Stickers, were a local legend.
We ate wings and stood around and stared at those lovely, massive antlers. They were mesmerizing, enchanting, captivating. They were the most beautiful whitetail antlers most of us had ever seen.
As I boarded my plane to fly west my thoughts drifted back 15 years, to a dark winter’s night when I helped load a freshly killed doe in the back of a truck and shook little Landyn’s hand. I was honored to have been present then, and I was honored to play a tiny part in the quest for Stickers now. This had been the most amazing week of whitetail hunting I’d ever experienced. Good friends, beautiful mountains and woods, straight-shooting rifles and the gods of the hunt, had combined to bless us all.
