"He's a good one. It's not the non-typical we've been looking for, but he's a hellofa buck. It's up to you, but I think you should take him," he said.

Mature mulies live in a harsh environment. The author's buck was old and obviously aggressive, as evidenced by his split ear.

My mind was racing. I came to Montana in hopes of taking the heavy-horned non-typical on the scouting video. It was not a coveted "thirty incher," but it had character in spades. The buck before me was beautiful for sure, but it wasn't the one I came for. Time was running short, but my decision came easy.

"Let's keep looking," I said. "We have two more days. If we don't catch up with him tomorrow, I'll take the first good buck we see."

I kept waiting for him to say something. Anything. But Clint was already hunting for "my" buck. He stowed his spotting scope and slung his pack, then pointed to another hill and started walking. A wry grin was his only acknowledgement of my audible groan at the sight of the hill looming in the distance. It was my decision to keep hunting for a bigger buck, so I shouldered my pack and followed.

It was getting dark when we turned back toward the road, but with a warm truck and a hot meal waiting, I had no trouble keeping up.

I started day four much the worse for wear. My legs ached and I was definitely a bit sluggish. To make matters worse, we were in for nasty weather. An approaching storm was growing in intensity, according to the weather report, and fifty-mph winds and a foot or more of snow were on the way. With possible hunt-ending weather looming and time running out, I knew the morning hunt was probably my last chance to score, so I cinched my pack and started climbing.

From a distance Clear Creek Ranch seems gentile enough. But it proved to be as rough and rugged as any mule deer country could be.

The first hill was merciful, and it wasn't long before the spotting scopes came out and we started dissecting the coulee below. A bit of movement to the east turned into a band of feeding mule deer. Well, the does were trying to feed, but the two bucks trailing them had another activity in mind. The bigger of the two was a nice 4x4 in the 170-class. I was tempted to let it go because it looked like the coming front had the bucks feeling frisky, but there was no way to know how long the weather would hold.

"What do you think, Clint?"

"Greg, it's up to you, but he's a nice buck and it's going to get nasty. You decide."

Tony Godinez (pictured with his son) shot this outstanding nontypical not a mile from where the author bagged his trophy.

I had a tough decision to make: The buck before me was a dandy, but I really wanted that nontypical. Of course, with bad weather on the horizon, my hunt could end any time, whether I punched my tag or not.

"Let's go get him," I said.

Clint started walking and pointed to a distant peak. "Let's go that way. We can cut them off in that coulee if we hurry," he indicated.

That buck got away, but it wasn't long before we saw the buck in the beginning of this story. I asked Clint for the range while I got into position. "He's 416 yards, Greg."