What Makes a Trophy a Trophy

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“Hey, why don’t we hunt together tonight for a change? I really don’t care if I get a deer or not this early in the season, so anything except a monster, you can take it,” said my brother Kent.

So I climbed into his stand and joined him for an evening hunt at the farm. Shortly before dark, a small herd of does crossed onto our property, moving through an open area toward a harvested cornfield behind us. Trailing the does was a nice buck with a drop tine. As it neared our stand, Kent said he was going to take the shot.

The buck stopped nearly perfectly broadside, about 80 yards out. If the blind has a failing, it’s that Kent cut the windows too high, so you have to raise up a bit to take a shot. This isn’t much of a problem for a deer further out, but when they’re close and under the stand, it makes the shot difficult. No excuses— just facts. I’m shorter than Kent’s six feet, so it’s harder for me.

Kent raised himself and took the shot. The open field came to life with deer running everywhere. I was surprised to see the buck take off, too. The does had exited the north end of the field and were in the scrub brush, while the buck ran back in the direction he had come. He stopped in the brush, and I could see the top of his back, head and neck. I told Kent where he was, but he couldn’t make him out. Neither of us could believe the buck was still standing, but we had to act before it ran off.

The only thing working in our favor was that he was more interested in the does than in escaping—or even noticing the cornfield. Kent asked if I had a shot. I said I did, and we agreed I would take it.

At the shot, the buck dropped. Later, back at the house, we discovered my shot was the only one that had struck him. I took him to my taxidermist, Doug Tuttle, and had the buck mounted. He wasn’t a monster, and I considered not having it done. I thought there would be many more hunts with my brother. But that would not be the case—Kent died of a heart attack a few years later, the day after Thanksgiving, while duck hunting with his best friend. So the animal itself may not be much, but the memory of that hunt is priceless.

Many years ago, my good friend Stan Pepple and my dad drove 901 miles to Lusk, Wyoming, to hunt pronghorn antelope in Stan’s Jeep. It was a “bucket list” item for me— though I was much too young then to have a bucket list.

I was an avid fan of Bob Milek, who wrote for Guns & Ammo, Shooting Times, and Petersen’s Hunting magazines. Milek was from Wyoming, although he hunted all over the world and often with a pistol. But it was his pronghorn antelope stories that captured me and made me dream of sagebrush and “speed goats,” as they’re often called.

We stayed in a camper, and we all took an antelope. The hunt went by much faster than the trip out. The uniqueness of that creature still amazes me. The one on my wall might be average in size, but I remember that trip and the fun we had. Besides the antelope, Stan took a photo of Dad and me through the window of an abandoned farmhouse on the prairie. I treasure that picture immensely.

So why all these thoughts about hunts and trophies? Well, the truth is, I received a text from Doug Tuttle: the hides from my last African trip arrived at his house on Wednesday, Oct. 29. Among them were my black wildebeest, bushbuck, my wife’s white blesbok—and my Cape buffalo.

You can’t imagine the memories I have of that monster, charging out of the brush toward me. When I was young, I used to stay at my Uncle Ed and Aunt Delores’s home south of Kahoka. They had an outhouse in addition to an indoor restroom, and one day, while heading to that outdoor john, their German shepherd charged me like it meant to attack. I ended up with my hand in its mouth. The dog didn’t bite, but I remember the moment vividly. So I’m sure the sight of that Cape buffalo will conjure a plethora of memories. I may have to leave a light on in whatever room it ends up in.

Among those memories will be the sheer size of the animal and how it absorbed three rounds from a .375 that looked like a brass cucumber to me. There’s a saying I think of often: “It’s not hard to kill a Cape buffalo—the hard part is convincing him that he’s dead.”

The earliest known form of taxidermy dates back to the Egyptians, around 2200 B.C., and was tied to their religious practices. The term “taxidermy” was first used by Louis Dufresne of the Museum National d’Histoire Naturelle in Paris in 1803. The word comes from the Greek taxis (arrangement) and derma (skin)—so, essentially, “skin art.”

In a few weeks or less, youth deer season will be open the weekend before you read this article. There will be some nice deer taken—or at the very least, a lot of “firsts.” If you’re even considering having a deer mounted, do it. Don’t wait. Yes, it’s expensive—believe me, I know—but what isn’t? You’ll be preserving and sharing a memory that will last a lifetime. It will never be cheaper in the years ahead.

My grandson would much rather take a duck than a deer. I suppose he gets that from me—and maybe some distant spark passed down from my father, his namesake, who loved duck hunting more than anything. McCabe doesn’t have a deer on the wall, and I’m not sure he wants one, even if he took a nice buck. But he does have two mounted ducks, including a beautiful canvasback.

There will come a time when all my hunting will be remembering past adventures and the people I loved most. I can relive a sea duck hunt on Chesapeake Bay, a black bear hunt in Saskatchewan—or even a nearly one-ton Cape buffalo trying its best to stomp me into the African savanna.

There’s nothing wrong with a good picture. They tell a story, too. But there’s just something about putting your hands on the animal. Inuit hunters used to place polar bear skulls in respectful locations in or near their homes, believing that honoring the animal would help them in future hunts. Maybe they were on to something.