Reader-Submitted Story
The 8 Day Buck - The Story of Ricky
by Titus Gurnett of Sherwood Park, Alberta
My name is Titus Gurnett. I’m 14-years-old and have been hunting with my dad since I was five. This is the story of the deer I shot last October—the first deer I ever took with a bow. I was lucky enough to tag him on our family’s 40-acre property, about 30 minutes outside of Edmonton.
It all started back in early September when my dad and I were going through trail camera photos from the past week. As we scrolled through images of small bucks and does, we came across a whitetail we hadn’t seen before.
“Finally! A big deer,” I thought. And he was a monster—the biggest we’d seen on camera in years. He was a non-typical buck with double drop tines, great mass, and a five-by-five rack with big brow tines. I instantly knew this was the deer my dad and I would pursue all fall. Taking him with a bow would be a dream come true.
A friend once told us that if you want a buck to stick around, you have to name him. For some reason, we named him Ricky.
As September went on, I hunted our back field from a double tree stand almost every evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ricky. But we weren’t getting many pictures of him. It was frustrating—he wasn’t showing up consistently and didn’t seem to have a clear pattern. Then we noticed something: every picture we had of Ricky was exactly eight days apart. Like clockwork, he’d pass by one of our trail cams every eight days, patrolling his territory. But we still hadn’t seen him in person.
Then came October 26, 2024. The fourth “eighth day.” We knew this was the night.
It was a beautiful central Alberta evening—blue skies, fluffy clouds, and a golden sun dipping below the treetops. My dad and I hiked down the trail that winds through our property. As we reached the back field, we split up. I climbed into the double tree stand on the west side of a tree island in the center of the field. My dad headed 80 yards east to a ground blind that overlooked a trail leading into the field. I got into the stand, strapped into my safety harness, pulled up my bow, nocked an arrow, and settled in. I thought I was in for a long wait. Ten minutes later, the quiet was broken by a loud rustling in the trees. I scanned the edge of the field and spotted a whitetail stepping out to feed. I slowly raised my binocular—and saw antlers. A lot of them. It was Ricky! I couldn’t believe it! He was less than 100 yards away, and he looked even bigger in person.
He moved slowly across the field, pausing to feed on patches of alfalfa. As he got to about 75 yards, he veered left and headed back toward the forest. Just like that, he was gone. I didn’t get a shot. I was crushed. Should I have grunted? Could I have done something to stop him? Was that my only chance?
Half an hour passed. Then, from the direction Ricky had exited, I saw movement again. It was him! Ricky had come back! This time he was headed straight for me. I grabbed my bow and waited. I had ranged mental markers earlier and knew he was just a few steps from the 40-yard line.
Now he was to the right of my stand. I slowly tried to draw my bow, but I couldn’t. The armrest of the stand blocked the string. Panic rose in my chest. I knew if I moved too fast, he’d be gone. By the time I finally managed to draw back, Ricky had spooked. He trotted up to a plateau near the edge of the trees and stopped, staring right at me.
Five minutes passed—it felt like forever. Then, incredibly, he started walking back towards me. This time, right in front of me. When he hit one of my pre-ranged markers and stood broadside, I slowly drew my bow again. I settled the pin, and gently squeezed the release.
Twang. Crack! The shot rang out, followed by the loud sound of impact. I wasn’t sure what I hit. It sounded like a tree. Ricky bolted to the middle of the field, spun in a circle, and then ran. I lost sight of him. A crashing noise echoed through the woods, like a freight train barreling through dry brush. Then silence. Then more crashing. Then nothing.
I was shaking out of my boots. I hadn’t seen my arrow in him and started doubting the shot—but deer don’t usually crash through the woods like that unless they’re hit. A mix of nerves, doubt, and excitement overwhelmed me.
My dad had heard the noise but couldn’t see what happened because of the terrain. He met me at the stand and we began looking for my arrow. We found only a few drops of blood—no arrow. So we decided to back out and give the deer some time.
Two hours later we returned with the quad and some lights. At the shot site, we found more blood—bright red. That was a good sign. We slowly followed the trail across the meadow. The further we went, the more blood we found. At the north edge of the field, it was everywhere. We entered the woods, and I nocked another arrow just in case.
Twenty yards in, we spotted a deer lying ahead. My heart pounded. I crept forward and gently touched his eye with a broadhead. No movement. He was down.
I couldn’t believe it. I lifted his antlers, still in half velvet—he looked gnarly and wild. The hunt was over. The work was about to begin.
My dad’s friends keep joking that I should hang up my bow now, that I’ll never have another hunt like this again. But I’m not done—not even close. This was an incredible experience, one I’ll never forget. It’s moments like this that fuel my passion for bowhunting and keep me chasing Alberta’s big game and the great outdoors.
For the previous Reader Story, click here.
