I first beheld the sight of Saskatchewan Buck, as my son and I affectionately named him, three years ago as the deer walked along the edge of the field from our house.  Even then, he sported several points in the summer velvet stage with an impressive, long-tined symmetrical rack.  His body mass and mule-deer-sized headdress reminded me of the famous super-race whitetails found in the Canada’s Saskatchewan province.

     The following year I viewed him again, bearing trophy-class antlers.  The pride-of-his-kind buck no doubt was the dominant deer in his territory, spreading superior genes throughout the local herd.  This past June my wife spotted him for the first time from our porch.  I wasn’t home, but when I drove into the driveway she met me with an I-can’t-believe-my-eyes look as she described seeing him a few minutes earlier.  You would think that Saskatchewan Buck would be more careful about showing himself.

     Without letting on too much I would quiz neighbors about any big-buck sightings.  None admitted to feasting their eyes on this perfect specimen.  It’s almost like he saved himself for us, knowing how much we appreciated his presence.

     Being a hunter I thought about this trophy gracing my wall, not to mention the bragging rights to a set of antlers that no doubt would register high in Maine’s record books.  Saskatchewan Buck became more than a hunter’s ego symbol, as I came to admire him alive more than I would in a photo to accompany one of my albums.  Although I hunted this buck in my neighborhood each autumn, I selfishly hoped no one else harvested him, vainly believing that only I was a worthy opponent.

     The respect Saskatchewan Buck commanded made me believe that I was the only hunter who would honor him enough in his death.  I never saw him during the open season, I knew no one else did, because I’m sure someone would have boasted of his sighting.  Saskatchewan Buck is a species’ champion, an animal deserving to be on the cover of a cereal box.

     Some folks take offense to humanizing an animal like I’ve done with this whitetail ambassador.  It’s hard not to in his case, as he represents what is right in the wild world, that despite all of the natural and human strikes against him and his kind he not only survived, but prospered.  When I’d hear the coyotes howling for a winter hunt, or feel the energy-burning, below-zero temperatures after a deep snowfall that hindered deer’s’ feeding, I feared he would succumb.

     Then, as the snows melted he would humbly reenter my life, stronger still from fighting the elements and eluding predators with a what-were-you-so-worried-about nonchalance.

     Over the years the closest I came to him was a hundred yards, but that dramatically changed this past September as my son and I were camouflaged in a bear bait stand.  We had been sitting quietly for about thirty minutes when, like a ghost, Saskatchewan Buck emerged into a clearing just thirty feet away.  His largess was awe inspiring.  Impressive in his stature and regal in his bony head display, he bound away in graceful leaps that left an indelible memory.

     No wild animal dies of old age.  Neither did the Saskatchewan Buck. During the second week of December a bullet ended his life as he committed a blunder while trying to leave his single-minded legacy with a group of does.  I am outraged about the circumstances of his death.

     The out-of-season poacher, one of a family of longtime wildlife criminals who disrespects all of his neighbors by plundering our game, stole this animal’s life after finding him in a field unwilling to leave his harem for the safety of the woods.

     I will not let Saskatchewan Buck’s memory vanquish with that thievery.  This written eulogy will outlast the poacher’s miserable life, and the antlers that will only weather and finally deteriorate from just being tacked to the outside of a barn.  Because you are reading Saskatchewan Buck’s legacy, what would have been an ignoble end for such a noble animal is no more.

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Wayne Selfridge is a seasoned outdoorsman who has hunted and fished throughout the world as a military veteran. He works in law enforcement, is a member of the New England Outdoor Writers Association and serves as the Sporting Journal's Northern Sales Manager.