150" Monster Buck Killed on Public Ground in Pennsylvania
t was a once-in-a-lifetime buck and a season I will never forget. What initially felt like a failed season—one where I would lick my wounds and promise to try harder next year—quickly turned into the best season of my life.
This journey began during the 2025 archery season. It was an unusually dry summer with very little rain. I set multiple trail cameras on ridge tops near oak flats, but I wasn’t finding the sign or getting the pictures of deer I needed. Remembering how deer behaved during similar drought conditions in the past, I quickly pivoted and began scouting creek bottoms.
That strategy paid off. On opening day of archery, I saw multiple deer and quickly realized that nearly all of them were holding low, close to water and good green browse. That evening, I scouted in, set up, and had an opportunity at a very nice 8-point buck. I was carrying my recurve and was hoping to take a doe, as there were plenty in the area that morning.
The 8-point passed by at what I judged to be 18–19 yards. I drew back, aimed, and released—only to watch my arrow sail just beneath his body. He had been closer to 25 yards, and I missed him by inches. I was devastated. Had I brought my compound instead of my recurve, I likely would have tagged a very nice buck on opening day.
A couple of weekends later, rut activity picked up, and I found myself back in the same creek bottom. I set up in a tree overlooking several active scrapes. At first light, I spotted a doe moving toward me. She urinated in one of the scrapes, then angled away into the woods. I decided to move quickly, climbed down using my one-stick setup, and repositioned within 15 yards of the scrape.
As I was climbing back up, I heard chasing—an 8-point buck was pushing the doe through the area. I tried to pull my rope up to get a shot, but as I grabbed my bow, I bumped it and a faint metal clang rang out. The buck heard it and took off.
About ten minutes later, a 10-point buck emerged from the bottom, following the exact trail the doe had walked. I quickly adjusted, drew my bow, and—still thinking about my earlier miss—aimed slightly higher before releasing. I watched the arrow fly, the buck ducked, and I hit him high in the shoulder. I immediately knew it was a bad shot. I tracked him but eventually lost blood. Later that season, and again after the season during shed time, I caught him on camera. He survived with only a flesh wound and a visible scar where I had hit him.
The remainder of my archery season was uneventful. I did, however, get a very nice 10-point on camera cruising for does. When bear season arrived, I returned to the area to scout specifically for him. I found a small opening tucked inside a thick mountain laurel jungle. Several trails intersected there, and it was clearly being used heavily.
I set a cell camera and started getting daily pictures—mostly smaller bucks and a couple borderline shooters. On opening day of rifle season, I hunted the spot and had a small 8-point run past my stand. I watched him in my scope, fighting the urge to fill my buck tag, but ultimately decided to pass.
The following Saturday, I had a work commitment and couldn’t hunt. That afternoon, I received a picture of a very nice buck entering the area to bed. The wind was right, and I knew I could slip in with a couple of hours of daylight left.
I stayed about 150 yards off the camera. At that point in the season, I still hadn’t killed a deer and was desperately wanting meat for the freezer. With only one week of rifle season left, I was firmly in the “if it’s brown, it’s down” mindset. About an hour before dark, I spotted two adult does feeding on acorns roughly 70 yards away. I watched them through my scope and was tempted to pull the trigger, but knowing a good buck was nearby, I decided not to risk blowing the area up.
At about 4:55 p.m., I spotted a large-bodied deer moving through the mountain laurel toward me. I immediately knew it was a buck based on its size. As it got closer, I realized it was a smaller 8-point. I watched him in my scope, debating whether to shoot. Then I noticed another deer trailing behind him—a heavy rack with visible kickers. The smaller buck stopped and locked up at me in the tree, now just 10 yards away. The bigger buck stopped behind him.
I clicked the safety off and squeezed the trigger. Click. Nothing happened.
The big buck started to turn as if he was about to bolt. I cycled a round, shouldered the rifle, and fired as he ran. He stumbled in the laurel and went down. I aimed again and put a second shot into his front shoulder. He stopped moving.
I climbed down and began following the blood trail, thinking to myself, Could this be that big 10-point I had on camera? I remembered him having kickers—and so did this buck. As I walked up, I realized it was him. The same buck I had captured on camera during archery season and again earlier that day had walked right down the trail to me before dark.
I had just killed the buck of a lifetime.
It was hard to process what had just happened. He had been seconds from getting away, and part of me felt like I didn’t even deserve to celebrate. Why didn’t my gun go off the first time? Had I forgotten to load it? When I checked, I realized I had started with three rounds and now had only one left. I believe I either had a dud round or the firing pin was slowed from a recent cleaning.
Despite that near failure, I had taken a true trophy — one that few will ever encounter. And I did it on public ground, deep in the mountains of Pennsylvania. This deer was far from private land, agriculture, or food plots. He looked more malnourished than well-fed and had built an incredible rack from acorns and low-quality native browse — not soybeans or corn.
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