THE MOG BUCK: A Young Man’s Once-In-A-Lifetime Utah Archery Hunt

The canyon was still and quiet when I eased an arrow onto my string, my heart pounding harder than it ever had before. At just 20 years old, I was standing within bow range of the biggest buck I’d ever pursued with a bow — the deer my buddies and I had nicknamed the ‘MOG Buck,’ short for Mother of God. Months of scouting, sleepless nights, and every ounce of anticipation had led to this moment. With my father watching from across the ridge, I knew this wasn’t just another hunt — it was the chance of a lifetime.

His rack seemed to glow against the sagebrush as if he belonged to a different class of mule deer altogether. I had dreamed about a moment like this since I was a kid, shooting my first arrows in the backyard, but I never in a million years thought it would come so soon. Months of scouting, sleepless nights, and every ounce of anticipation had led to this hillside. My father was perched on an opposing ridge, glassing every move, his finger ready to press the button to call me on the phone when it mattered most.

This wasn’t just another hunt. It was the culmination of everything I had worked toward as a bowhunter — and the story of The MOG Buck was only beginning to unfold.

Like so many great hunts, this one began long before opening day. In late July, under the hot Utah sun, I had first laid eyes on him. I had made multiple trips before that day and was still searching for a mature, non-typical mule deer of a lifetime. And then he appeared — stepping out onto the dusty, powder-like road, as if he owned the entire country. I couldn’t believe what I had stumbled across. The sun shone on him, as his summer coat and velvet blended in with his surroundings, making his main frame only visible. As he stood in front of my truck, he then turned his head, and my jaw hit the floor. I then uttered, “Holy mother of G*D!” when he exposed his extra points as he walked away and disappeared into the country. I immediately came up with the name for this incredible trophy based on my reaction: The MOG Buck. Short for “Mother of G*D”.

From that moment on, he was more than just a Mule Deer. He became an obsession. I replayed that image of him in my mind every night, studying the country he called home with boots on the ground, planning approaches, e-scouting, and considering wind and cover. The months of preparation turned into a mental chess game, where every decision mattered. But scouting isn’t just about finding a buck. It’s about creating a bond with the land, learning its secrets, and preparing for the one chance you might get. I knew that if the season blessed me with even a single opportunity at MOG, it would take every ounce of patience, skill, and composure I had.

The week of the opener had finally arrived, and my quest to relocate MOG had begun. I had found many great bucks just days before the opener, but MOG was nowhere to be seen. I grew nervous and scared that he had fled the country due to the increase in activity of other hunters in the area. The closer I got to his last known location, the more hunters and camps I encountered. I knew that to find MOG, I would have to be patient and trust my knowledge from previous scouting trips.

Finally, opening day arrived. The air carried that familiar mix of excitement and tension that only the first morning of a hunt can bring. My father and I rose long before the sun, gathering our gear and loading the truck. I grabbed my bow, walked behind my truck, and got down on one knee, made what I called “The Bowhunter's Prayer”. As I took a deep breath, I stood up and felt ready for what the day would bring.

The morning hunt was brutal. Hours of glassing and driving around different canyons turned up nothing but young bucks, along with does and fawns. The optimism I carried into the day began to fade with the heat. By midday, I felt mentally and physically exhausted. That’s the thing about chasing mule deer in the high country: the mountain doesn’t give up its treasures easily; they’re earned.
As evening approached, we decided to head toward a different hillside to find another buck that I had seen the day before. But what we didn’t know was that we were about to get the biggest surprise of the year.

On our way out of camp, we stopped at the hill where I had last seen MOG. We began to glass the mountain, and I could only see a small buck and a few does. As I went to look at the other side of the canyon, my father yelled, “Oh wow! There's a big buck with a good frame that just walked out of the trees!” as he stared at the hill I had just looked at. As I looked again, movement caught my eye. There he was. The MOG Buck, standing broad and calm on a slope not far from where he walked in July. My heart stopped. In a split second, the struggles of the morning vanished, replaced by adrenaline and sheer focus. “GO DUDE! I’ll stay here and watch the hill for you!”, my father said as he looked at me with intense eyes.

I immediately grabbed my bow and ran down the sandy road to get above the mountain he was feeding on. The sun had just hit the ridgeline, making the basin he was in even gloomier and darker. I dropped into cover, my bow in hand, and began the stalk of a lifetime. Each step was deliberate, each breath controlled, a slight breeze grew up hill as I closed the distance to within 75 yards. The entire summer of scouting, every sacrifice, every early morning — it all came down to this moment.

I drew, released, and watched in disbelief as MOG ducked below my arrow. A clean miss. He bounded downhill, spooked and confused. My stomach sank. Months of preparation — gone in a heartbeat. But the MOG Buck wasn’t finished with me yet.

As I stood there replaying the miss in my mind, MOG stopped at the bottom of the meadow, looking around, clearly unsure of what had just happened. My pulse was still hammering, but instinct kicked in as he stopped to look back at the location of the lost arrow. I crouched slowly, staying in cover as he slowly worked his way back toward his original position. My hands trembled as I realized the unthinkable — I was going to get another chance. At 65 yards, he turned broadside, staring in my direction before returning to feeding. I steadied myself, drew my bow, and let muscle memory take over.

The arrow left my string, and this time it flew true. I watched the red fletching disappear just as it dropped toward his body. I heard the arrow make impact with his body, and naturally, MOG jumped forward, wounded and spooked as he ran for the thick patch of trees next to him.

For the third time, I pulled another arrow from my quiver and pulled my phone out of my pocket to call my father. “Hey! Do you see him?? Where is he?? Did I hit him??” I said, stressed and nervous. “He ran and then stopped before he slowly started walking again. He’s hurt Aus! He’s about to lie down!” My father said as I stood on the hill waiting to hear the words.

Those words carried both hope and fear. I knew the shot was good, but doubt always creeps in during those agonizing minutes after the arrow flies. I replayed the image of my arrow striking home, praying it had done its job.

Minutes felt like hours. I sat in the dirt with another arrow knocked, my eyes fixed on the spot where I had last seen him. My dad’s voice came through again: “I lost him… he was bedded, but I can’t see his head or rack anymore.”

I forced myself to wait — forty-five long minutes of silence broken only by my heartbeat. Every hunter knows that strange mix of emotions: the elation of a solid hit, the fear of losing the animal, the reverence for the life you just took. I whispered a quiet prayer, asking God to guide my steps and ease the buck’s suffering.

Finally, I rose. It was time to follow the trail and face the moment every hunter both anticipates and dreads. With my bow ready, I eased downhill toward the patch of trees where MOG had disappeared. The dry sagebrush crackled under my boots as I moved cautiously, every step deliberate. Within minutes, I spotted my arrow lying blood-soaked on the ground — a clean pass-through. Relief and adrenaline collided all over again.

My chest tightened with anticipation. I followed slowly, scanning ahead, half-expecting him to rise from the brush. After seventy yards, I saw him. There, in the sage, lay the buck of my dreams. His head was tipped over, antlers tangled in the brush, body still and heavy. For a moment, I stood frozen, unable to move, overcome by the reality of what had just happened.

Kneeling beside him, I laid my hand on his flank and whispered, “Thanks for the opportunity, for the challenge, for the gift of such an animal.” The magnitude of the moment hit me hard. This wasn’t just a deer; it was months of dedication, countless hours, and the culmination of a young hunter’s dream.

I called my father, my voice breaking: “I’ve got him. He’s down!” I could hear the emotion in his reply, pride and relief mingling together. In that instant, the hunt became more than a harvest — it became a memory I’ll carry forever, bound up in my relationship with my father and the land we love.

When he joined me, we stood there in silence, taking it all in after celebrating. The MOG Buck was everything we had imagined and more, a once-in-a-lifetime animal taken on fair chase terms, the way hunting was meant to be.

As the sun sank behind the ridge, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, I realized this moment would outlast the antlers, the score, or even the photos.

Looking back on the hunt, I realize the MOG Buck was more than just antlers and inches of score. He represented months of effort, sleepless nights of anticipation, and the lessons that only the mountains can teach. At just 20 years old, I was blessed to live a dream most hunters only imagine, and I’ll never forget the way it all unfolded.

More importantly, I didn’t walk this journey alone. My dad was there every step of the way — scouting, glassing, encouraging, and finally watching from across the canyon as I made the shot that changed everything. His voice in my ear and his presence on that ridge meant more than any trophy could. Hunting is about family, tradition, and the memories we make together in wild places. The MOG Buck was proof of that.

I’ll always be grateful for the friends who helped prepare, the family who supported me, and for the gift of fair chase hunting on this incredible land. Standing over that buck in the sagebrush, I felt an overwhelming sense of respect — for him, for the country he called home, and for the tradition that connects us as hunters.

The MOG Buck will always be a once-in-a-lifetime trophy to me, but more than that, he’ll forever remind me why we hunt: not just for the harvest, but for the journey, the people we share it with, and the memories that never fade.