"I guess you get to cut my shirt tails off," I said sheepishly to Siegfried.

"What you mean?"

English is a second language to Siegfried, as are many of the customs of the Anglais, and he had certainly never heard of the one I was referring to. Actually I’d never heard of it either until the previous year when I was guiding a group of hunters from L.A. (Lower Alabama). I had put one of the young hunters from the group in perfect position for a shot at a nice mule deer buck and he missed. He lost his shirt tails, a tradition in L.A..

While my shirt tails where still intact, at least for now, I too had missed a 75-yard standing shot at what was a great whitetail anywhere, and on Quebec’s Anticosti Island, the big 5x5 was truly a trophy. It had been such an easy shot, a gift really. How had I missed?

I was hunting with Siegfried Gagnon and Bob McNitt on Anticosti Island with Anticosti Outfitters. The hunt had begun three days earlier and now I was wallowing in the self-pity and humiliation that comes with missing an easy shot at a trophy buck.

Our guide, Bruno Martel, had placed me exactly where I had needed to be. He had done his job. I had not. I remembered his words from the beginning of the hunt when I asked him who got the biggest buck the previous week. "Bruno always get the biggest buck," was his confident reply. "Maybe not this week," I thought as I gave myself another kick in the butt.

Anticosti Island sits proudly at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River where it empties into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, some 340 miles northeast of Montreal. It is an area steeped in history, both maritime and terrestrial. Originally the private playground of French chocolate tycoon, Henri Menier, Anticosti Island only became the property of the Quebec people in 1974 when it was purchased for the sum of $26 million by the government. Today it serves as Mecca for whitetail hunters from around the world.

Although Anticosti boasts one of the highest concentrations of whitetails found anywhere, this was not always the case. Very few deer occupied the island in 1895, when Henri Menier acquired it. He soon, however, populated Anticosti with whitetails from the Gaspe Peninsula, in addition to caribou, elk, bison and hare. Only the deer and hare flourished, although some moose can still be found on the island.

Winter is the only real predator on Aniticosti and it claims up to 20,000 of the island’s estimated 150,000 deer each season. Black bears that were once abundant are now only a memory shared by some of the old-time fishermen in the island’s only town, Port-Menier. Foxes help control the hare population but offer little danger to whitetails. Combine this with an abundant food source, and there really is no where else where conditions are so ideal for deer. Fueled by the countless tales of a deer behind every tree and bucks so plentiful that many hunters tag out in the first hour (the limit is two), few serious whitetail hunters have not dreamed of one day hunting this island paradise.

I think I first heard of Anticosti in the late 70s, undoubtedly in the pages of one of my favorite outdoor publications. That ember of desire that was ignited by the images of hunters happily holding a trophy whitetail in each hand, finally grew to a fire that could be contained no more, and in the fall of 1998 I found myself strapped into the giant twin-engine Convair 580, winging my way to Anticost Outfitters’ Bell River Camp. It was everything the brochures had described.

After getting acclimated and settling into our rooms, we made a quick stop at the range to check zero on our rifles. Shots are typically under 100 yards on Anticosti, unless you happen to spot a deer at the far end of one of the island’s numerous meadows. But even then, a stalk can usually be executed to get you closer. For this hunt I knew I had to try something different and Thompson/Center’s new Encore rifle seemed to be the ideal candidate. It is offered with interchangeable barrels and I chose a .300 Winchester magnum and .50 caliber muzzleloader. That’s right, you can switch from centerfire to muzzleloader by simply changing barrels.

For some reason I always feel the need to throw a quirk into a hunt, and the Encore seemed like the ideal solution. With hunters allowed to harvest two bucks this seemed like the perfect way to separate the hunts and double the fun. "Double the fun with one gun," became my theme.

I was shooting Speer’s 180 grain Grand Slam bullets in the .300, possibly a little overkill for bucks that average in the neighborhood of 150 pounds, but I really like this caliber and am very comfortable with it. I topped this barrel of with Zeiss’s new Diavari V 3-9x42 scope, a masterpiece in German engineering.

For the .50 caliber, I selected Thompson/Center’s new Power Tip Express 250-grain bullets propelled by three, 50 grain Pyrodex pellets. With this load I could obtain speeds in excess of 2000fps and comfortably shoot 150 yards. This barrel I topped of with a Simmons 3.8-12x44 Diamond Mag, with its unique diamond reticle, something I found very useful in the heavy brush of Anticosti.

The first afternoon found Bruno and I teamed up, while Siegfried and Bob headed off on their own. Guides are assigned a separate area each day, so there is no chance of running into another hunter, something I really enjoyed.

Bruno and I began seeing deer immediately. Scores of fat does accompanied by one, two and even three fawns bounded for cover as we rounded each corner. Bucks too were abundant and while walking down one of over 500 trails found in Anticosti Outfitters’ exclusive area, I was faced with my first decision.

A doe, followed closely by a nice mature buck, ran across the trail in front of us. He was a wide 4x4, with good mass and beam length, but not overly long tines. Bruno quickly brought the grunt tube to his mouth, stopping the buck momentarily. It was now or never. Though I knew there were larger bucks on the island and this was only the first day, I elected to take the 60-yard shot. The decision was made somewhat easier by the fact that I knew I still had another tag in my pocket and would be able to continue hunting.

With the scope dialed all the way down to three power, I quickly located the buck. While he was partially concealed by a large fallen tree, his vitals were wide open. My finger tightened on the trigger and the bullet was its way. The buck recoiled at the impact and then took off running, showing no sign of being badly hit.

"You got him in the guts," Bruno said.

The deer had begun moving just as I squeezed the trigger, but I couldn’t believe my aim was that far off. The wide crimson blood trail allayed some of my fears and in very short order we located the buck, succumbed to a perfectly placed heart shot. I was feeling a little cocky when I remarked to Bruno, "Right in the heart."

I’m certain that Murphy was a deer hunter and that somewhere one of his laws state that those who are too confident in their ability to shoot will soon miss, but at that moment confidence was something that I was not lacking. Sure, I’ve missed my share of shots over the years and I made no attempt to build myself up to some plateau that I could not reach, but there is a certain confidence that comes with placing a shot well under less than ideal conditions. And this was a year for confidence-building shots. I had tagged a running grizzly right in the shoulder. I had dropped a running bull elk in his tracks with a shot to the back of the head. And I had just slipped a bullet through a labyrinth of limbs and branches and found the exact location where the heart lay. Yeah, I was confident. But never forget, Murphy was a hunter.

Day two was a beautifully, cold, crisp fall day and Siegfried and I spent it together checking out distant meadows, blowdowns and stands of trees, while Bob and Bruno partnered up. There were deer everywhere and I lost count before 10:00 in the morning. Conditions were ideal for still hunting and we were able to walk within a couple yards of many of them. While plenty of opportunities presented themselves, none of us elected to shoot, hoping that the following day would bring an opportunity at one of the trophy bucks the island is famous for.

It was the following day that fate would deal me a hand that I was not used to playing. Bruno and I had set up on a well-used crossing and were watching several does making their way across the trail in front of us.

"There’s the buck," Bruno whispered excitedly.

Straining my eyes to locate him, all I could see were the does, peacefully eating only 70 yards away.

"No. No. Right here. Only thirty yards away." Bruno was becoming more excited.

Then I saw the buck, his rack glistening in the morning sun. He was a beautiful specimen with five points per side, a trophy anywhere. Unfortunately, he was looking directly at us and the nearly inaudible sound of me sliding the hammer back on the .50 caliber sent him fleeing for cover.

"Damn that Murphy," I whispered. Little did I know this was only one of the cruel jokes he would play on me that day.

"Don’t worry, he’ll be back," Bruno whispered as he produced a set of rattling antlers.

True to his word, the buck returned. It was about 10 minutes later, a little further down the trail. At first I thought it was a rabbit in the trees but a quick look through the binoculars revealed the big 5x5. Again I slipped the hammer back on the muzzleloader. This time the buck neither saw the motion nor heard the metallic click. With the grace of a ballet dancer he moved forward, closer to the trail. I was certain he would not linger once he reached the trail. Through the scope I could see a small, unobstructed path right to his heart. It was an easy 75 yard shot, a gift really.

Brimming with the confidence that only a successful season can bring, I sent the big slug on its way.

"Did you hit him?" Bruno’s words rudely brought me back from the state of euphoria.

Of course I did. Was there any doubt? I strode down to where the buck had been standing, fully expecting to find him piled up right there. He wasn’t there. No problem. The other buck had run several yards before succumbing to my perfect shot. No blood. Some problem. No hair. Big problem. Confidence was rapidly being replaced by doubt.

A thorough search of the area revealed nothing, no sign of a hit. I frantically searched for an explanation, a reason, an excuse. There was none. I had missed, plain and simple.

Bruno, my companion, my confidant, my guide, he would help with the cover-up. This was akin to the president being caught with his pants down. I could see the headlines now, "Famous Outdoor Writer Chokes Under Pressure." I could imagine editors of magazines calling and asking me to do articles with titles like "Ten Ways To Miss Bucks" and "How To Blow The Easiest Shot Of Your Life At A Trophy Buck." I almost felt sorry for Clinton at that moment.

Siegfried had heard the shooting and even though my French is somewhat rusty, I could tell that he and Bruno were trying to figure out a way to impeach me. I had let the country down.

After there was no doubt left that the buck had indeed escaped unscathed, Bruno and I settled back in to continue our vigil on the trail. There was less enthusiasm, less electricity in the air.

Bruno broke the silence. "Do you know Archie Nesbitt?" Bruno’s question startled me.

"Yeah?" Archie is one of Big Game Adventures’ regular writers.

"I think he is a great hunter. I watched his video where he shot the brown bear. He is a great hunter."

Hero to zero in .078 of a second. Now I know how Ben Johnson felt when he lost his gold medal after testing positive for banned substances in the Olympics. Well, maybe it wasn’t really that bad. I seriously doubt that Bruno was ever overly impressed with my prowess as a hunter, he himself being a very accomplished bowhunter. And I seriously doubt too, that the world will reel at my missing a shot at a deer. But at that moment it was a kind of masochistic therapy. C’est la vie as the French say, that’s life.

Bob scored on a beautiful 4x4 buck later that day that proved to be one of the largest taken in camp during the week. There was also a massive 5x5 that came in and Eddy Carter, a hunter from St.-Nicholas, took a four-point piebald buck. The buck sported only one antler, the other had been shot off a month earlier by an overly excited hunter. Even so, the odd-colored buck was an incredible trophy, one that most of us will never come across during a lifetime of hunting.

The final day was now upon us and I secretly hoped that Murphy had decided to sleep in, this cool rainy morning, just as the many hunters that were already tagged out elected to do. I secretly envied those that already had two fine bucks hanging in the meat house, but I was glad too, that I could hunt one more day. Anticosti is not a place where you will shoot a record-book buck. It’s not even a place where you will come across bucks that routinely stretch the tape to 140 inches. But it is a place where you will see more deer and have more opportunities than anywhere else that whitetails inhabit the big woods. It is also a place that will creep into your heart, if that heart is the one of a whitetail hunter that is. There is a true magic to Anticosti that cannot be described. It must be experienced.

A night of rain followed by freezing temperatures had left the roads in treacherous shape and Bruno elected to take us to one of the closer zones, where he had seen a number of good bucks the previous week. We still had four tags remaining between Siegfried, Bob and myself and Bruno was on a mission to see that we all had opportunities to fill them.

Siegfried scored first on a plump young buck. While many hunters come to Anticosti in search of a trophy, guests may shoot any whitetail they wish, and are encouraged to take home a "meat deer" if they so desire. The harvest by hunters ensures that populations do not grow out of control and deplete the entire herd of precious winter feed.

My opportunity came not long after Siegfried’s. We were working our way along a logging trail when Bruno spotted a buck near the river. The buck, a typical 3x4 with great main beams and tine length, had an additional point protruding straight out from the left antler, right below the brow tine. Shooting a non-typical buck has always been a dream of mine and now there was one standing only 70 yards away.

I brought the Encore to my shoulder and was horrified to find the scope shrouded in a thin layer of ice. The falling mist had frozen solid on the cold objective lens, all but rendering the scope useless. Panic stricken, I frantically tried to clean the scope, but to no avail. Again I brought the rifle to my shoulder and this time could barely make out the form of the distant buck.

"Hurry up," Bruno urged, sensing the buck was about to flee.

The center of the diamond found the buck’s vitals and I squeezed the trigger, sending a cloud of gray smoke into the humid air. Unable to see anything until I brought the rifle down from my shoulder, I was horrified to observe the buck running away. "Not again!"

"Why didn’t you do that yesterday?" Bruno asked.

"Do what?"

"Shoot the buck."

"You mean I got him?"

"You got him good."

The buck traveled only a few yards before succumbing to the heart shot. "Why couldn’t I have done that yesterday?" I muttered. It’s not that I was disappointed with this buck, far from it, but had I hit the deer the previous day it would have saved a lot of harassment, good-natured as it was, from my fellow hunters.

"I knew you could do it," Bruno said accompanied by a hearty slap on the back. At least I was back in his good graces.

Too soon our hunt came to an end, with Siegfried and Bob both taking deer shortly after mine. All in all, 25 hunters took 49 deer during the week on Anticosti, with the largest being a heavy 5x5 with a 20-inch-plus spread. Nearly all the hunters had taken at least one big buck, with several taking two. The mood was festive that final evening in camp. There were tales of bucks killed, of bucks missed and of bucks seen. Memories had been made and friendships forged. And all agreed that they would return one day to the island in the middle of the St. Lawrence. The island of the whitetails.

While bidding farewell to our guides and hosts on the final day, Bruno came up and shook my hand vigorously. I know I certainly enjoyed his companionship and learned a great deal from this veteran whitetail hunter. He even admitted to enjoying the time we spent together. It was good to know I was back on my pedestal as king of the outdoor writers.

"Oh, by the way," Bruno said. "Say hi to Archie for me. He is a great hunter."

For more information on hunting on Anticosti Island, contact: Anticosti Outfitters, Box 398, Cap-Chat, Quebec, Canada, G0J 1E0, 418-786-5788 or 514-441-9560.

For more information on the fishing and hunting opportunities that exist in Quebec, contact: Tourisme Quebec at 1-800-363-7777 and ask for operator 806.