Later in the same season I was again hunting on a great whitetail ranch, this time the famous Duval County Ranch near Freer. I was a guest of Trijicon, respected manufacturer of night sights for law enforcement and the ACOG scope for the military, which was introducing some new sports scopes to the several writers who were there to try out the hardware. Once again, it was a management hunt -- meaning that no real "trophy" deer were to be shot.

The first evening, I found out what that term means on the DCR. My guide Adam and I sat in a blind surrounded by brush so thick it looked like solid-green steel. The weather was too hot, and we'd gotten to the blind too late, so we really didn't expect to get much action.

Our low expectations were fully met -- until almost sundown. We'd given up on seeing anything except does and fawns when, suddenly, the parade began. In the last hour of the day, the bucks came in droves. The only problem was they were all too young, or too bloody big. One 5 1/2-year-old sporting double drop tines made my mouth water. Several young bucks would have scored in the mid-150s. What we were looking for, however, was a buck at least 4 1/2 years of age and wearing a rack with not more than 8 points that would score not more than 145.

We hunted for two more days without seeing anything that fit that description. I saw more trophy bucks on that ranch than almost anywhere I'd ever been. I could have killed a dozen bucks that would score over 150. But not one did I see that was mature, with 8 points, and that would score less than 145. I was wandering in an ocean of diamonds with a permit for a rhinestone -- and it was killing me!

It was almost dark on the third day when my buck arrived. I guess saying "it appeared" would be a better description: One moment there was nothing; the next, a nice buck was standing at the edge of the brush, staring in the direction of the feeder.

The guide and I immediately grabbed binoculars. After careful study, Adam decided that the buck fit within the definition of a management buck, but he seemed worried that it might score more than the maximum 145 inches. Finally he gave me the go-ahead, and I put a 130-grain Speer .270 bullet through the buck's shoulders, dropping it on the spot.

Under his breath I heard Adam mutter, "I sure hope it doesn't score over 145." All I could say was, "Well -- it's too late now."

Once again I was happy with my so-called "management" buck. To me, it was a trophy: 8 long tines and scoring under 145 (it didn't miss it by all that much). Again, a buck that folks would have been fighting over just a few years ago. Now? Just another management buck.