I know this farm like the back of my hand. I grew up here, grew up hunting here and thought I knew how to hunt it until last season when a big, smart white-tailed buck schooled us for two months, teaching us about the farm and hunting.

A few years ago, Dad enrolled in an acreage set-aside program, so the former corn, pinto bean and sugar-beet fields are now covered with native grasses competing with weeds; sunflowers winning the early battle. Animals like it better now: deer and pheasants, coyotes and coons, skunks, hawks, owls, pigeons, meadowlarks, mice and other critters.

In the dark of opening morning, our son Sam, 14, and I were tucked behind a portable blind on the southern boundary overlooking a broad, shallow valley. A week before, during pheasant season, we had seen the buck in this winter-dead-sunflower-covered field, walking this valley. As dawn broke, a breeze kicked up, slight but noticeable, blowing from the southeast, diagonally across the field. The forecast had called for a west wind.

Whispering, Sam and I discussed moving, but our opening-morning play had been carefully planned. Hunter, 19, our oldest son, was positioned to the east, overlooking the lake bed; son Jack, 17, was north of us watching the river bed. My wife, Cathy, and Mindy, Hunter’s girlfriend, parked the pickup west of us where they could glass roughly half the square-mile section. Dan and John, hunting buddies since forever, planned to come by sometime in the morning to see if we needed a hand.

Lesson 1

Wind can be your friend or turn on you, scrambling best-laid plans.

As it grew light, we started picking out shadowy deer moving and feeding. Nothing close  – 400 yards, maybe, to the nearest. We glassed each one, straining in the dimness to see antlers. There was a basket-rack 4x4, a forkie and a handful of does. Then him. Or it looked like him, antlers indistinct in the poor light, but heavy and much larger than anything else in the field. He was moving away, walking northeast, 350, 400 yards away, moving steadily. We strained for a clear view, for confirmation.

Lesson 2

Use the best optics you can afford.

We had very good binoculars. Now a spotting scope is part of my outfit. With it, we clearly could have identified the buck, perhaps convincing us to wait.

“Even if it’s not him, he’s big enough we have to get a better look,” I said. His line of travel was taking him not only away from us but eventually across our scent trail. As the buck walked behind a low hill, we made our move, hotfooting it at an angle slightly parallel to but mostly intersecting the deer’s path. Staying below our side of the hill, we moved as fast as we could, quietly as we could, to beat him to the intersection of our scent stream. Judging we were close, I motioned to Sam to get ready and we would walk low and slow over the hill. Not a great plan, but if we could see him before he saw us, Sam could get off a decent shot. I carried Sam’s shooting sticks, ready to plant them at the first sight of the buck.

There was no first sight. There was no buck. We eased over the hill and nothing. We moved quickly to the west to gain altitude and a broader view. Nothing. Dan and John met us on the road and told us what had happened.

He was out there, they said. Still is. You were within a couple hundred yards of him, twice. When you moved, he moved, always keeping a hill between you. He wasn’t scared, wasn’t worried. When he smelled or saw you, it was like he said to himself, “Uh, oh, there are people out here so it must be hunting season again.” He’s obviously been through this before, and he knew exactly what to do and how to stay out of sight. He was in no hurry to leave the field. If you’d stayed put, you might have had a decent shot at him.

Lesson 3

Patience.

Lesson 4

Know the topography better than deer know the topography.

Though we walked the field looking for him, that was the last we saw of him that day. Next morning, we were back, this time on the western edge, playing for a promised south wind. It was nearly a repeat of opening morning: Deer feeding in fuzzy early-morning light; then him, walking northerly, again not on a course that would take him near us.

Doubt set in. If we don’t make a play, we won’t get a crack at him. If we move, he might see us. Let’s wait him out. He disappeared behind a hill. With nothing to watch, we were jumpy, anxious. We knew we had a legitimate chance. But we have to wait. Or move. Give it a few more minutes.

We’re up, moving slowly forward. Wind is not a problem. We are quiet, sliding through sunflowers like fog. Easing up the hill, low and slow, Sam with rifle ready, breathing fast, eyes wide. Almost at the top, we stop. What the heck? There’s a deer running hell bent for leather 450, 500, 550 yards away and moving fast. Can’t be our deer.  Binoculars up, I make out wide antlers. We rush to the top hoping our buck is still there, but he’s not. That’s him, now across the river and running up the hill, disappearing behind the shelterbelt. The shelterbelt we always scout during pheasant season, scarred with scrapes and rubs where the big buck and his gang of teenage hangers-on and maturing wannabes tear up the cedar and locust trees.

Lesson 5

See Lesson 3.

The wind was good. We did everything we could to stay quiet and out of sight. Something tipped him off, and he wasn’t going to play cat and mouse with us a second time. This time he cleared out.

Lesson 6

No matter how good you think you are at stalking, how quiet and invisible you think you are, you are no match for a deer’s senses. Be extra, extra, extra stealthy. Then stealthier.

Long story short, Jack walked into the shelterbelt looking for the buck, not really expecting him to be there. He was, bedded on the other end. Jack barely got his rifle up before the buck blew out, across the road into a field of standing corn. Stalemate.

Lesson 7

Believe preseason scouting.

If deer frequent particular cover before season, they are likely to seek it when pressured.

We hunted for him the rest of rifle season. Hunter shot a nice 4x4, but we never saw the buck again. In December, we were back for muzzleloader season. Jack shot a nice buck, a 4x4 with a broken kicker, and a doe. Sam filled a doe tag.

Lesson 8

Talk to neighbors.

Fast-forward to Dec. 30, the second-to-last day of muzzleloader season. We had hunted high and low, in fields and pastures, trees and prairie, our farm and neighboring farms. Not a sign of him.

We were worn out, ready to throw in the towel, concede the season to that smart, elusive buck. We had walked mile after mile, executed plan after plan, seen a number of deer. After a decent stalk, Sam shot at a nice buck, but I had woefully underestimated the distance, and his .50-caliber bullet fell short. Then we happened upon neighbors moving cattle from one pasture to another. I stopped to say hello, and the wife, learning we still had one tag to fill, said we should check a small cedar shelterbelt a couple miles to the west, over by their home place. There’s been a big buck in there, she said.

Probably not our buck, that far away, I said, but let’s look. Our buck, we decided, was going to live another year, and we’d be after him on next year’s opening morning.

Sam sat on a hill overlooking the shelterbelt. I told him I’d walk the trees and, hopefully, anything in there would kick out his direction. There were no fresh tracks, no fresh sign. As I neared the end of the shelterbelt, four or five curved rows of cedars about 100 yards long, I heard the twang of something hitting the barbed-wire fence. I hope Sam’s ready, I thought … boom, whap. I ran to the end of the shelterbelt, cleared the fence, and there was the buck, down in the surrounding wheat-stubble field. Sam, on the hill, was hurriedly reloading, but the deer, a heavy, wide 4x4, wasn’t going anywhere.

Lesson 9

When pushed, whitetails will move out of their comfort zone, completely change their routine.

Lesson 10

Be persistent.

Sam passed on several decent bucks, including a 4x4 that walked by our blind, unaware, well within range. Sam said he’d keep trying for the big one. You’ve matured as a hunter, I said. You’re learning.