Instead of easing the burden, Ralph only added to it with the third Hinckley buck. Not finding his son at the vehicle, they drove to his brother Ralph’s house a short distance away.Īpproaching the kill site with Ralph to help in the dragging chores, a six pointer was jumped and taken by Horace’s brother with one quick shot. Quickly realizing the two deer lying before them were more than they could handle, the couple started back to retrieve help. 30-06 to put this monster down for the count.Īs astounding a morning as it was, there would be much more excitement to come before darkness fell on this day. No sooner had that thought passed when the buck of any hunter’s dream was sneaking directly towards Horace. Something within (a gut feeling most successful hunters have learned to trust) told him there was more action to come. For unexplainable reasons even to Horace, he never moved or made a sound. Within five minutes his wife’s rifle echoed, only to be followed by her excited voice yelling for Horace to come see her nice buck. Fortunately for him, he completely missed. Twenty minutes after taking his position, Horace heard a twig snap, spotted a buck and fired. They didn’t have to wait long before the action started. they had each taken a stand a few yards apart, in what appeared to be a great spot. At the end of this two track, the Hinckleys made their way up through a winter beech valley encompassed on both sides by rising mountainous terrain.
The driver was the foreman of a local logging operation who offered to take them to the end of a remote, almost undriveable road where he had seen lots of fresh sign two days prior. While talking it over, a jeep approached. Due to the lack of fresh deer sign, they stopped to ponder their next move. Once reaching the desired location, the elder Hinckleys hunted an old tote road for the first hour. The area is located on the western side of Fletcher Mountain. Horace, his wife Olive, their son Philip and his wife Madeline traveled 60 miles from their Augusta home to hunt Northwest Bingham. They hunted deer out of enjoyment and to lay up sweet tasting venison for the coming winter. Trophy hunting as we view it today had no bearing on the Hinckley mindset. The Hinckleys hunted when they could, and because of expected rain on the first Saturday of deer season, they jumped at the opportunity to hunt. Vacations were out of the question, especially to go deer hunting. Days off for a lumber worker came only on holidays and during inclement weather.
Little did Horace know as he struck off that morning that he was about to embark on a whitetail record that would stand for forty-three years. I certainly would not want you to think I had any first hand knowledge, seeing as I was nothing more than a mere twinkle in Pop’s eye when this momentous occasion occurred. The events surrounding the taking of this enormous animal are Horace’s own words, excerpted from the August 1969 issue of Outdoor Life.
Carl’s buck topped the scales at 402 pounds dressed. In fact, Hinckley’s buck places second in all of North America, only to a Minnesota buck shot in 1926 by Carl Lenandor. Hinckley did what no other hunter has been able to match since, by shooting the heaviest whitetail buck on record within the state of Maine.
One such buck in Maine’s rich deer-hunting history met and surpassed even the wildest dreams of a 59-year-old hunter back in 1955. The anticipation of meeting up with the buck of your dreams fuels the desire as you encroach upon his domain. As groups of hunters find their way to their traditional hunting camps, talk of big deer abounds. The Berniers’ goal is to catch up to this behemoth and end his career by the only fitting way we know – a projectile fired from a Bernier-held rifle.Įach fall, the annual gathering of the red coats brings on a renewed enthusiasm and expectation. He undoubtedly will rival the state record in regards to weight.
My expectation is to be hunting the giant buck that eluded us last fall. Hopefully, an oversized set of tracks will be laid out before me yearning to be followed. No sooner had that thought passed when the buck of any hunter’s dream was sneaking directly towards Horace.īy the time your eyes light upon November’s column, this buck hunter will have already buried himself deep into the wilderness of Maine.