The last nice buck I passed on was the first day of season in the midwest. Went home from Montana to hunt with my brother and dad. Slept in the truck (I'd already been hunting 4 weeks back in MT) until daylight and eased out through the timber. Was out of the truck for 10 minutes, stepped into the edge of a brush clearing, fog was just starting to lift, the sun was coming up, gorgeous day in the 40's and I get that strange feeling. I turn, and here is this nice eastern 8-10 point buck staring at me at 50 yards or so. He's out to his ears, way up tall and high, and he looked at me I looked at him, put the binos on him. He was a nice buck, and yet that ol' .45-70 stayed slung over my shoulder. I smiled and turned around, he bounded off an no one saw him again. Told my hunting partners and they were laughing, I told them, I didn't fly 1500 miles, pay $500 + (airfare and tags) to punch my buck tag on the first 10 minutes of hunting. Later that season, I took a dandy 8 point with my Ruger .44 Vaguero Bisley. He was quite a bit smaller, but I stalked him and a doe, first shot at 10 yards high in the lungs, second shot dropped him on a full tilt boogey run at 30 yards or so, through both shoulders. Dad showed up, and he's a cussin me with a smile, shakes my hand, takes my picture and tells me, he's been hunting 30 years and had never gotten a chance to take buck with his revolver. Tell you what, that buck is the smallest on the wall, and the one I'm proudest of. You know y'all, I'd reckon it's the memories, not the trophies we're all hunting for.