I wanted the hunt to end! I'd been under almost constant physical and mental strain for the past seven hours. I was stiff, sore, worn to a frazzle. I simply wanted my Iowa bowhunt to end!

After observing more than seven hours of heavy deer activity, Bob Siech was physically and mentally drained when he arrowed his Iowa trophy, which scored well over 170. Siech's hunt with Iowa Trophy Whitetail Outfitters proved to be truly a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I'd dreamed, worked and planned for this bowhunting situation for a number of years and practiced shooting so diligently almost each morning and evening, my wife finally told me to "Just go! Load your bow and arrow set and go!" My dream, since I'd started bowhunting 16 years ago, had been to kill a Pope and Young whitetail buck. To this end, I'd forsaken several chances to bowhunt for bear, elk and antelope. I wanted a whitetail buck that would make the record book, and until I got one I wasn't going to give up.

Last season two bowhunting acquaintances I know of had hunted Iowa and taken a couple of nice bucks, not record-book class, but hefty, respectable, corn-fed bucks. And during the course of their bowhunt they'd seen several magnificent bucks. About the same time I heard the news from these fellows I'd read about Iowa Trophy Whitetail Outfitters, a well-known outfit that specializes in archery whitetail hunts. Shortly afterward, I talked at length with outfitter Judd Cooney about bowhunting Iowa and ended up booking a mid-November bowhunt with him.

The following season I hunted Illinois before venturing to hunt with Judd in Iowa. I arrowed a buck that scored 118 points in Illinois, my best ever! I felt ready when I arrived on November 11 at the immense, old farmhouse that was the deer camp of Iowa Trophy Whitetail Outfitters, facetiously known as the "Addam's Family Mansion." I quickly met guides Todd Cleveland, Mike Kraetsch, Ruby Custer and Judd. Naturally the evening's discussion centered around whitetails, and by the time we turned in for the night everyone was "hot-wired" for the morning's hunt.

Sunday morning, November 12, Mike took me to a stand in the timber, alongside an alfalfa field not far from camp. Sitting quietly in the predawn darkness, I heard the unmistakable racket of two bucks fighting in the timber behind me. The grunting and breaking of brush went on until the grayness of pre-daylight. The woods went silent. Before Mike returned to pick me up at 11:00 I'd had two bucks under my stand--one carrying six points, the other, seven.

Later that day I was moved to an "evening" stand. Shortly after I was seated, a nice seven-pointer meandered past my stand. A few minutes later a much larger buck came by, but it was out of range. I tried grunting to get his attention, but it wasn't enough. He kept moving at a leisurely pace, so I picked up my rattling antlers and rattled aggressively. The buck immediately stopped and turned my way. After a few minutes of staring my way he walked off, apparently uninterested. Two hours later the buck had worked his way back to the scrape under my stand and spent 10 minutes sniffing around and freshening the scrape. The buck wore a nice rack, but it wasn't the one I came to Iowa for.

Monday morning I saw deer in the distance, but nothing close enough to raise my blood pressure. That evening Ruby moved me to a stand on a small lease, some distance north of camp. I had never been in an area with more rubs and scrapes around the perimeter of a field. I just knew that I was going to have some action during the evening's hunt. Fifteen minutes after getting into the stand, a 120-class buck chased a doe off the hill and into the cornfield in front of the stand. For the next couple of hours I strained my eyes to catch the buck and doe in the dense corn, all to no avail. As twilight settled around me and I eased down out of the stand to retrieve my scent bottles, a gorgeous 10-point buck appeared out of nowhere right at the edge of the corn and vanished just as quickly.

That evening Ron Kolpin regaled us with all the details of how he'd used his voice to imitate a fawn bleating and enticed a super buck within bow range. The high, handsome 160-class buck he described had me drooling as I turned in for a sleepless night.

The following morning at 5:50, Ruby walked me into a stand just off a ridgetop and warned me that I might not see many deer but the ones I'd see would be good ones. I scented-up three fresh scrapes near the tree stand and left the unused stuff in a Ziploc at the base of the tree. I'd barely gotten my bow up and was still getting settled in the stand when I heard a course grunt coming down the hill from me. I quickly made out the buck moving back and forth along a fence some 50 yards below my stand, grunting loudly with every step. I tried quietly to rummage in my daypack for my grunt call, but I couldn't locate it in the darkness. The buck disappeared.

It was just getting light enough to see when I heard rustling on the hill behind me. There were two does moving along the ridge; following them was a hefty 10-pointer. He was too close to try rattling, so I grunted with my voice. He walked behind the cedars and simply disappeared as only a whitetail can do. At 7:30 I heard leaves rustling and spotted a deer running toward me. It was a nubbin buck that finally stopped near the base of my stand. His attention was soon riveted to the undulating pull-up cord hanging below the stand. To my astonishment, the little buck nosed the cord and then actually took it in his mouth and started chewing on it.

I was engrossed in the nubbin's actions when I heard a horrendous crash of antlers downhill from my stand, the magnitude of which I'd never imagined possible! The grunting, thrashing and clatter of antlers reverberated up the hillside, but the bucks were just out of sight over a small knoll on the other side of a fence. For the next 45 minutes I sat frozen in position with my attention divided by the fighting bucks and the damnable little buck that was now tugging and jerking on the cord tied to my stand. He finally let off on the rope and proceeded to the very base of the tree, where he nuzzled and smelled my Ziploc bag full of scent concoctions. All this time the bucks were still going at it "tooth and tong" just out of sight over the knob. The nubbin buck lost interest in the Ziploc and returned to his favorite cord with a vengeance while I was locked into position. Finally, the little buck moseyed off up the hill. My muscles were aching and trembling from sitting immobile for over an hour, and I tried to relax and gain my composure without undue movement. The racket from the bucks had stopped, and I strained my eyes for a glimpse of them in hope that one of them would come to the scrapes or along the trail.