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The Great White Buck

Roger T. Hornsby, the Third is my name
and I'm an outdoorsman, from the great state of Maine
I'd heard stories of a white buck residing in a county called Renfrew
so north of the border I drove, to see if this were true
It was on the eve of deer season, when I checked in
to the Balmoral Hotel, Barry's Bay's den of sin
Feeling a little dry from the road I went to the lounge for a cold brew
I had a Bud, the locals were drinking Ex and something called a Blue

Two guys in the corner were planning their hunt for the coming day
they could tell that I was eavesdropping,
I expected some cursing to come my way
But instead of getting the finger, I was invited over
What wonderful Valley folk, so friendly, surprisingly sober
I told them where I was from, and why I was here
and asked them what they knew about the albino deer
One lad sipped his Molson, and then shook his head
the other smiled wryly, and this is what he said

Let me tell you a story, American friend of mine
about the most famous deer on the Opeongo Line
Its bigger than a bull moose, and whiter than driven snow
and wears a 50 point crown, in case you didn’t know
Now it can cross a raging river, with a single bound
and the earth shakes, when it paws the ground
Last winter it chased a wolf pack, out of Renfrew County
then strolled into the ministry office, to collect the bounty
The oldtimers swear for a century, its roamed our Valley hills
grazing on fine loco weed and sipping from moonshine stills
And they say the man who kills it, will forever be cursed
but I’ll bet if it gets you in its sights, you’re in for far worse

Now I come from the state, where Paul Bunyan earned his fame
so I know a good tall tale, but just the same
I listened carefully, to their every single word
because there’s a grain of truth, in most stories I’ve heard
For a dozen days I hunted hard all through this rugged land
I saw my share of 12 point deer, but I just let them stand
I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the great white buck
and with only a day left to hunt I figured I was out of luck
That night I went to bed, with that whitetail on my mind
and in a dream I heard something approaching from behind
I slowly turned my head, and what should I see
but eyes as red as fire, that buck was hunting me

Next morning I found a deer bed, from the night before
and from the sheer size of it, I knew for sure
The white buck had lay here, and not so long ago
as I gazed upon fresh prints, left in the fallen snow
From Barry’s Bay to Wilno I tracked him,
then to Round Lake and Killaloe
past Deacon and Golden Lake, then Eganville, Kelly’s Corner too
At Douglas he turned north, and he seemed Pembroke bound
but then swung east to follow the Ottawa River to Arnprior town
Then west to Renfrew by Dacre, Foymount and Brudenell
onto Rockingham and Kaszuby, Combermere as well
He was going with the wind now, heading north west
to Madawaska or Whitney, but that was just a guess
For all I knew, he had a date, in Algonquin park
whatever his destination, in an hour it would be dark
I had to get a step on him, if I was to catch a break
so I gambled he was heading to the mountain near Gun Lake

By now the sun had begun to set, and it was starting to mist rain
and I was on the old railway line, when I thought I heard a train
But the last engine to travel here, did so a long way back
so it had be that great white buck, tearing down the track
At the last second he sensed me, then took to Gun Lake
but I guess the weight of him, was more than the ice could take
He broke through hard, about 50 feet from shore
a better chance than this, I couldn’t have hoped for
I put my finger on the trigger, and was about to squeeze
when a thought entered my mind, that put me at unease
This was surely a test, how could it be right
to gun down such a creature, trapped in the ice

I could tell he was winded, and about to go down
I couldn’t just sit by, and watch this poor beast drown
There was rope in my truck, I was as quick as I could be
by the time I returned, antlers were all I could see
I threw out my rope, it wrapped around those mighty tines
I prayed for strength, as I heaved on the line
I got his head above the water, then onto the ice
he gasped for air, and started fighting for his life
With my pulling and his kicking, he made it to the bank
I swear he looked at me and nodded, I guess he was saying thanks
In a flash he was gone, weaving his way through some pine
and I was left in the dark, holding the frozen line

I packed up my gear, and then was on my way
replaying in my mind, the events of the day
I stopped at the Wilno Tavern, to have a cold brew
the hunters I’d talked to before were there, drinking Ex and Blue
They called me to their table, and bought me a beer
they asked if I was taking home, the Valley’s great white deer
I took a sip of my Bud, and shook my head
I gave them both a smile, and this is what I said
Let me tell you a story, Canadian friends of mine
about the most famous deer on your Opeongo Line
I met him face to face, he’s alive, I’m not dead
He said to come back next year, but to go fishing instead

Any great white fish around here lads,
you know, big old albino fish?

By Barry Lorbetskie
From the CD White Tails, White Lies
available at www.buckfever.ca