It appears that, barring a last-minute miracle tomorrow (as in, antlered deer attacks me enroute to my Jeep), the deer have won this year and I have lost. This year’s lesson was actually a reinforcement of a lesson from a very very cold hunt several years ago in Minnesota…if Abby sees a small spike ten minutes into Opening Day, she should shoot it. Failing to do so angers the deer gods and guarantees no antlers for the rest of the season.
Lack of venison aside, I’ve had a blast plotting with Dad and crashing through briar patches and swamps with Neighbor Boy. No matter how many years you’ve either struck out or shot a deer the size of a house pet, General Firearms Deer Season is still the occasion to hope for a monster, and to have your pulse elevate with every cracking twig.
You may have foiled me this year, evil whitetails, but next year I have a date with the 30-point buck.
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