I'd been at camp for a week. Deer populations were at a nasty low after the high snow winters in the mid/late '90s. I hadn't killed a deer in two years. Last shot was a miss the year before on a logging trail just 300' from the shack. First miss ever.
I woke to a bitter wind and about -5 degrees. After a week of hard hunting I tossed a oak log in the stove and tucked the sleeping bag under my chin. It was going to be a late start. Everyone else had gone home. Given up.
After some pancakes and a beer, I headed out at 10:00. It snowed that night and with the cold, each step squealed like a rabbit. Figured I'd better move so slow so I couldn't be heard or not move at all. It took me 45 minutes to make 300 feet.
At the exact spot of my miss the year before I dropped to one knee. Waited. I just felt it was right. Spotted movement and shouldered the .348. Little buck stepped into the trail and the old lever barked. Hunch, buck, run. A good hit.
Waited for a few, found great hair and red blood on the trail. Tracked for 50 feet and recovered a nice buck.
I remember how I felt. Redeemed. Cleaned. Said little prayer of thanks and started the work.
I'm ready for that now. Haven't shot a deer in two years. It's building.
