Last year was my first year shooting a bow, let alone hunting with one. I got lucky and took a nice doe with it toward the end of the season. The last day of the season, I was worn out from hunting every morning and a lot of evenings. As I sleepily scanned my surroundings, I picked up movement. I blinked, and what looked like a hotel drift through the brush (picture the monopoly piece). No way, I thought, then remembered the size of the rubs that kept me coming back. I blinked, scanned again, and watched the massive shape ease to the East. I could not see legs, nor could I see his head.

The ethereal creature pivoted, until it seemed to be facing me. It was hard to tell, though, it might have turned the other way.

And then, after ten minutes of just hanging out beyond the brush, about 50-yards too far for me to make a shot, the buck lowered his mighty head. I never saw the length or number of tines. What I did see was the width of his rack, which extended at least three inches outside both ears. I prayed for him to come closer, but he never did. He stayed in about the same place for another ten minutes, and then ambled off, leaving me wondering if he was real.

Unfortunately, that area has not opened up again. When it does, I will be waiting—in range.