It was a very odd hunting “season” for me this year, starting with the loss of my grandfather right before Thanksgiving, followed by my father-in-law being hospitalized due to complications from a surgery that took place on the second Wednesday of the firearms deer season. Considering the sad circumstances, I wasn’t begrudging anyone my lack of days afield, but was concerned by the prospect of a year without venison in the deep freeze.

I managed, however, to get in two hours of hunting at the end of the last day of late muzzleloader season.

Shortly after 4:30, a tell-tale “whiff!” told me there was a deer nearby.

And the deer already knew something wasn’t right.

I was standing with a hemlock to my right and this sound was, of course, coming from the right. Rather than take the chance of shifting the powder in my pan by lifting the gun vertical to go around the trunk, I slowly turned the 300 degrees or so from left to right. After a tediously slow turn, I caught sight of the deer in question through the hemlock boughs about 40 yards ahead. Naturally, he had already locked on to my presence, and was now just trying to determine what I was. He was a nice buck, perhaps a six- or eight-point, but the boughs made it impossible to get a clear view of his rack from my vantage point. And my footing was wrong for a steady shot.

The buck satisfied his curiosity with me for a minute or two, slowly lifting his front leg and dropping it with a “thump.” I knew our time together was rapidly coming to an end. I watched as he bounded off through the high brush, snow cascading from the branches as he ran.

As I walked out of the woods angry that I hadn’t seen him sooner and gotten a better shot, I looked back and saw the horizon on fire with a gorgeous sunset.

The Spirit That Moves Through All Things was reminding me not to forget why it is I go to the woods in the first place.