As the buck rises from its bed in the underbrush 40 yards away, every cell in my body decides to attempt a jailbreak. I’m in my hunting stand, 24 feet up a tulip poplar, where I’ve been concealed for four hours waiting for a deer to pass. And this one has been right in front of me the whole time. I would like to come to my feet, but my legs are shaking too hard.

This is my third autumn spent trying to kill a deer with a bow and arrow, and this is the closest I’ve come. At 40 yards, I see the nap of its hair lying in one direction along its back, the opposite along its shoulder. The buck, a five-pointer, standing now, drops its antlered head almost to the ground and stretches its entire body. And then it freezes. It becomes a lawn statue. A minute later, when it reanimates and ambles out of sight, I’m devastated. But in hunting, you don’t move without a good reason. And a broken heart doesn’t qualify.

What I love about hunting, despite my lack of success, is how it makes everything matter in a way it didn’t before. Wind — to which I was indifferent — becomes a matter of life and death. A deer downwind of you will scent you — “bust you” is the hunter’s term — and be gone before you ever see it. Conversely, if the deer is upwind, you’re still in business. Unless, of course, the wind shifts.

Image Credit... Illustration by Holly Wales

Likewise, every sound matters. The woods are a spider web, and you enter as a fly hitting that web. The animals — seen and unseen — register and alert one another to your arrival. All you can do is sit quiet and still. Do this, and within 15 or 20 minutes the woods will absorb you. Sit still enough and a goldfinch, mistaking you for a tree, will light on your chest, fluff itself for a few seconds and fly off.