YOU GOTTA BELIEVE

Ifondly remember the first time I saw a deer in the field. Granted, I’d seen deer my entire life by the side of the road or in the woods, just not like this. It was the first year I was with my now-wife, and I had been invited by my future father-in-law to come deer hunting. I was 19 or so, and it occurred to me that I’d never aimed a rifle at a deer when one came out. I started shaking almost immediately.

That day I was armed with the only deer-legal gun I had in my possession, a 1950s era Sears & Roebuck .45 bore caplock that my great-uncle found still in the box at a barn sale. He gave it to me, and I refinished it. However, that day, in the fading light of a late September evening in southeastern Michigan, I watched a silent, reddish shape emerge from the tall grass behind my stand, and I couldn’t tell if my eyes were deceiving me.

My heart rate immediately went up, my palms sweaty