The sun was high, and the sweat was starting to drip. It was nearing 9:30 and what little deer movement I had seen had stopped. Time to head back to camp and get something cold to drink. It was early October, hot as an early October day in Tennessee can be, and we were camped on a 21,000-acre wildlife management area (WMA).
Less than 200 yards into my slow drive down the rutted, dirt road, as I rounded a sharp curve, a better than average buck crossed the road I front of me and vanished into the thick, still green woodland. That was quite a while ago, and I began asking myself
