It was a hot, sultry summer afternoon. The humidity was so high it appeared as a light cloud at ground level. Other teenagers were swimming or somewhere more comfortable. They certainly weren’t walking along a tree line that opened up to pasture.
But that’s where the groundhogs lived.
Bow and arrow in hand, I eased along the woods’ edge, pausing occasionally in hopes of spotting a woodchuck. Finding the rodents was never a problem, but hitting them was. After several unsuccessful stalks, I crossed over a small rise to see what was happening on the other side and scurried to the ground. Not 200 yards away was a magnificent 8-point buck in velvet.
The buck was feeding on white clover just 20 feet from the tree line. I watched the buck until almost dark and then left, knowing I had found a great deer to hunt in December.
But the season passed, and I didn’t see a buck. I can’t
