On this still, cold November morning, the clashing of the heavy antlers clenched in your fists sounds incredibly loud and out of place — like a baby crying in church. But as you grind and twist the discarded bone, trying at the same time to look in all directions, you know you have to work the AT&T plan — reach out, that is — because a buck will be able to hear the noise a long way off.
The buck that lumbers over the ridge a few minutes later looks like he has made a long, arduous trip. Breathing hard, he gasps for air. The brute is coming in so fast you forget to breathe, like you always do when a big one first appears. Everything looks perfect. The familiar bow is in your hand. The buck is marching down the ridge with purpose.
“Pick a spot … Smooth release … Pick a spot … Smooth release … ” runs the nonstop mantra in your brain.
And then, 70 yards out, the buck stops. He just stands there. Looking. Listening. At this range, you don’t
