I HEARD THE DEER long before I saw them—their plodding footfalls through the leaves, their porcine grunts and chuffing, and then the sudden crack of a limb. For much of the year, mature bucks slip through their world like vapor; these sounded like a herd of feral swine on a panicked sprint.
It was the morning of November 5—my birthday—and I was in a panic of my own. The Iowa dawn had already broken, and I was standing at the base of my stand tree, still in the business of setting up, when an open-mouthed doe blazed past in easy bow range. On her heels was a tall 8-point buck. Then a heavy-beamed 10 trotted past so close I could smell him. I glanced at my bow, thinking I should nock an arrow in case the chase swung by me again. Finally, I sighed, scaled the