THE light faded almost to the point of darkness when we caught the dim shape of the first doe moving out of the timber.
Like magic, two more shapes materialised, one so small we knew it was a fawn. It ran around, a dark blob against the paler grass, excited to be out. Mum paid it little heed. Then came the croak.
THE buck was somewhere in the tree-line. Even if he came out now, it was too late to shoot so my host and I just listened. Then a second buck roared from down the valley. Another call reached us faintly from over the hill and a fourth came from somewhere way behind us. The rut was getting into full swing.
We retreated for the night, hatching a plan for the morning.
I rose at 4am to hunt alone. Bucks croaked. Some were off to the east up a long stretch that fed into this valley. Others were up to the south, where I was heading. It was a short drive and
