A bright, blood-orange sun dipped below a fir and ponderosa mantled ridge in Montana’s Blackfoot River country. A tedious, yet picturesque afternoon-long wait had come down to this; fifteen minutes before last legal hunting light and still no deer had emerged from the thick timber to dine on a rancher’s fields. Just the day before, whitetails had tumbled forth from the tree line like so many clowns from a circus car, and they had done it hours before sunset. We—the Boss and I—just hadn’t been in the right position to capitalize on the ruminant convention.
We had returned to the same ponderosa studded glade which dominated the open fields, but this day…
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