I felt like a coach who was sitting on the bench waiting for the clock to run out. No need to foul. The lead had been blown, and the deer were sinking their free throws. Admit defeat. Wait for the horn. Better luck next year.
What had started with two missed bucks with my bow on the first weekend of rut, ended unceremoniously as I peeled off my soaked rain gear and warmed up in my truck. I started the month with two tags to notch and five weekends (plus Thanksgiving break) to do it. But after that first weekend, I only saw one more buck. By the time my 8-mile Thanksgiving loop across three creeks toward the far reaches of a muskeg I figured would be too much work for at least some hunters, was complete, I was accepting defeat.
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