He stalked along the old rugged logging road with an arrow on the taunt string of the old Browning recurve. Not many people would be this far back in this late in the season. His camp was a mile down in the bottomland near the cold mountain creek. Today was his last day and he hoped to bag a whitetail.
It was just below freezing, not cold by his standards, but "chilly". He looked down a deep hollow but couldnt see to the bottom. Slow, fat snow flakes starting falling to the cold and barren ground.
His family back home expected this; him to be away in the mountains for a day or two, doing what he does best, hunting the high ridges of Northern Pennsylvania. As he rounded a bend in the old dirt road he stopped and as he knew he was not spotted he slowly sliced through the air, moving the bow to shooting position.
He stalked forward, his footsteps almost completely muffled by the wild North winds blowing into his bearded face. The sharp broadhead on the front of the birch shaft he knew would do the job if he hit the deer right.
15 yards the deer and the woodsmen meet eyes. . .
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment