It was the second week of buck season years ago. Grandad and I were at camp alone, the other hunters leaving after the first week. I was on school break much to the envy of everyone else.

We rose early with the traditional breakfast of bacon and eggs. The good Lord sure knew what he was doing when he invented that combination of flavors. After breakfast we checked out the weather. The thermometer quivered at 15 degrees and a gusty wind blew spirals of snow across the yard.

“Where do you think we should hunt this morning?” I asked.

Grandad glanced outside again just as a particularly vicious gust swirled snow against the window and rattled the door. He grimaced, filled his pipe and lit it with a wooden, red tipped match and then regarded me thoughtfully.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked.

The deer would likely be bedded in conditions like this. After a minute or so inspiration struck. “Let’s hunt the pine swamp near the Bacus underpass. It’s thick in there, perfect for deer in these conditions.”

Grandad smiled. “Good thinking. I’ll drop you off there, pick you up at noon and we’ll drive down to Smethport for lunch. I, myself, am tired of my own cooking.”

“Aren’t you hunting?” I asked, surprised.

Grandad tilted his head back and said that some questions could only be answered by the passing of time. “Brush the car off son, you’re burning daylight.”

He dropped me off and I worked slowly through the swamp, snuck up on some does and jumped a buck. The weather was miserable and by noon I was frozen and starving.

Grandad was waiting in the car when I returned, warm and smiling. “Well, what did you see?” I told him.

“When you get older Wade, you may find a day in camp by a hot wood stove remembering and relaxing more satisfying and rewarding than you think possible. But, you’re half froze boy, let’s get some lunch.”

Sitting in camp better than hunting? I thought he was crazy at the time, but just as he predicted, the passing years have their own lessons to teach.

The last few years I’ve discovered my aging muscles ache, I get cold quickly and I often find myself wishing I was by the wood stove when it’s particularly nasty outside. True, I’m more patient now, but I find myself questioning the effort needed when hunting is more about suffering than enjoyment.

Last year the weather was most uncooperative. Success required hours and eventually weeks of stand time. When I finally scored with a heavy, wide 8-point the jubilation was satisfying and intense, but the season had taken a toll.

When archery season approached this year I was determined to hunt as hard as possible before the weather turned. The more I thought about it the wiser that course seemed.

The very first week many bucks would still be in their summer pattern. After that with mast falling and the rut approaching bucks could be anywhere. I made up my mind, the first week was my best chance for success before the rut itself in November.

The first morning I saw does and a nice buck too far away for a shot. In the evening I saw 2 does, a super alert spike and passed on a 7-point with nice beams, but short points.

Monday, I was busy in the morning, but made it to the stand by 4 p.m.

It didn’t take long to discover the deer were moving. Several spikes and some does appeared after only 20 minutes of waiting, feed briefly and moved off. Thirty minutes passed and a big 4-point showed up, winded me and vanished. Not long after 2 does crossed the field and a tiny spike appeared briefly. The sun slid behind the ridge and it grew darker.

Just minutes later 2 big spikes wandered into the field. They feed for 20 minutes or so, then suddenly whipped their heads up and stared intently into the woods. From the intensity of their gaze I felt they were looking at another, bigger buck, but I couldn’t see him. Then, magically, a big 8-point just materialized out of the brush. I’d been looking right at him, but he remained invisible until stepping into the open.

Every nerve in my body tingled. I froze, not daring to move. After a good look around he moved within 30 yards and began feeding. Waiting until all the bucks had their heads down and I slowly raised the crossbow. Just as I was about to lower my head onto the stock my foot slipped and kicked the edge of the stand. NO!

Three heads snapped up and stared, but the thump of my boot toe was low and muted and after a minute or 2 they began feeding once again. Aiming carefully I fired, the arrow flying slightly high striking the bucks spine with a resounding crack! He dropped in his tracks.

What luck! I leaped from the stand and rushed to my trophy. No freezing for hours and days in deer stands this rifle season, my tag was filled!

As I admired the buck it seemed almost as if I could hear Grandad laughing and I swore I could hear him saying; “You’re learning boy, you’re learning.”

This year I will be sitting by the wood stove remembering and relaxing and it makes perfect sense now to do so.