The Night Before Christmas...Ah, I mean Hunting Season

Deer Hunter's dream, especially when it gets close. Close? The hunter's fantasy: Opening day. The hunter's fantasy, Mr. Terry's eight-point.

Hunters remember the opening day's like the birth of their kids. "Yea, in '09 I was huntin' from a  tree stand in Bradford County."

The card game and beer the night before — get to bed early, midnight, to stay sharp. The smell of the morning coffee.

Hunter's don't say much at 5 a.m. Lot's of grunts and groaning. John tied up, two or three waiting in line. Always is. NO WAY YOU WANT TO GO IN THE WOODS. Don't even think it!

Nodding of heads. Maybe a question like: "Know where you're at?." A nod of the head and a short answer: "Top of the ridge." You speak quietly like the bucks are listening.

"Good up there, be careful." Another head nod and a reverse opening day question, "How 'bout you?"

Then out on the porch. Still dark,  but the cold  hasn't hit you yet. Oh, don't worry, it will. You blow out a vapor trail in the cold, snappy air. Yea, it's gonna be a cold one. Least it's not raining.

Checking and rechecking the safety. Loading. That's when you lock in...lock and load as they say in basic. "Lock and load." No thoughts about the wife lookin' sexy — that will come later, while trying to stay warm against a tree, waiting for that rustle of leaves — or problems at work, or what the kid's are doing.

Lock and load. Nothin' else matters now, except Mr. Terry's buck.

Headlights moving out on the distant roads, like space ships from a another planet. A muffled shut of a car door, then another. You make your way toward the ridge, with visions of Mr. Terry's buck.

You find your spot. Good one. Dawn creeps in like slow pouring cream in black coffee. A few pops off in the distance. Some more shots, now closer. 'Damn, the lucky ones,' you think. How can they see a buck, it's too dark.' But you know it's not.

Then you hear it. It's coming up behind you. Your heart's pounding — this is better than sex, well, almost. Slowly turn your head and there he is, Mr. Terry's eight point. Don't move he's comin.' Slowly click off the safety. There's no other feeling like it in life, when that buck comes up behind you. Here he comes....

He's looking at me. See how he turns his head in Mr. Terry's second photo below; they turn and look, just before they bolt, thrashing through the leaves, hell bent for the top of the hill. A snort and a hoof stomp. He knows something's not right. He's ready to go. Don't wait too long. Easy does it, easy...

NOW!!!

You see, Mr. Terry doesn't just work in daylight, oh no, but at night, too, capturing every hunter's fantasy.

The eight-point. "Here he comes..."

Wait, here he comes. Don't move, let him come in closer.

He knows something's not right and he's ready to bolt.