THAT DEER will never move to the south . I said it to myself, not aloud, as this buck was so big, so old, so smart, I was sure he could hear thoughts. That’s how he survived. A telepath. And, as it would turn out, a genius, too.
It was January; two-thirds of the way through the annual late muzzleloader season, and I was balled up in 10 inches of new snow, an old plum thicket to my back, watching 400 yards of bean field and shallow willow thicket below me. On the sticks, a Knight Rifles LongHunter .50, as deadly an instrument as I’ve ever taken afield. Two hundred yards to the east, my orange-clad stepson, Casey, sat, a CVA Accura V2 on his sticks. Ready, we were.
The…