A Missed Connection
I never should have tried to outhunt my boss
April, 2006

Not long ago, the editor-in-chief of this magazine, Sid Evans, invited me on a two-and-a-half-day deer hunt at his father's club in Mississippi. To understand what an editor is like, picture an Afghan warlord-"bloodthirsty, cunning, perpetually bent on revenge-"plying his dark art in a room decorated with the trophy skulls of his enemies. Lose the turban, give him some skin-care products and a little dental work, and-"voila!-"say hello to the boss. But make no mistake. The dynamics are unchanged. When he issues an invitation to me, a humble foot soldier, I accept instantly.

The plan was to meet up at the Memphis airport with Evans' father, John, drive south to the 6,000-acre club near the Mississippi River that he shares with about 30 other members, and hunt the muzzleloader season. I met Sid and both of his parents at baggage claim, and we caravanned to a barbecue joint for massive quantities of pulled pork and coleslaw. For an editor, Sid comes from amazingly upright stock. His father, affable and easygoing, is a diehard bowhunter and fisherman. His mother is a woman of goodwill, beauty, and charm. I doubt that these were his real parents.

After lunch, the men loaded up and drove south into Coahoma County. As we crossed the great hump of a levee, I resolved to ingratiate myself with the actor portraying John Evans because that guy has a gate key to 10 square miles of deer heaven-"bottomland hardwoods under intense QDM. Members shoot only bucks 41/2 years old or older.

Sid and I shared a room at camp. "Fair warning, I snore like a bear,-¿ I said. (I was looking forward to tormenting his sleep, as he so frequently ruins mine with 4 P.M. e-mails suggesting a quick total rewrite of a story by the next morning.) "Me, too,-¿ he answered brightly. Then he rolled over and fell instantly asleep, an ability common to Stalin, Hitler, and other despots. Disturbingly rhythmic snoring kept me awake for hours.

Dark and early the next morning, we headed out to stands where good bucks had been seen recently. "You snore like a damn chain saw,-¿ I told Sid.

"Really? You were moaning all night,-¿ he answered. "Sounded like a crazy woman having a bad night at bingo.-¿ This was all the more embarrassing because it was probably true, as my wife has reported similar sounds.

I had brought my bow along, a not-so-subtle reminder that I possess a skill Sid has yet to master. After a full day afield during which nobody saw a buck, I decided that the point had been made and asked his "dad-¿ if I could borrow an extra muzzleloader. I had revenge in mind. On our only other outing together, Sid had boated a big tarpon, while I had demonstrated why I should never be given a loaded fly rod. But the rut was winding down, and the second day passed with little more activity than the first.

On the final morning we just had time for a three-hour hunt before dashing back to Memphis. I sat in a ladder stand overlooking a promising brushy area. With 15 minutes left, a set of big brown antlers popped into sight, headed toward me through the tangle. My view was lateral, offering no indication of width. Nor, in those few moments, could I count tines. But the prison break in my chest said that this was a shooter. The buck came quickly up out of a small gully and stood for a moment in an opening 80 yards off. As the crosshairs settled on his chest, I fired. He galloped off and was gone. From sighting to shot had taken all of about eight seconds. Sid came over at the sound, and together we madly searched the area for sign until we were in real danger of missing our flights. All we found were a few clipped hairs where the buck had stood.

To his credit, Sid seemed genuinely sympathetic. "You've been shooting a bow all year instead of a rifle. And you'd never even shot this gun before. It hap