Next, having drawn an archery tag for Kansas, I invited myself to hunt the property of Richard Stucky, a farmer I'd pheasant hunted with once. I knew he'd be too polite to refuse. To my surprise I felt no qualms as he and his son, Steve, busted their humps to put me on the biggest buck I'd ever hunted. He was an 8-pointer headed toward 10, with tines that kept going long after you'd gotten the message, much like the poorer sort of revival speaker. With a rifle, I could have killed that sucker three times over four days. I thought I had him the first morning, 12 feet up in a creekbottom hedge apple, when I heard that telltale steady crunch. Trembling, I drew as the sound grew louder. One step more and...the luckiest possum on earth waddled into view. An hour later, the buck showed along the far edge of the bottom, just out of range and shielded by brush. I grunted. He stopped, looked my way, and bedded down. He stared in my direction for 20 minutes before standing, relieving himself, and walking on.