The next day, Oct. 8, I hung a stand there for my father, and he talks about that hunt to this day. Twenty minutes before dark, a 150-inch, chocolate-horned 8-point emerged from a thicket, worked over one of the scrapes, and jumped the fence into the field. By the time my father gathered his wits, the buck was out of range and walking away. But Dad hit his grunt tube, and the big 8 spun a 180 and pawed the ground like a bull ready to charge. He made three scrapes like this, in the middle of the field, and then walked slowly to within feet of my dad’s stand tree. Only by the time he got there, it was too dark to shoot.