On the next-to-last day, they were slowly working through an immense stretch of blowdowns, my father lifting one foot and then the other, over and over, tired and dispirited, knowing the hunt was nearing its end, but still hunting hard, staying quiet, scanning the woods. And then, suddenly, the buck. "One second he wasn't there. The next second, there he was," Dad had said. A high and wide 9-pointer that would dress out at 195 pounds, with a rack nearly perfect in symmetry except for the missing G4 on its right side, it was the biggest deer that Dad had ever seen in his life—even in pictures.