It was nearly 5 p.m. If I hauled ass home, I could still get an hour in a stand I’d recently gotten access to that was 100 yards from the house. It was a half-hour drive, but the car ahead of me was going five miles below the speed limit and there were no passing zones on the twisting road, so it took 35 minutes. I nevertheless jumped out of the car and hustled over to the stand, which overlooks a strip of woods along a road where deer funnel to and from a distant corn field. It’s a good stand, at the bottom of a house’s lawn, easy to access without making a disturbance. There was a slight wind in my face. Except there wasn’t a thing moving. Not a bird, not a squirrel. Even the two chipmunks that came into the corn scattered around seemed to be moving slowly. A lethargic chipmunk is almost a contradiction in terms. It just wasn’t happening. With a full 20 minutes of shooting light left, I pulled the plug. In years past, I’d have overridden my own hunch, knowing how often I’m wrong. But for some reason, I trusted this one. This was one Monday evening when I just didn’t believe anything was going down.