Oct. 26: It was a cool, still morning in late October. I was 16 or 17, and still hunting with a bow on a neighbor's farm. I eased toward the crest of small white oak hillside and stopped to listen--the sound I heard just the other side of the rise was slow, steady grinding. The thought of it being a deer was actually far from my mind--so, naive, eager kid that I was, I stepped over the rise. A beautiful 8-pointer stood 20 yards away, thrashing a sapling with his antlers. The flexing tree and blur of tines captured my attention just long enough to distract me from what would've been an easy bow shot. The buck picked me out, threw his tail up and bounded away.