The cedar swamp that crowds the banks of Michigan's Manistee River is eerie country--gnarled roots, twisted paths, and pointed spires that stand as brooding silhouettes. There's a plot of grass here graced by a single tombstone. Nearby, a deer had left its last drop of blood after my friend Martin's arrow had found its mark. At least, we could find no more in the milky circle cast by my headlamp. We searched for the deer that warm night until the batteries gave out, then returned to find it dead the next morning, at the end of a thin blood trail, no more than 75 yards from the stone.