He runs forty yards and folds up in the laurel, and the woods go quiet again. The light is going. The truck is on the ridge road, four hundred yards up the hill. For most of my life there were two of us on this part. Carl took one rope and I took the other. Carl has been gone eleven seasons.
Nobody tells you about this part. The books stop at the shot. But this is where a good deer gets lost. Most of the meat I ever threw away, I lost between the woods and home: a warm truck, a long stop and a tarp.
It is also where an old man gets hurt. Doctors put heart monitors on 25 hunters and sent them into deer season. In the woods, 22 of them pushed their hearts past 85 percent of what they had reached on a treadmill, and 10 went past the treadmill number altogether. The American Journal of Cardiology printed that in 2007.
So I wrote down how I do it now, by myself. One thing, then the next thing, with nothing in between you have to remember.




