As the road before me began its long drop down to Smethport, the eastern horizon began to lighten. I was late leaving that morning. I couldn’t seem to get out of the house because every time I climbed into the car, something forgotten came to mind: first my headlamp, then the walking stick and lastly my warm mittens. That’s the penalty you pay for not loading the car the night before.

As I pulled into Jim Acker’s driveway, the world surrounding me was a very grainy, indistinct, dark gray. It was actually the exact time I should have been arriving at my stand. The e-bike stood under the shed, but my injured knee gave a twinge at the mere sight of it. My pack and crossbow went into the side-by-side. After two weeks, the knee was still tender with a persistent ache, but it worked, and I could walk carefully while wearing the hinged knee brace. I parked some 200 yards from the stand and began hiking. For the first 100 yards, the back of my knee hurt with every step. By avoiding straightening the knee completely, I could keep the pain bearable. Then, completely unexpectedly, the pain vanished. At first, it didn’t seem possible, but successive steps were fine. Thank heavens!

The smaller limbs on the dark tree trunks were visible now, and the sky was a solid roof of dark, unbroken cloud. I carefully climbed into the stand and settled in, only to drop my pack. I climbed back down to retrieve it, then climbed back up again. Good grief!

I was dressed warmly. A temperature of 40 degrees can be surprisingly cold, and anyone who has hunted from a tree stand for any length of time realizes it feels decidedly colder 20 feet in the air than at the foot of the stand.

Soon it was fully light. A few small birds peeped halfheartedly, crows cawed unenthusiastically, and then the world went silent. It appeared even Mother Nature found the morning rather dark, damp and dreary, with little to be enthused about. But it was Nov. 6, and the bucks simply had to be moving. It was also the coldest morning in some time.

By 8 a.m., not a deer had moved by. It seemed like a good time to bleat and grunt in an effort to stir something up. It was then I realized my calls were at home! I shook my head dejectedly, without surprise. Forgetting things was a daily occurrence at this stage of my life. I might as well be good-natured about it; nothing was going to change.

Since my youth, I’ve done my best to imitate animal sounds. In fact, I’m quite proud of the authenticity of my barred owl hoots. So why not try a doe bleat? The can call isn’t very loud anyway. I bleated twice and wondered what any deer within hearing thought. Less than five minutes later, a fat little five-point buck trotted up, stopped, then trotted rapidly in front of me and vanished. Well, that was encouraging. He believed my bleat was authentic, and his nervousness may have indicated a bigger buck was close by.

By 9 a.m., the wind had picked up, and light swaths of rain fell periodically. My body temperature was dropping fast, and it was tempting to call it quits. No, stick it out for at least another hour. At 9:45 a.m., I bleated again.

A few minutes passed before a buck suddenly appeared out of a tangle of autumn olive. He was very alert and staring hard, searching for the doe. I froze, not daring to move under that intense scrutiny. He stepped forward and crossed the trail but cautiously stayed in the goldenrod and brush some 6 feet from the edge of the clearing.

He stood broadside, angled slightly toward me, with his shoulder hiding the vitals. He was a decent seven-point buck, and I wondered briefly whether to shoot. However, the deer was good-sized, and after 64 years of sitting in stands, the process had lost much of its appeal. The buck would walk a few feet forward, stare suspiciously around for the doe, then repeat the process. Now he was slightly past me, and the next time he stopped, his shoulder was clear. I squeezed the trigger, the crossbow fired, and the glowing red nock streaked like a tracer round to its aiming point. The buck jumped forward, ran diagonally downhill, then turned slightly to the left. I felt the shot was perfect. When I grabbed my phone to call Jim, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely use it.

I went back to the buggy to pick up Jim. By the time we returned, some 30 minutes had passed. The blood trail was perfect and easy to follow. After 80 yards, there he lay. My mouth flew open. The deer was huge, and the rack, which had appeared small on that large body, was twice as large as I’d thought — over 18 inches wide. The Game Commission tape indicated that the deer’s 43-inch chest corresponded to an estimated live weight of 228 pounds and a field-dressed weight of 180 pounds. Jim and I have a combined age of 160, and dragging that thing was almost impossible, but we somehow made it to the field’s edge. We were both ecstatic about the deer’s size and respectable antlers.

You know, sharing a successful hunt with a true friend is, without a doubt, one of the greatest rewards of hunting, for your joy is truly doubled.

(Email Wade Robertson at wadewrites3006@gmail.com.)