Half frozen atop a ridge in the Rocky Mountains, something got my attention through the binoculars. Five-hundred yards away, across a thousand-foot deep gully, what I had waited three long, cold hours for grazed in an open patch on a timbered east-face slope. Mule deer.
The morning’s raw, jagged sunlight lanced overhead and burst upon the defile’s far side. Deer hide and antlers shone brilliant against the patchy snow and pine needles as if dressed in reflective safety vests. The sun warmed the beasts who had endured another ten degrees below zero high-country night, and it made my job tougher yet. I had shivered for hours with field glasses welded to forehead for just this moment. I had a decision to make…
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