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There’s no outer limit to the absurdity of the questions we get at Cabela's, but the one I got today will likely be the reigning champion for some time.

All three of my shots in the season thus far had been more difficult than this one. Each of them had been at an angle and I had to shoot through gaps in thick trees. This Mule was completely in the open and a draftsmen couldn’t have provided a more precise right angle.

I’m helping people supply themselves for hunting—a pursuit I can say I know a fair bit about—and I’d naively hoped that other people who go hunting might know something about it as well. Nope.

At 20 yards, he was easily in range, but there was no clear shot. Not even close. I worked along the edge of the perimeter to find a spot where I could enter the thicket with the least amount of noise and took a few more steps in. Watching his head, I only stepped when his antlers were brushing the undergrowth, hoping his noise would cover my own. It mostly worked.

My friend, Heath, fell out of a tree stand, one that I installed. I put the climbing pegs in myself, ratcheted the tree stand to the trunk, and attached a rope with prusik knots that made it possible to go from the ground to the stand and back down again while being tied off the entire time. Did one of my safeties fail? Standing in front of him laid out on a gurney in emergency, not sure if he’d ever walk again, I just shook my head, and asked, “Heath… what happened?”

I don’t hunt birds. I’m just not interested. As a kid, I would follow my dad as he hunted big game. He carried the .308 rifle, and I carried an old break action 12 gauge. If we saw grouse, I got to shoot them. But if we saw elk or deer, it would be dad doing the shooting. Consequently, I believed that the big game is serious business, and the birds are kid stuff. And I can’t shake this notion for the life of me.

I was sitting there musing about the Labor Day feast I’d be eating later on, thinking of what wine to pair with the ham dad was baking, when there was a sudden snapping of branches and stomping in the undergrowth of something huge barreling through the woods.

I shouldn’t have gone hunting today. But it’s the final day of the season, and I have one last tag I want to fill. Still, it looked like a bad idea right from the start.

The hood sprang open and slammed against the windshield, and I was hurtling along the highway full-speed in the center lane, surrounded by traffic, and the hood was perfectly blocking any view in front of me.

“Dad, listen… I’m in trouble.” This is not a call any father wants to receive, especially when he knows his son is alone in the woods at night. I felt bad for putting him through it even as I said the words. But I didn’t know what else to do...