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I heard the snap of a large branch and a heavy tread approaching. I set down my phone, picked up my bow, and faced it toward the oncoming racket. I saw the first movement at about 80 yards away. At 60, I could see it was an elk. At 50 I could see it was a legal bull, and he was coming in fast.

I got word from my neighbor there’s a bobcat haunting my woodshed. Curious, I chucked a few deer skulls in there and deployed one of my game cameras to see if I could catch him when he came calling again. And what do you know…

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.