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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.