Hunting Deer With Dad

One morning, sometime in the Fall, we went up to our cottage on the lake, and I put on my camoflauge, and sharpened my broadheads for the hunt. My dad and I walked silently through the gray woods, noting every little barkscrape on the thick trees, carefully picking our way around brush and ferns. We found the blind, a simple affair of branches and logs. Sitting down, I stretched my bow taut in anticipation, feeling the plastic fletch on the cold carbon shaft. A grouse stomped through, a noisy bird, and my heart started to beat; I thought it was a deer, but relaxed infinitely when I daw the fat bird. Not ten minutes later, the call of a whooping crane shook me from my thoughts, and I saw a little figure creeping towards us. A bobcat, small and lithe, crept past us, slinking low to the ground, the little stump-for-a-tail- held low, and I smiled at the little feline, though it didn't smile back. My feet were cold, we went back to the truck without a sound. I love hunting with Daddy.