Deer Hunting and Delayed Gratification
I propped my bow against a water oak and unbuckled my pack, letting it drop to the ground. I wasn’t worried about spooking deer anymore. The first and only shooter buck I’d seen in nearly two weeks had just rocketed to the next county.
The sun beamed overhead, and I wriggled my water bottle free from the side of my pack. I dropped to the ground and leaned my back against the pack. If I were a smoker, I probably would’ve lit one up about that time. I was parched, hungry, and dejected. Blindly, I reached into the bottom of my backpack to rummage for the Perfect Bar I’d stowed in there a few days prior. I washed the crumbled, dry bits down with lukewarm water and chewed on the bitter reality that I’d just blown what would have been a chip shot at a good buck.
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