The bowhunting weather here in Virginia was excellent last October. Multiple days of cool, clear, high-pressure skies made for enjoyable sits morning and afternoon. Conditions were perfect, and spirits were high in pour camp. Around the 20th, we figured bucks would start scraping and prowling in the pre-rut any day now. I hunted every day for two weeks and never saw a shooter. I headed out to western Nebraska for rifle season. First evening, I glassed 40 deer coming to a milo field, the only major food source within two miles. Next afternoon from the same stand, with the same warm weather and west wind, I saw only 4 does. But then I shot a 6-year-old 10-pointer at sundown!   [...]

I have always tempered my killing with respect for the game pursued. —Fred Bear I am no Fred Bear, don’t claim to be. When it comes to bowhunting, I couldn’t carry the man’s jockstrap. But for the last 40 years, I have unabashedly hunted and killed deer according to Fred’s mantra. I suppose that is why I get uncomfortable and feel a bit ashamed when I witness an episode like this, either in person in the woods or on YouTube or TV: A fellow shoots a buck and watches it topple over. Grinning, he raises his arms high into the air, balls his fists and starts hollering, “He’s down, he’s down, hell yeah, he’s down!” This is sometimes accompanied with [...]