My father tore the tendon that attaches his thigh muscle to his leg in early October. He’s looking at about a year for a full recovery, so on opening weekend of November’s rifle season he was still very much disabled. My brother and I drove him to camp, raked the leaves away from the stoop, and guided him up the stairs. Once on the porch he was able to shuffle around all right with a walker.

These modern walkers are slick – they’ve got wheels and brakes like a bike. And you can set a parking brake and turn it into a seat, which is what he did on opening morning. We helped him get socks and boots on his still-swollen foot, and pull on his sweat pants which stood in for wool pants this year. When everyone else disappeared into the pre-dawn blackness, he took up a position on the front porch sitting on his walker. One of the things I greatly admire about my pop is that he’s not the type to wallow or make excuses. I think a lot of people’s reaction, were they unable to move one of their legs, would have been to sleep in and feel bad about missing deer season for the first time in fifty-something years. I don’t even think that entered his mind. If he couldn’t hunt in the woods, he’d hunt from the porch.

At about 7:30 that morning a six-point buck walked within 75 yards of the camp, then, inexplicably, turned and gave a shoulder in an open shooting lane. We all about lost our minds when we heard the gunshot. “Buck down” said the text.

I told him you couldn’t make a story like that up; no one would believe it if you did.