It was a weird year.
For the first time since the sixties or seventies neither my grandpa nor I was at his spot on opening weekend. He hunted the same property since '46, on a friend's land. But his step children have pushed us to lesser spots this year.
To put this into perspective, the last time I cried (in 2000), I shed three tears the day after my grandpa died and I spent the afternoon watching Regan's funeral on tv. (I'm no particular fan of Regan, fyi.) And my eyes nearly moistened when I saw the big hunting box that was built next to My Favorite Tree and Grandpa's ground blind.
So, instead of hunting my favorite tree I sat elsewhere, for the first time on opening weekend.
Did I get one? Of course!
Like dad says, "We don't need luck; we've got Tim."
This poor buck hobbled, by on 2.5 good legs. I felt bad for the deer so I ended his pain.
I've heard that if a buck gets an injured leg, then the next year his antler on the other side will be odd. That is true in this case.
A good buck nonetheless and with a 17.75" tip-to-tip spread!