I never got a good look at the deer. All of a sudden, it was standing there, 50 yards away. (It is true that last fall, on the fifth day of the season, I had an inappropriate relationship with a buck.)

I was looking the other way when I heard a crunch. I turned. (It was a critical lapse in judgement.)

When I realized it was an eight pointer, I raised my rifle but forgot to take the safety off. And when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened. (Though I legally stated the facts as asked, I may have misled some people.)

The buck looked up then bolted before I had a chance to do anything about it. (This is now between the people I care the most about; my hunting buddies, our bartender, and my Buck-Monkey.)

I’m so bummed, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. (Even deer hunters have private lives.)

Fawn bleat, crack, crunch… multiple deer! Instincts take over. Brain begins to battle physical reaction of muscle twitches. Twitches become spasms. Brown moving – one deer. Flash of white contrasted against the hunter green of swamp balsam and cedar – that’s two: doe and fawn. Spasms become convulsions. Arms flail miserably into air while heart pounds out of chest and eyes rotate independently. Could this be all – only two small deer? Man, I can’t hold rifle up; no feelings below waist yet sweat bleeding from forehead.

Get a grip! Fingers, aching – gun, damn cold. Sphincter, unreliable. Deer, turning to leave – jeez! But wait, something catches my eye between head snap and spastic writhing. My God, nice buck! Good eye to scope – side of tree and arm prop rifle to steady bounce. Breathe in, exhale halfway and hold. Squeeze… stop! No good – too much bounce. Start over; breathe in, exhale and hold deer accommodating – squeeze, a little harder, more, more… BANG!

Nice buck, wide fork. Never a doubt…

Mental Note: Must ask doctor about these convulsions.

“How can you tell? It’s impossible to see through the smoke,” I wheeze, following the lighted haze from the kitchen like a firefighter breaking into daylight. “For God’s sake, put some clothes on Chew,” protests one of the morning flock, “I’m loosing my appetite.”

“Give me a minute, I’m trying a new recipe. Who would have thought WD40 could slow the cooking time this much,” pronounces Chef Chew. “Maybe if I just put a little more wood in the firebox…” Clank, rumble, more smoke.

Now, everyone appreciates a good morning breakfast on opening day, but the Surgeon General has warnings about this kind of activity. Typically, most of the members of the Wasted Ammo Think Tank and Hunting Camp take a pass on the breakfast thing and go about pleasantly preparing for the morning hunt after rising. Some of the very shrewd have actually been known to prepare the evening before, although this is generally frowned upon as it can prove to be dangerous.

For example, last season the whole camp prepared for their hunt the night before opening day. Everybody was dressed and ready to go by 4:30 AM. This is where we made a mistake. Having nothing to do but consider eating Chef Chew’s pancakes, most of the members took large portions by mouth – not the generally recommended serving method. By the time the flour, egg, milk and unidentifiable ingredients settled into the stomach, unpredictable side effects appeared. Lines at the bathroom door caused a near panic state. Others simply passed out and missed the first twelve hours of opening day. Those who could walk spent most of the morning chasing Chef Chew around camp and threatening very specific acts of hostility towards him and his ancestry.

To the accomplished hunter, advanced preparation is unnecessary and may even cause one to think about things like where they are going to hunt on opening morning. This type of needless preparation is best left to chance – you know, like being in the right place at the right time and other such hunting stuff.

Grand Marais was a welcome sight that Friday night in early August after some six hours of driving and listening to Tracker’s endless feature-function-benefit diatribe. “Listen,” I said. “How about we just check into the motel, you buy me dinner and a few drinks and I’ll share my years of belly boating experience with you. In fact, I’ll throw in a few fly fishing tips too.”

“We’re finished with the project and able to demonstrate quite clearly one of the most significant contributions to the Science of Fishing in the 20th century,” I answered, in a reassuring yet understated sort of way.

“Now, members of dis goot church, vee must vork to get dee children into our congregation. Vee must find a vay to engage our yute so as to instill zee goot Lutheran vays in our young people. I have an idea. Vee must start a Boy Scout troop!”

As far as I could tell, here was the best hole in this stretch of the creek. Just two hours before, I had painstakingly fished this hole and worked my way through the babbling riffles and all the way downstream of the meandering Cook’s Run. In fact, this is where I entered the creek those hours ago. At the time, I hadn’t a clue that this would be the feature brookie hole having never fished this portion of the creek. With thirty minutes remaining before sunset, I hiked back to the start to get even with Mr. Squaretail and his guardian Mr. Dogwood. These two join forces to prevent the casual fly fisher from an easy cast into the hiding spot of the elusive brookie. The fourteen inch brookie rolled on my fly and on my very next cast, the overhanging dogwood kept my hand-tied as a souvenir. What I needed was to set the record straight.

As the sun played its third set, I noticed the brookies slurping the surface as sparse duns floated with their pale green mast unfurled and held straight together. Ephemerella Dorothea they’re called by entomologists and Latin speaking fly fisherman, but to me they’re little sailing boats, steering a course with the current in a journey where only a few make it thirty yards before the subsurface toothy devils make them disappear.

The mayfly journey is fraught with peril. Life in the silt bottom for a year, then off to the races as you grow from nymph to adult in your incomplete metamorphosis until the big day comes. With an exact prescription of time and temperature and sun and wind, nature’s most delicate winged creation attempts its maiden voyage as it sheds its pupal shuck on surface. Flight, sex and propagation is often a 24-hour stem to stern affair. If Mister Squaretail doesn’t get you on the way to the surface from your wintry incubator at stream’s bottom, he probably will as you wait to dry your wings and break the surface tension. The meadow birds perch nearby to grab you in-flight if the Spotted One doesn’t get you. Your cruel reward for cheating death is another end-of-life sacrifice for the Hungry One as you lay egg on water at the end of your adult day. To wit, you cheat death and fly with fleeting life to freefall to your demise on the water surface; eggs sprinkled upstream of the site your kind has chosen since the evolution of your species. Your God who swims consumes your dried body but has no interest in your eggs, just your life. He’ll deal with your progeny shortly.

I peer into the world’s smallest fly box with hope that I have a little dry look-alike to entice the cold water sharks. Only my #20 Adams sits waiting its turn. Tied years earlier for practice more than play, I’ve since learned to stick with the fly I can actually tie to my leader. The #20 Adams requires a 2-lb. tippet and the precision of brain surgery to thread. I realize that a 10-foot leader will grow to 12 feet with the new tippet material, but this is a good thing. I’m upstream of the run and hole with the setting sun nearly behind me. The long leader will keep me away from the keen eyes of the Speckled One. The three-weight, seven foot rod will show well with a sneaky roll cast