Driving Snow

A heavy eight-point stands locked on you through the grey blur of a late-season storm, snow driving sideways through the bare hardwoods. He's frozen mid-step, ears forward, deciding whether to hold or bolt. The forest behind him disappears into darkness while fallen timber crisscrosses the leaf litter at his feet—that tangle of blowdowns where big bucks wait out bad weather. This is the kind of day most hunters stay home, and the kind of day the smart ones don't. Cold, wet, and raw, with just enough light left to make out the white of his throat patch. The moody brushwork sells the misery—and the magic—of hunting the late rut.