South Georgia — October Whitetail

In short: Wind shifted twice before sunrise. I stayed put anyway. The pines were dripping from last night's rain and every sound carried wrong. A doe moved through at first light, maybe sixty yards out, browsing the edge where the hardwoods thin. She never knew I was there.

South Georgia sets the terms. You learn that quick or you learn it slow. The land here is flat, thick, and the deer know it better than you ever will. I'd been watching this edge for three days. Reading sign. Second-guessing the wind. Waiting for the cold front to push something through.

The morning dragged. Squirrels. A pileated working a dead oak. More waiting. I adjusted my position once — just a few inches — when the sun angle changed. Small moves. The kind that don't matter until they do.

He came in from the wrong direction. Of course he did. I had maybe four seconds to decide. The shot was there. Not perfect, but there. I took a breath. Let half of it out. Squeezed.

Clean harvest. Quick recovery. But walking back to the truck, I kept thinking about that wind shift at dawn. How I almost moved. How the whole morning would've gone different if I had.

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