By Dave Hurteau
This is Whitetail 365, so let me say first that when I barged into the wooded creek bottom, I sent a doe and fawn careening through the skunk cabbages. There. The sun was up. The tom wouldn’t stay on the roost for long. So I shot down the slope, hopped the creeklet, scrambled up the far side, and called. Too late. He barked at eighty yards and incoming.