This rustic ranch house served as our base of operations for the week.

AT AGE 12, WHILE on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park, I fell in love with Montana. Its breathtaking scenery and abundant wildlife had this budding outdoorsman believing he had found paradise. Like all good things, our vacation ended, and soon we were on a plane home to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Flying over the mountain peaks and rivers, I vowed to return to this magical place.

Twenty years later my chance came through an invitation from my friend Jason Weaver. Working at a local archery shop, Jason was setting up a new bow for me when he asked if I would be interested in bowhunting whitetails with him in Montana that November. The hunt was with Bob Harris's Montana Whitetails, Inc., a familiar name, as Bob had run classified ads for his outfit in Bowhunter for years.

I called Bob the next day and set things up. Bob had room for one more hunter, and my dad, Rick Fortenbaugh, was quick to fill the opening.

Bob told us the November weather can be unpredictable, with daytime temperatures ranging from 70 above to 10 below. To prepare, my dad and I spent several mid-August practice sessions sweating off the pounds in our fleece jackets, balaclavas, and winter gloves.

On November 12 we boarded a plane for Bozeman, Montana. During a layover in Cincinnati, we met up with my cameraman Bob Mussey. Several hours later we touched down in Bozeman, rented a car, and drove an hour north to Bob's ranch in Wilsall, where Bob and guides Keith Miller and John Hollander greeted us. Keith is from Harrisburg, and we occasionally crossed paths back home. He would be taking over Montana Whitetails in 2006 and was there to learn the ropes from Bob and John.

After unpacking our gear, Bob drove us around his 12 miles of Shields River bottom, where he has exclusive hunting rights.

"You guys are here at the perfect time," Bob said as he slowed to look at some deer feeding in an alfalfa field. "I've been guiding here for eight years, and rut activity cranks up every year around November 14. If you brought rattling antlers, use them, because they really work here."

Back at the ranch house, Bob pointed to a cluster of cottonwoods 200 yards away. "That's where you'll be hunting tomorrow morning, Brian. Your stand is in a travel corridor close to a big willow thicket where the deer bed. There's a pile of deer in there, including a couple of dandy bucks that will easily make Pope and Young."

When the other hunters arrived that afternoon, I was surprised to see some familiar faces. Adam Flod, Tom Mills, Jim Kinsey, and Dave Parker I knew from home, and I'd met Jason Fuller from Eastman Outdoors at the 2005 ATA Trade Show. Amazingly, the only face I didn't recognize was Glenn Livelsberger, Tom Mills' father-in-law.

AT 4 A.M., THE ALARM rudely interrupted my sound sleep. Under a clear sky, the thermometer outside read five below zero! Talk about a shock to one's system! Just 24 hours earlier in Pennsylvania, it was 65 degrees.

"I hope you brought enough clothes," I said to my dad, who had just made his way out to the kitchen.

We all wore so many clothes, we looked like penguins as we waddled outside in the darkness. Some drove away in Suburbans, while Bob Mussey and I walked directly to our stand site. The air was so cold that the Shields River, which we had to cross, had turned slushy, and the willows cracked and the snow squeaked underfoot with every step. Still, we made it to the cottonwoods without spooking any deer.

Continued -- click on page link below.