(left image) Three generations of bowhunters -- the Olskewskis -- (left to right) Rich, Ryan, and me. (right image) Here's one of the bucks that eluded us on this hunt, but was caught by the trail camera.

FOR YEARS, I HAD wanted to take my dad, Rich, on a bowhunt for deer -- somewhere other than our home state of Pennsylvania. But life kept getting in the way, and before I knew it, my son Ryan was of legal hunting age.

So I arranged a trip for 12-year-old Ryan, Dad, and me -- three generations of Olszewskis -- the O's -- with a combined 81 years of hunting experience. Just us guys. Other than having quality male bonding time, I also hoped to watch my son and dad shoot their first deer with a bow. We each had three tags and three days to hunt.

On October 18, 2006, we left Pennsylvania and drove 51⁄2 hours south to Paint Bank, Virginia, a tranquil village nestled in a picturesque valley between Peters and Potts Mountains on the West Virginia border. This off-the-beaten-path area supports mainly an agricultural and timber economy -- a perfect environment for whitetail deer.

When we arrived, we hooked up with Josh Duncan, wildlife manager at Potts Creek Outfitters. We would lodge in Virginia and cross the nearby West Virginia border to hunt. We would be hunting with three men from Florida -- Ron Baugh, Richard Morris, and George Robinson -- and another Pennsylvanian, J.J. Fasnacht.

ON OCTOBER 19, DAY ONE of our hunt, Josh rounded us up early in the morning and took us to some potential hotspots. Dad would hunt from a treestand, while Ryan and I went to a ground blind situated on a saddle. That quiet morning allowed Ryan and me to have some father/son time. Ryan was just ecstatic to be missing school -- for educational reasons, of course. With his backpack bulging with his favorite candy and junk foods, along with his never-leave-home-without-it handheld Gameboy SP, he was quite content. Oh, he had his gloves and release aid, too.

We didn't see much there, so after lunch, Josh put Ryan and me in another ground blind where he guaranteed we would see deer. At about 5:15, two does made their way toward our blind and began to feed. "Where did they come from?" Ryan asked, as he threw down his Gameboy SP and grabbed his bow. For 15 minutes, Ryan sat with an arrow nocked, nervously asking, "Should I shoot now?"

"No, not yet," I whispered. "The shot angles aren't right."

"How about now?" he asked again.

"Not yet," I said.

Then one doe broke away and suddenly stood broadside at 15 yards, looking away. Perfect, I thought. "Use your top pin," I whispered to Ryan.

Between the three of us we'd gone five for five. Five arrows, five deer. On the last night, I collected this doe. It meant more than words could say to have Dad and Ryan there to share this memory.

"I know, Dad" he responded gruffly.

"Go ahead and pull your bow back. You know where to aim," I said quietly. With my video camera focused, I murmured, "Shoot when you're ready!"

Ryan's arrow sped through the Whisker Biscuit rest and right through the doe's lungs. The deer kicked her back legs and took off running but went down just 35 yards away. "You just shot your first deer, Ryan!" I said excitedly. "Great shot!" At that moment, I can't ever remember feeling more overwhelmed with pride and excitement.