Perched high in a tree in my climbing stand on an early November morning, I was pondering the week's solemn events. My grandmother had died three days earlier, and I would be attending her funeral this afternoon.

The sun had finally overtaken the low-lying cloud cover, and raindrops that had settled on the colorful autumn foliage overnight were dropping steadily to the forest floor under the sun's first rays.

A button buck, a six-pointer, and a coyote had meandered past in the first hour-and-a-half after dawn. Distracted by my thoughts, and lulled by the cadence of water dripping off the leaves, I was briefly unaware of my surroundings.

Suddenly, a ruckus behind me brought me back to full focus. Slowly I turned to look and saw two bucks, 50 yards away, chasing a reluctant doe in circles on the wooded hillside.

The night's rain had dampened the leaf-strewn ridge, and I had failed to hear the deer until they were almost upon me. In the confusion, the doe managed to distance herself from her pursuers and trotted over the crest of the ridge, out of their sight. In their excitement, the two bucks had failed to notice her departure.

The dominant of the pair was a rather rotund buck I called Old Red. His coat resembled a red summer coat, yet he retained it year round, a distinguishing characteristic that set him apart from all the other deer in the area. Old Red was a seasoned fighter I'd seen bullying bucks late in 2007. He must have carried on the fighting tradition in 2008, as he now sported only one heavy antler. The other apparently had been broken off in a fight.

This rub indicates the presence of a very large buck on the property I was hunting. I'd gone there looking for him, but opted to take a buck for my grandmother instead.

His opponent in this matchup was a heavy-bodied eight-pointer. Both had thick, rut-swollen necks. Old Red circled the subordinate eight-pointer, grunting and snort-wheezing. Every hair on both bucks' bodies bristled as they faced off like boxers in a ring. With heads lowered, mouths agape, and chests heaving in unison, both exhaled large plumes of mist with each rapid breath. While their attention was focused on one another, I stood and prepared for a possible shot.

After a brief standoff, the vanquished eight-pointer began a cautious descent down the hill with nothing more than his pride bruised. Perhaps he concluded that the situation was about to escalate and wanted no part of it. Old Red followed close behind.

Raising the grunt call that hung around my neck, I emitted a deep, guttural grunt. The bucks froze in midstride, scanning their surroundings for the intruder. When I grunted a second time, the eight-pointer started across the hillside toward my stand. Old Red didn't move.

The hillside was littered with mossy limestone outcroppings, as well as multiple treetops from a logging operation two years before. It would be a miracle for him to weave his way through that maze to my position. Still, I figured if he stayed on course, he might pass through an opening about 30 yards below my stand.

Glimpses of his rack convinced me he was a buck I would not pass up. He would take a few steps, hesitate for a few moments to survey the area, and then repeat the sequence once again. Mentally I blocked his rack from my sight, focusing only on his vitals. When he finally hit that 30-yard mark, his vision obstructed by a large tree, I drew my bow and anchored…

That morning of Friday, November 7, 2008, was different from most Friday mornings for me. Instead of standing in the noisy, dust-laden limestone mill where I work, I was sitting in a quiet treestand on 40 acres owned by my father and younger brother at the edge of the city limits.