I now know how to spot a buck rub and a buck scrape; I can follow a deer trail and lead you to the finest bedding grass, and I can handle an aught-six, even hit what I'm aiming at. I, sir, have worn the blaze orange.

But... there are no pictures of me with a deer.

Up in my stand, I was lord of all I surveyed. However, though I did catch a brief glimpse of a panicky buck as it tried to cross a frozen pond — it was yelping, either because three hunters had a shot at it, or because the ice could not possibly, and yet did, hold its weight — for the most part, "all I surveyed" turned out to be a typewriter, a small reddish-gray squirrel, two gray squirrels, a black squirrel, a chipmunk, some mice, and a couple of chickadees.

(I was glad to see what is probably my favorite bird. Josh says that a few years ago one actually landed on his rifle, presumably turning into a fairy immediately afterwards. Oh, I hoped!)

Broken typewriters and small things that can sound like deer notwithstanding, what really sticks with me is the 14 hours of cold, discomfort, and boredom. I brought Grisham's The Broker to read the first day (it's awful), and yes doubters, I could easily read and listen to the many squirrels, but the next day I had nothing to read, and if I thought the first day had been boring, well...

Activities back at the lodge: confidential.

Deer hunting was everything I've been thinking it was for the past 10 years. (I have never had ethical objections to hunting.) I guess I'm glad I did it, spent some non-holiday time with relatives, gathered up enough skillz to level up soon, communed with nature and all that. But it was still meh.

Not sure I'll do it again; not shooting a deer after all that is like running a marathon without the runner's high. Ask me next year when I've forgotten what it's actually like, maybe.