His regal head turned toward me as I lined up the sights of the borrowed .30.06. It appeared as if the majestic six pointed buck was looking straight through the barrel to the pointed cartridge locked in the chamber as I began to apply slight pressure on the trigger.

All of a sudden I was overcome with images from the past. I heard the shouting southern drawl of my old PRI instructor.

"Lock'nload, one round, ball ammunition."

Hell, that was more than forty years ago. The Korean War had become a full-blown disaster.

The raw-boned Negro shouted instructions to all of us nervous, neophyte draftee soldiers-to-be on the PRI range. Preliminary Rifle Instruction. Learn it here, or die.

Sighting targets for the first time, without real .30 caliber ammo for the thirteen-pound M-1 rifle, we all tried to learn everything. Korea was exploding and we were all in the pipeline to Pusan.

That instructor's image had apparently stayed with me all these years. Although he had a thick southern accent, it took me all of the morning to get used to it and begin to understand him. His military bearing commanded attention. Respect.

The sergeant was a regular. A professional, recently rotated from Soul. He had no problem impressing us new recruits with his ironed fatigues, combat boots with an electric-like polish and that telltale combat infantryman's medal sewn to his shirt. We listened. We learned.

Squeezing a trigger. That was something I learned as a young teenager plinking tin cans, old crockery and about anything else we found at the base of the mountain we kids used as a rifle range during summer vacations. My old .22 rifle was a semi-automatic that out-shot the other guy's single shot or five shot clip bolt action rifles. I got to be pretty good with it.

When Bucky Stoner called and invited me up to his infamous Stoned Hilton in the Pennsylvania woods near the New York State border for opening day of deer hunting, I was elated and I accepted his invitation on the spot. Then I realized I had absolutely no gear, clothing appropriate for sub-zero temperatures of northern PA, or a hunting license. I'd find a way.

Bucky and I were on our way under gray winter skies in his diesel pick-up. He was a successful entrepreneur. I bought supplies for my employer from his business. We'd known each other for years and I'd heard some hairy tales about the hunting trips. Some of the stories got around during dinners at national meetings over the years, where I'd hear clips about the more famous happenings. I was primed for a good time.

"I've heard a lot about this hunting cabin of yours. Who's going to be there?"

Bucky had a slight tic, where he'd blink his eyes when he spoke. I think the blink adjusted his glasses on his nose so he didn't have to use his hands.

"You'll know most of them from the national meetings. You know Kenny from the bedding company. His son is out of the Marines now and will be there. He's a chef and will do the lobsters and the standing rib roast for us. No. This time it's a filet d'minion."

"I see we'll eat well."

Bucky tilted his head but kept looking ahead at the road. "We always do. And you know Dave, my warehouse manager. He's divorced now and can make it this year."

"Yeah. He's a neat guy."

"And Jerry Schmidt, an old friend of mine, will be there. I think you two'll bunk in the same room."

"I hope he doesn't snore," I said.

"A couple of your competitors, Doc Coogan from Bergen Bioceuticals and Jim Russo, the vet from Merckles Drugs, will be there late tonight."

I remembered them from some local meetings," I said. "So what happens tomorrow morning?"

"We're up at four, do some bacon'n eggs'n coffee and walk down the hill to our places. We've worked out areas where deer are likely to be."

"Experienced at this, ain'tcha?"

Jerry had been up to the cabin a week before, reconnoitering, and found some fresh trails and droppings. The herd was so large that year that the state wildlife folks needed the herds thinned so doe day was extended an extra few days. Complaints about crop and yard damage ran high. With any luck, I'd help.

"Everyone's anxious for venison," Bucky said. "My butcher's ready for us, too. I can taste that sausage already."

"Talk about counting your chickens..."

"I've been doing this for fifteen years and haven't missed a year, yet." Bucky turned up the truck's heater and blinked.

"You've had the cabin all that time?"

"Yup. Haven't done a thing to it since. It was a disaster then and I've been sitting on this acreage as it appreciates in value."

"It's great to be able to do that," I said.

"Jerry looks in on it for me a few times a year. The annual deer hunt has become the highlight of the year for him. It's his annual drunk."

Bucky pulled into a rutted dirt road, changed gears and stomped on the throttle. In the side view mirror I saw a long cloud of dense diesel smoke spew from the tailpipe. I bounced to the roof, then tightened my safety belt.

"If I've got this right, there'll be a half-dozen guys there, cases of beer, Jack Daniels and everyone has a gun. Right?"

Bucky nodded, grinned and blinked. "Not to worry. We've done this for years."

We turned off the dirt road, bounced behind an old faded barn and the cabin came into view. Bucky parked right by the front door. I hoped my surprise didn't show on my face. Tobacco Road. Wow. What a mess. A cabin it wasn't. What it was, was a forgotten, tiny shack in an overgrown field of gentle rolling Pennsylvania hills. An old'three holer' outhouse was about ten yards from the front door. Great fun in sleet, I could tell.

A refrigerator stood outside the cabin door, unplugged. I didn't ask. Well, he forewarned me.

Several guys had been there all afternoon. Good thing. The regulars started the wood stove, swept the kitchen ignoring the cobwebs, brought in buckets of water from the outside hand pump, replaced the burned out single light bulb that hung at the end of a wire from the kitchen ceiling and had dinner started. It smelled marvelous. And if I closed my eyes, it smelled even better.

The alcohol was started, too. I met old friends and was introduced to new ones. Jerry, my roommate to be, was on his third six-pac.

"It's poker time after dinner. You bring some extra cash?" Kenny said to me.

I nodded. Kenny's grin portended an interesting night.

How do you cook for so many without running water, I wondered. And where does everyone sleep?

The lobsters were wonderful. The ex-marine knew his stuff. The side of beef in the unplugged outside storage bin looked super. And safe from wildlife.

I lost about twenty-five bucks at that wild poker game, amidst some great jokes and stories. I didn't know a couple of wildcard poker games and had to learn from on-the-job gambling. Beginner's luck is not dependable. No luck was dependable.

Two of the guys I hadn't known before had abundant beer guts. They puffed cigars and rubbed their bellies with their free hand as they contemplated their cards with philosophic aplomb. They both looked about eight months pregnant. The two Buddas had good luck. I thought about putting on some weight.

Once, Jerry got up to go outside to fetch another case of beer but lost his balance and began to fall forward. With a few steps he began a cantor and blew through the front door at full tilt, just missing the wood stove. He fell outside, running. Good thing there were no neighbors. The howling would have brought the cops.

Bucky suggested we call it a night and assigned the sleeping rooms and hunting places we'd go to in the morning. A few of the regulars took up shop in the small living room just off the kitchen that had farm equipment in the middle of the floor, two couches and some old time dust. I retrieved my gear from the pick-up, took a flashlight and brought my stuff up a narrow and creaky circular staircase to the too-cramped second floor bedrooms. Jerry's and mine was the bedroom at the rear with the two WW II army cots. A plastic gallon jug held the door open.

The peak of the farmhouse roof was over my bunk. At 5'6", I could just stand up underneath the beam that ran the length of the roof. I knew Jerry would have to bend over. That was okay, he could hardly stand up, anyway.

In the beam of the flashlight, I could see cobwebs that had been untouched since whenever. Dehydrated flies still hung from them and swayed in the air currents from the outside winds. The vapor from my breath reminded me that winter in northern PA could be real bitter. I decided I'd better hit that three holer before climbing into my sleeping bag. That is, fart sack.

I examined the mattress on the bunk with the flashlight, flipped it over to get rid of the dried mouse droppings and rolled out my sleeping bag. I heard Jerry stumbling up the circular stairway, swearing at the turns. Bucky called the roof beams, skull-crackers. But Jerry had been through deer camp before.

As soon as I settled in and my body temperature came up to near normal, Jerry huffed and puffed his way into his sack, and farted.

After a few minutes I heard Jerry get out of his sack and then I heard rain. Hell, that wasn't rain. Jerry was pissing into the plastic gallon doorstop.

Jerry climbed back into his sack and farted again... Long, alto, stuttering release of beer-soaked gas in A flat major. Damn. Then, a short burst an octave higher. Quite the virtuoso.

Ten seconds later I choked when an imagined green florescent cloud drifted down-wind over my cot. Beer farts. Hoy vey. I tucked my head down into my sack. And there are those who think second-hand smoke is a problem.

A short time later, Jerry raised the level in the gallon jug and belched basso profundo. I hoped he didn't need a five-gallon drum. Jerry's gas attack concerto began to lose its punch after an hour or so.

Glow-in-the-dark wristwatches can be counter productive at times. It occurred to me that low fiber, rank, glow-in-the-dark gut gas is counter productive, too. I hoped Jerry hadn't melted his sleeping bag.

The outside winter breeze found its way through the farmhouse walls with ease and continued to drive Jerry's effluent my way. I'd've traded farting for snoring that night. I think I fell asleep out of self-defense.

Moments later it seemed, we got the call to arms. It was opening day. And damn cold. How could it be opening day, when it was still dark?

There was lots of enthusiastic excitement in the warm packed kitchen. I had some bacon, toast and, geeze, regular coffee. I knew I couldn't handle regular coffee but that's what there was and I wanted some coffee. I wondered how one manages bathroom requirements out in the forest in the dark when one has so many clothes on. And would a deer pick that time to go by just to tease me?

We all clamored out of the cabin, buttoning, zippin to follow Bucky. Jerry climbed up onto his tree stand to wait and watch. Bucky pointed down-slope to where I was to go and the others went off to the right, up the hill to their favorite sites.

I borrowed a .30.06 rifle, an orange Day-Glo safety vest with a pocket for my day-old hunting license, chemical heat hand-warmers and a sit-upon. I wore my own snowmobile suit that I used for motorcycling, a few sweatshirts, motorcycle gloves and new boots that I got from my kids last Christmas. I looked like an idiot Michelin Man. But who's to tell?

It was still dark. Still dark and latrine time. Yeah, I knew that. Damn regular coffee.

At daybreak, some dogs in a local kennel down in the valley were impatient for breakfast. I sat on a downed tree trunk and watched and waited from my vantage point.

I hoped the deer couldn't hear my breathing, it was so quiet around me. My breath created long columns of vapor as I began to get a sense of the lay of the land. I had a good observation point in the silent forest with little growth obstructing a one-hundred-eighty degree view into the wetland. I waited and warmed my hands with a packet of chemical heat.

Bucky picked a good place for me. It hadn't rained in quite a long while so the ground was dry, crisp and Mother Nature smelled cold and fresh. The sky grew brighter.

A sudden noise behind me startled me. Leaves cracked, I turned, releasing the rifle safety to see a sparrow scratching the dirt beneath some leaves. Funny how the hair on the back of the neck behaves like it does. I already had goose bumps from the frigid winter morning. I re-set the safety and waited. A jittery squirrel eyed me and skittered up a distant tree. It felt good to be alive, outdoors, silent and alone again.

Slow, halting steps compressing twigs and frigid leaves tweaked my ear. Two hesitant does pranced from stage left in front of me and exited stage right, stiff-legged and wary. Their gray coat color made them almost invisible amidst the colorless winter flora.

And then, there he was. Not ten seconds behind the does. A six pointer, bland, indistinct and beautiful.

"You're not gonna go Bambi, now, are ya? I asked myself.

Nah. The woods are full of'em."

I took off my bulky glove. The trigger was cold.

The buck's head turned towards me as I raised the rifle and lined up the sights. He appeared to be looking up the barrel as I applied slight pressure on the trigger. But now my prey was staring me down. Framed behind a tree with a Y shaped trunk, hidden from the legs down, his huge chest was unfettered by branches.

I had thought I'd have to take my first shot at a moving target and was prepared for that, but this big guy seemed mesmerized by the rifle muzzle. No matter, I was committed to taking the shot. I remember saying to myself, "It's okay if he's looking at you. He doesn't have to be moving away to take him down."

My index finger squeezed pressure onto the trigger completing it's predestined travel and an explosion started my ears ringing. An echo confirmed the shot.

It was clean. He dropped without jerking. Euthanized. Wow.

My first deer... BBQ'd standing rib venison roast for Christmas dinner. I couldn't wait.

I still hate ringing in my ears.