The Hunt for Zorba (Part-9)


I had been in my tree stand nearly four hours, muscles cramped from sitting stock still, drained and famished, itching ta reach inside my Fanatic Hoody and pull out an O’Henry bar, hoping my camouflage wouldn’t give me away. The doe call on the IHunt app hadn’t worked and I had switched to Plan-B (rag soaked in the doe-in-heat pee) and hung it from a sapling on the far side of the clearing.

The northwest wind had been flipping red maple leaves around and now suddenly it had settled. The rustle of the saplings at the ends of branches quietened. The fox squirrels had been scurrying around, but suddenly they weren’t there anymore. Even the blue jays had quit their shrill piping and fallen into a hushed silence. Nothing stirred, until…

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The Hunt for Zorba (Part-9)