It was October 26, and my son, Jacob, and I were hunting our 30-acre woodlot behind our house in southeast Michigan. The sun had set, and we had entered that magic time of the evening when deer just seem to appear out of nowhere.
I was set up in the southeast corner of the property, along a ditch that separated our woodlot from a standing cornfield. Jacob was in a ladder stand in the middle of the woodlot, with a standing cornfield to the north and a cut bean-field to the south.
Suddenly, my phone started buzzing in my pocket. It was a text message from Jacob that read, “I just shot Clubber!”
“Clubber,” as Jacob called him, was the dominant buck on the farm, and my son had just…
