Of the three, this was the best, the one he was enjoying the most. He’d never used bow and arrow before, and though it had taken him a while to get used to both the physicality and limitations of this sport, the guide, Tom, told him that he was a natural. He felt that himself, and he found that he liked the added handicaps bow hunting placed on him. It made him feel more in tune with nature, like he was a part of this forest rather than just a dilettantish intruder, and that resulted in his increased enjoyment of the hunt. It gave everything a slight edge, and while they hadn’t bagged any game yet, even his misses were more exciting and more fulfilling than some of his rifle scores.

There were four of them on this trip: Tom; himself; Jud Weiss, a retired deputy sheriff from Arizona; and Webb Deboyar, an air-traffic controller from Orlando, Florida. Jud and Webb were still at the campsite, and Tom was taking him out on his solo, an elk tracking that would hopefully lead to a kill and mounted antlers over the fireplace back home.

The two of them had been tracking this elk, a big bull, since before noon, and by Jennings’ watch it was already pushing three. The time had flown, though. It was exhilarating being out here like this, taking part in nature’s cycle, and he could not remember ever having felt more alive.

Tom suddenly held up a hand, motioned for him to halt.

Jennings stood in place and followed the guide’s gaze.

It was the bull elk.

Unmoving, the animal was standing in a copse of bushes on the other side of a dying fir tree. Jennings probably would have missed it on his own, would have blundered ahead and scared the beast away, realizing what it was too late to shoot, but Tom knew these woods like the proverbial back of his hand, and he’d spotted the animal instantly.

Jennings’ blood was rushing, the adrenaline pumping. He was psyched, and as silently as he could, he repositioned his bow, notched the arrow, and drew back the line. The plan was simple: he would shoot the elk, and if it wasn’t a clean kill, if the beast was injured and not killed, Tom would finish it off.

The details of that had been a little too gruesome even for Jennings back in the trading post where they’d started, but now the idea of leaping onto the animal with a big buck knife, subduing it in hand-to-hoof combat, and cutting out its heart seemed like the pinnacle of raw experience, and he wished Tom had taught him how to do it.

The elk moved, looked up, looked at them.

“Now!” Tom yelled.

Jennings aimed the arrow, let it fly.

He brought the elk down with one shot.