None of them were along that morning, though. Randy had played in a football game a hundred miles away the night before, and Jim said that when he came in a little past midnight, he was beat up and worn out and too bruised to go. They’d lost a heartbreaker, too, 20–21, for their division title. Bobby’s boy, Ted, had a broken leg that was still in the cast, and I hadn’t been able to pull Alvin out of the bed at 4 a.m. So the three of us went by ourselves.

It was one of those mornings when I thought the sun would never rise. The woods were as quiet and cold as I’d ever seen them. Even before it got daylight you could see the thick white rime of frost laying on everything so hard it looked like snow. And within an hour I was in agony. It wouldn’t have mattered if a real trophy buck had walked up; I was shaking too hard to draw a bead on anything. I’m always in a hurry, always forgetting my thermos of coffee or my gloves, or another pair of socks. I’m always in a hurry to get into my stand. Later that day I heard that it had gone down to three degrees.

I’d always wondered how the animals could stand cold like that. I don’t mean things like squirrels and coons that have dens lined with warm leaves they can burrow down into, animals that can cover their faces with their tails. I mean the ones that live on open ground, like the deer. A brushpile or a thicket is all they can get into, and on mornings when the ground is frozen, lying on it must be bad for them. Maybe they don’t feel it like we do. Maybe they don’t have any choice.

I was shaking too hard to even light a cigarette. I tried, and I dropped my lighter. I told myself that I didn’t need to be smoking in my stand anyway, but I’ve always been a poor disciplinarian. I rooted around in my field jacket until I found some matches. I thought maybe smoking would help me throw off the shivering. It didn’t. If anything, it got worse.