It is said that patience is a virtue. I consider myself a patient guy, and normally, I’d agree with this comment. If November sneaks up to you before you count down the days, then you are not one of us. By saying “us”, I speak of the elite group of people who every year impatiently await the month of November. The almighty month of bonding, siting silently, getting up before the sun, and most immortally, the month of the “what ifs.” Yes, I am speaking of the praised month of deer hunting. This is the only month of the year in which groups of people strategically place themself in the middle of nowhere, 12 feet high in trees, and dress themselves in camo and bright orange. This may sound ridiculous to the majority of society, yet every member, of our growing club, understands and appreciates every moment of it. Yes, that cold November month; where the beer flows freely and the stories of past hunts resurface year after year, yet never grow old. The month where a year’s worth of anticipation may end with disappointment because of a single branch, placed irresponsibly by mother nature.

On normal winter days, for normal people, the below zero temperature keeps them hiding in there homes, awaiting spring and a 60 degree day. But for us, the cold is a relief . It is a cure for the fast heart rate and boiling blood after tipping a brilliant, massive racked animal. I have been hunting for almost a decade now, and over half of those years were spent in a tree—cold and silent—resulting in what some non-hunters may call failure. But just one moment can make up for those story-less years.

For some, sounds of joy may be a favorite song, rain hitting the awnings above a bedroom window, or even laughter. But for me, I crave the sounds of crunching leaves, roaring invisible grunts from a distant swamp, and the sound of a powerful rifle in the distance, wondering if it was successful. In such a place where the hunted out number the hunters, and the abundance of trees and obstacles dominate both. A place where the odds weigh heavily against your goal, and yet, many hunters return home every year with memories and visions that will run off their tongues twice as many times as their minds will replay.

Everyone, hunter or not, wants to find a luxurious getaway. A place where there are no televisions, no cell phones ringing, and no conversations of work or failure. I have found my place, I have been there. It is hidden deep in unexploded sections of the woods, only visited by creatures that reside there. A place where my grandfather toured to my young father, who then guided me and brother through just to pass on such a joyous hobby, and which I plan on showing my unborn child to some day. Another such bonding situation does not exist, at least not in my perspective.

The obstacle: finding the one right tree out of millions, placing yourself in it, luring the one biggest deer of thousands, and placing this trust on one weekend of a whole year. The goal: to find the buck of a lifetime, a prize rack on your wall, and a freezer full of sausage and back straps. The confidence of having a friend or loved one enjoy the taste of your well earned venison is worth all the hard work and preparations. It may just give you yet another chance to retell your successful hunt.

Slowly squeezing a resisting metal trigger and before ears start ringing, seeing a monster buck stumble as a result of your steadiness and patience. That’s what it is all about. A few weekends of the year where race and gender don’t matter. Everyone is family if they’re in camo or bright orange. A time where strangers enjoy stories and info of each others days with full attention. Successful or lonely. It doesn’t matter here. Other hunters are interested in how your day turned out in those uninhabited woods.

Whether you consider yourself a threat with a bow and arrow, or embrace yourself as a marksman with that cold scope on your rifle, you’ll await the 11th month of the year. It’s ok if you cannot recall your anniversary or the birthday of a loved one, just so long as you remember that sweet, long-awaited and well-deserved weekend of the deer opener. Because on this day anything can happen. Good luck to all of you who will enter those intimidating woods with hope and pray. May your hunt be filled with crunching leaves, manly grunts, and excellent decisions. May your stories afterwards be entertaining and unforgettable.

As I end, I must express my concern that all stay safe and unhurt during this wonderful hunting season. All too soon, the season will come to an end. And the only thing that should be hurt or die; is dreams. Dreams of a successful hunt of a gigantic, graceful horned buck. And you always have next year to make them come true. May you have the foresight and patience to pass on a nice size buck, following that warm gut feeling that a wall hanger will be visiting you later. Remember, patience is a virtue. Good Luck!