Hunting stories rarely appear in this space, but after three decades, I'm going to make an exception.

Over the years, I've heard some tall hunting tales. Like shooting an elk which rolls down a hill and stops right beside the truck. Never happens to me. Actually, I've pretty much given up elk hunting.

Most of the time I hunt alone and, if I were lucky enough to shoot an elk, I wouldn't know which part to pack out first. Nowadays, I'd fully expect some furry critter to be feasting on whatever parts I didn't take the first trip out.

But I digress. One rainy, windy morning last week, I left the truck shortly after 8 a.m. on an old logging road. Almost immediately, I crossed fresh elk tracks. No elk license, no elk hunting.

For the next four hours, I "stumble-hunted" to the top of a wind-swept ridge, then back to the truck, stopping occasionally to rattle some antlers. I saw six does. No bucks.

Back in the truck, I ate lunch, listened to the news on the radio and took a short nap. At 1 p.m., I decided to re-trace my steps to the top of the ridge. I walked about 20 yards, stopped and loaded my gun. When I looked through the scope, I saw antlers. Unbelievable.

A big whitetail buck, less than 50 yards away, was running full speed right at me. Worried the buck would bolt sideways when he saw me, I held the gun steady.

The buck put on the brakes, briefly stood sideways at about 40 feet and took its last breath. Ninety-eight steps from the truck.

I wasn't even sweating after dragging it to the truck where a dad and son helped me load it. They were following a cow elk the son had shot, but they stayed long enough to take some photos for me.

Unbelievable. The first time I looked through the scope, I saw antlers.

I'm guessing if I'd first seen the buck, then raised the gun, the deer would have seen me and Fishfull wouldn't have venison jerky this winter.