I am 12 years old. It is 1958. This is my second year of deer hunting. Last year, I came out a few times, but never pulled my rifle. This is the fourth ride this fall. However, this day is different. It feels as if it was made for me, the way the morning started with the men and the babbling creek including me in conversation, and the way we ride the narrow trail in silence, patiently intent on getting somewhere.