I have not hunted that

I have not hunted that piece of land since that morning, and I do not say that because I got scared

by a noise in the woods, or because I let my imagination get away from me.

I grew up hunting.

I know what deer sound like.

I know what raccoons sound like.

I know what it sounds like when a squirrel makes enough noise to convince you a grown man is walking through dry leaves.

I am not saying I am some mountain man or anything like that, but I am comfortable in the woods,

especially on land my family has owned since before I was born.

That is what bothers me the most. This did not happen

in some place I had never been. It happened on ground where I knew every logging trail, every

creek crossing, every old fence post, and every stand of cedars thick enough to hide in. The land is in

southern Missouri, not too far from Salem. My dad always just called it

the 80, even though after my grandfather bought the backstrip from a neighbor years ago, it was closer to

110 acres. It is not a giant ranch or anything. It is a mixed-up Ozarks property with hardwood

ridges, cedar pockets, a dry creek that

only runs after heavy rain, and one old shed on the south side that nobody used anymore.

My grandpa used to keep feet in that shed back when he still had cattle.

By the time this happened, the roof sagged, the door hung crooked, and the inside smelled like mice, old

hay, and gasoline from cans that had been empty for 20 years. Nobody had a reason to go in

there, so nobody really did. Every deer season, my dad and I would hunt the same general spots.

He liked the North Ridge because he was getting older, and it was

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