May 03, 2022
By Will Brantley
I know some old men who’ve hunted the same stands every November for 40 years. Their spots go by generic names: The Corner, The Shelf, The Holler. Often the hide is a box blind—maybe just some plywood panels with a sloped roof atop a single bench seat and a floor of questionable stability. Or maybe it’s a ladder stand, grown slightly into the tree’s trunk and doctored every October with a fresh ratchet strap.
They are hunters who chew tobacco and eat fried chicken in the stand. They piss right out onto the ground—deep amber, coffee-smelling stuff—and consider the wind only when a deer snorts at them. I don’t want to wax too nostalgic and...
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