I have a bunch of horns nailed up in the garage, and I can describe the hunt for almost all of them.
What stands out the most, though, is not the deer themselves. It's the camaraderie of walking-hunting with a bunch of guys you like and respect--and trust. The BS around the campfire, and the divvying up of camp chores. It's the sunrises and sunsets. The weather that's too hot to walk or gut a deer, or too blamed cold to just sit in a stand--but it makes for a lot of joke-bitchin' in camp.
I remember afternoons and evenings sitting around a tank, waiting for doves and the laughing at each other over how many shells it took to get a limit. Or bailing out of my truck, chasing blue quail through cactus, catclaw and lecheguilla--cussin' that metamorphosis that happens when you shoot a blue: He turns into a rock and becomes invisible, and you can hunt for him for half-an-hour. "But wasn't that a pretty shot!"
I almost feel sorry for folks who don't hunt, and won't ever experience that warm satisfaction we lucky ones know.
, Art