I’d once been an active man, a man who knew how to walk in the woods. Even in the dark I could find my way to the wild brook, where I’d be fishing by dawn, able to see deer come down from the mountain to drink.<\/p>\n
By 1980 those woodland days were over. For more than 15 years I’d been confined to a wheelchair, a victim of crippling rheumatoid arthritis. I did my best to live a full life, and I still felt loved by God. Just the same, when November’s sporting season came ’round, I tended to be bitter.<\/p>\n
One November Saturday a few old hunting buddies came over. The season wasn’t due to open for a few days, but they were on their way to Clark’s Valley just to scout for deer. They were all excited. They said they would see a deer for me.<\/p>\n
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’d really like to see one myself.” My buddies couldn’t reply to that.<\/p>\n
That afternoon I sat in my wheelchair and tried to watch a football game on TV, but I kept thinking of tramping in Clark’s Valley. The game ended and I didn’t even know who’d won. I closed my eyes and threw myself a pity party, wanting so badly to be out there where I could see a deer.<\/p>\n
At last I reopened my eyes and looked out our picture window. There, on my lawn, staring straight into my eyes, stood the biggest buck I’d ever seen. I called to my wife. Ginny came running. She saw too.<\/p>\n
The buck stared at me a moment longer, then loped silently away, his big rack spread wide like angel wings. Right here in Pennsylvania’s capital city.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n