The pines were swaying back and forth as if Mother Nature were throwing a giant waltz.

Not knowing if the storm was going to hit our area, I had waited till the last minute to batten down the hatches in preparation for Hurricane Floyd and was scrambling to tie down the boats and canoes in the backyard.

The rain was just beginning in earnest; and Mackie, my dog, and I were making one more tour of the area before we locked down for the evening. As we rounded the corner of the garden shed, Mackie stiffened as if on point; and when I looked toward the woods, I saw three deer poised at the tree line. They looked right at us and stood motionless for several seconds before bounding into the woods. "All right Mackie, they’re just looking for a place to weather the storm." I said.

As we stood there, I started thinking about the deer and my one and only hunt in the Wasatch Mountains in Utah in the late ‘80s.

If you’ve ever been to the Rocky Mountains you know what I mean when I say, "Those things are steep!" I had been climbing the mountains for four days and was really just getting used to the terrain. What a week it had been, my first trip to the Great Rocky Mountains and my first time mule deer hunting. Really my first trip deer hunting anywhere and if ever a novice deer hunter was psyched, I was.

It took me two days to get used to the 10,000-foot altitude and the other two to learn to follow the deer trails as they switched back and forth up the mountain rather than tackle the ridge straight on as I had done at the beginning of the hunt.

The scenery was breath taking. As I trudged upward I kept wondering how our forefathers had pushed their horses and wagons over the Rockies. The sky was a deep blue, and the silence was almost deafening. The only sounds were the crunching that I made climbing through the aspen leaves and my heart beating as I tried to catch my breath. This was the last day of the hunt.

I left the cabin late with the idea of hunting a small aspen grove about two ridges up the mountain. I figured I would hunt in the afternoon, then call it a day. When I got to the grove, I propped up against a tree and nibbled on some jerky that I had in my pack. It seemed like I had just dozed off when I awoke with a start.

The sun was falling behind a ridge and a shaft of sunlight angled up the draw at the other end of the grove that I was hunting. That’s when I saw him, a giant mule deer! My Lord, he was magnificent. He must have weighed 250 pounds. And horns! As I eased my binoculars to my eyes, I counted six points on each side, and he was coming straight down the draw to me. What do I do now? My rifle was loaded, the scope sighted in.

All I needed to do was wait. It took him almost 30 minutes to work his way down the draw to the edge of the clearing. There he paused as if to make sure everything was OK before he proceeded on down the mountain. All the while I had the rifle scope crosshairs centered on his massive chest. He was so close that I could see the steam coming from his nostrils as he snorted and sniffed and nervously pawed the ground.

Call it what you will. Buck fever, amateurism, not wanting to haul him to the cabin. Whatever. I could not pull the trigger. I felt he belonged on that mountain more than he did with me. So I slowly stood and waved my arms and watched him leap up over the ridge.

Hurricane Floyd’s wind aroused me from my memories as the weather began to get serious. While Mackie and I headed to the garage, I wondered if that deer is still roaming the Wasatch.

I like to think so.