A first buck, two brothers, and one last hunt

We grew up on this ridge. The same saddle, the same glassing knob, the same joke about who would spot him first. This year it was the younger one.

He made a clean shot at first light. We sat with the animal longer than we needed to. Some hunts you rush. This one you don't.

If you have a story like this — a first, a last, or the one you still tell around the tailgate — send it in. We publish the ones that sound like they happened here.