It was bitterly cold in the heart of Alabama’s January rut. I wore three layers of clothing and had hand warmers tucked everywhere I could fit them, yet I was still shivering when I heard footsteps approaching.

Deep down, I knew it was him.

What made the moment even more surreal was that Alabama’s gun season was still open. The woods were full of rifle hunters, yet I was carrying my Mathews Lift and trying to beat a mature buck with a bow. After weeks of hunting pressure, I knew he would be on high alert.

The story actually began before the season opened. While e-scouting, I found an intriguing terrain feature: a main ridgeline saddle that split into two distinct finger ridges. It looked like the perfect travel corridor for a cruising buck, but I stayed away until conditions were ideal.

When a strong north wind finally arrived, it felt like Christmas morning. I grabbed my backpack and saddle gear and slipped into the woods well before daylight. I climbed a pine overlooking the upper ridge, but the thick cover left me with only one meaningful shooting lane — a narrow opening that stretched about 35 yards. Just after sunrise, a young buck slipped through the draw behind me, but the brush was too dense for a shot.

Nine more days of hunting passed before I had another opportunity.

I hunted the spot whenever the wind was right. Deer regularly filtered through the draw, but I was holding out for something special. After all, this was my final buck tag of the season. One afternoon, a small fork-horn walked down the trail, stopped perfectly broadside and looked the other direction. It would have been an easy shot, but he wasn’t the buck I was waiting for.

Then came the afternoon of Jan. 3.

I parked near the creek, geared up and began the three-quarter-mile hike to my stand. The wind was favorable but gusted hard. During the lulls, the woods became eerily quiet, so I timed every step with the wind. To disguise my cadence, I tapped my toe before placing each foot on the ground, mimicking the uneven rhythm of a four-legged animal.

The approach was painfully slow. It took an hour to reach the base of a massive white oak and another 30 minutes to climb into my saddle, organize my gear and add another layer against the deepening cold.

The white oak overlooked an ideal setup about 30 yards from where the ridge divided into two finger ridges. I intentionally positioned myself below the trails to take advantage of the evening thermals as they drifted downhill.

Despite the promising setup, the afternoon was quiet. The only deer I saw was a yearling doe that visited nearly every hunt. I had nicknamed her Annabelle and often passed the time filming her with my phone.

Then, just as the sun slipped behind the pines, everything changed.

I heard footsteps.

They sounded heavy, and I knew exactly what they meant.

I couldn’t see through the thick brush, so my eyes searched every opening until a shape finally materialized. Then I saw the antlers.

A heavy frame crowned his head.

This was him.

When the buck stepped behind a tree at 30 yards, I drew my bow. He continued toward me, angling almost directly beneath my position before suddenly stopping. In an instant, he wheeled around and bounded backward twice. He had caught a faint swirl of my scent and was seconds from disappearing.

Fortunately, I was already at full draw.

I settled my pin on his vitals and released.

The arrow struck true, and the buck collapsed within sight.

I hung my bow on the tree hook, my hands shaking so badly I could barely control them. Once I regained my composure, I called my friends Andy and Jim.

Andy brought a sled. Jim handled the photography. Together, they did most of the heavy lifting.

Dragging that buck off the ridge in the dark was an adventure all its own, but that’s a story for another day.