For those of you who read and responded to last week's column on my deer hunting, thank you. I only feel it right to report on my sojourn into the northern woods this past weekend, along with brothers, brother-in-laws, nephews and nieces and nephews-in-law. It was a colorful group to be found sitting around the noon campfire, attired in blaze orange everything from socks to stocking caps. It's hard to miss a deer hunting crew in the field. They glow like a red hot charcoal briquette.

I would call this the deer opener "the opener of the swans." Hundreds of migrating swans were dabbling in the shallow lakes and sloughs of our area over the weekend. Saturday morning dawned bright and clear and it sounded like downtown Chicago at rush hour when the swans decided to talk to each other. Huge white birds wailed their wings over our deer stands. Some of them sounded like they'd been talking too much because their honk was more like a rasp. I almost forgot I was trying to garner venison as I craned my neck upward to watch these magnificent birds pass overhead against the background of a deep blue sky.

Our group had done a minimal amount of deer scouting this year, due to busy schedules and wet weather. Our stands were in place, but we had not done our normal "walk about" the land to find out if there were indeed any whitetails inhabiting our hunting land. It's always nice to find a large "scrape" next to your deer stand, meaning that a buck with love on his mind has been using the trail in front of your shooting lane.

My brother, Steve, was the first to hit pay-dirt harvesting a nice 6-point buck. My nephew-in-law Michael followed suit with a nice doe.

Two mature does sauntered in front of my stand at 7:30 Saturday morning, but I thought it was just too early to end the season, so I let them pass after they basically walked up to my stand and sniffed at the base of my ladder stand. I hoped they wouldn't be the last deer I'd see during the season, which can and does happen when a hunter gets cocky.

Sunday dawned dark and quiet with rain in the air. My nephew Christian and I walked down the dark, forest trail and he peeled off toward the "nail keg" stand. I had explained to Christian that this was a good stand with a southeast wind and told him to stay awake. I walked the quarter mile further to my stand, which has a reputation of being a producer every year. I would not be disappointed this year.

A doe came along the edge of the swamp, I pulled the rifle to its shooting position, the doe stopped, sniffed something not quite right, did a somersault and bounced back into the heavy thicket without giving the chance to pull my trigger. Silently I wondered if I should have secured our venison supply the day before when the does stood broadside for minutes before walking away.

An hour later a shot rang out across the lowland from the direction of Christian's stand. Then another. Deer hunters have a theory that one shot means venison in the bag, two shots mean maybe and three or more mean someone is cussing in a tree near you. Two shots seemed to mean that Christian had success and that came to be true when I learned later that he had a nice two-year-old buck for his first year of rifle hunting.

A half hour later a nice 8-point buck with love on his mind came tripping down the trail in front of my stand and I'll be putting venison in the freezer some time this week. Enough said. Two shots.

There were deer in our woods this year. One of our hunters put up an overnight game camera which caught a photo of a massive buck that no one saw during the weekend. He's still out there and safe for the time being. But no one knows where love will lead him.

I'd advise him to stay out of the dance halls and away from chasing girls for about two more weeks.

See you next time. Okay?