I spent the day holding a friend's hand while the buck he arrowed expired. He's the guy that taught me to make bows, took me deer hunting for the first time, called in my very first gobbler, etc, etc.
Sixty-five years old and instantly turns into a wreck when he shoots a deer. Second guessing himself, berating himself for a bad shot, saying he will never hunt again, ratcheda-ratcheda-ratcheda! The shot, it turns out, wasn't that bad, but the little buck was tough as nails.
When we got the buck home and hung in the garage, I showed him how to filet a heart and turn it into one long rectangular steak. We pan fried it in bacon grease and seasoned with a touch of salt and pepper.
Ahhh, life IS good. Even if I didn't get to even walk into the woods and load my flintlock. Even if I lost a whole day of hunting at the end of rut when the bucks are running at anything that sounds like antlers rattling.