The most beautiful six-point stag ran out in front of me tonight. We were perhaps ten feet apart. He must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and perhaps three hundred pounds. He was moving with all the speed his magnificent frame could supply. We came around a corner, where a pickup truck had been parked by the road -- poachers, probably.
What a fine day today was. It was warm and wet, and the autumn colors were fantastic. My wife has become an excellent rider. We were taking those country back roads at a good speed. She has learned to ride at speed in formation, taking the curves along that ridge road with ease and grace.
The buck was a brush with death, and those are very welcome. They are half the reason to ride. It refreshes the sense of wonder, and of the beauty of the world.
That stag got away, I am sure of it. A few feet beyond the road he was cutting across, if he had turned left he would be headed toward a small pond located in the deep woods. Long before he got there he would be in bramble men cross only with great effort, though deer seem to do it with great ease.
Good luck to him. He did me no harm, and much good.