One day my (now) ex-husband, then boyfriend, announced that he was going to look at a new hunting lease.
"Can I go?" I love the woods and this sounded like fun. Besides, I didn't know anything about hunting or, before that, anyone who did, that I knew of. Growing up, I had read and reread Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, all the shipwreck books. Today, survival makes for popular prime time television. But not then.
My request seemed to surprise him, but after a moment's thought he said, "Okay, I'll take you."
Friday night it poured. Saturday, we pulled up to the gate onto the new lease in his old blue Firebird. We stepped over the heavy chain gate onto the slick red clay of the logging road. I slipped and slid next to his sure steps, and my city loafers became covered 
with mud, but I was not going to complain--or quit. Finally, he noticed my shoes, threw me over his shoulder and laughed, "Tomorrow, I'll buy you some boots."
He put me down on a sandy stretch of road. We had only gone a few steps when he froze, so I did as well.
"Look," he whispered softly, without moving.
At first, I saw nothing. Then a reddish brown ear twitched. For a moment
I could see the whole deer, and then it bounded away.
He turned to me and saw my awakening buck fever.
"Summer colors," he smiled.
