If you ask a hunter why they hunt, you may receive different responses of the same composure. Whether it be for the meat, the horns, or the memories made in the field, no two stories are alike. This is mine: Sitting in the blind of opening day in Texas usually means hot weather and sweat. This year was different. Mother nature broke loose and the first day of Fall was in the air; 50 degrees and overcast. As the sun started to peak above the horizon, black silhouettes started to fill the food patch. A doe and her two fawns were grazing within sight when they became nervous and spooked. As they trotted off in the distance, two young bucks moved into sight. As the fork-horns began sparring, I noticed something within the distance appear. Zig-zagging amongst the trees emerged another contender. His back was swayed and his brisket heavy. I knew at that very moment, he was a shooter, a mature main-frame 8. As I reached for my bow and rangefinder, my mind began to race, my hands started to shake, and my heart began to beat. Some call this buck-fever, I call it a passion-a thrill-and a blessing. The mature buck made his way down the trail and began sparring with the two fork-horns. They chased one another all over the food patch as I prayed for an opportunity. After what felt like an eternity, he stopped. The rangefinder said 35 yards. I put the pin right behind the scapula, and let the arrow fly. The Drone blew through him like butter. He ran 50 yards and fell. The rest is history.