He was shaking his head.

"I can't believe these people."

I knew the "people" he was talking about were his folks.

He had just stepped out of his dad's pickup, after pulling up behind me for the second time in less than 30 minutes.

The first time, he had run me down, flashing his lights, as I slowly worked my way up the canyon road. They had seen me scanning their hay field, and had assumed (correctly) that I was looking for the little buck deer who had his jaw shot off.

No, they weren't the ones who had called in the report, but they had seen him, early this morning, and knew the fellow who had called the report in.

He introduced himself then, adding who his father was. Yeah, I know his dad. And I remember him, too, at an age around maybe 10 years old. But I don't tell him that. He's a grown man now, living out of state. Just home for the fall hunt. We discuss the injured deer, and it's likely prognosis, and hiding places near water. Then I resume my search up the canyon, to the spring that provides the only running source into this stream. I watch him turn around in the narrow canyon road.

No deer near the spring, so the sisters and I turn back and head down the canyon again. Crawling at 5 mph until we reach the meadows. We park, and search the aspens and willows above the fenceline on foot.

No deer.

So we park on the road and glass the field again. Watching five healthy deer, waiting for number six to come out of the willows.

We're in plain view of the house, and I watched as this young man was sent outside, got into the truck, and drove down the driveway to eventually end up parked behind me again. Muttering complaints about his folks.

They say I'm welcome to walk the creek on their land if I want, and I'm supposed to come up to the house for apples.

He acts like this is an odd request, and that he expects me to politely decline.

But I've known his folks for a long time. Only reason I hadn't already pulled in to the house is because I know a visit will take up most of the evening. Time I need to find and kill an injured deer.

So he heads back, and I finally get a good look at number six, who is fine, and then follow his dust up to the house.

His dad is standing on the stoop, shouting in mock anger "What do we have to do to get you to come to the house? Flash the lights?"

I suggest they hang a big banner from their trees, like the town bars have to "Welcome Hunters." Which gets a big laugh.

'Course, laughs come easily to this friend of mine.

So we visit briefly, and discuss how bad the deer looked. And I am told several times to help myself to their land to look for the poor critter.

But not until I take some apples home. Picked from their lone tree down by the creek.

"Your wife will bake you a pie, won't she?"

I don't brag about the Grand Prize Ribbon she won at the county fair for her apple pie. The apple pie she condescended to cook, foregoing her favorites, knowing that the judges they had for that year would not select anything except an apple pie.

Only if I cook dinner, do the dishes, and clean the house so she has time to bake, is my response.

We enter the Man's room attached to the garage. Only roughly finished, but decorated with trophies on the wall, shelves of old books, and work benches piled with tools and equipment. Nothing like the perfectly and finely decorated home that I have been in before. Their son is already filling a bag with red apples from the boxes on the floor.

They're like our apples, only bigger and redder. A few could have come from our tree. He says they are Hibbards. So now I know. I snatched one from a box and polished it off before biting in. Sweet and tart, at the same time.

For once, our visit is brief. I need to check their fields before dark. Drove to one end, and walked the creek, both sides, with the sisters. Flushed out does and fawns, but no buck.

Time to go home. The warden will be out here tomorrow to continue the search.

Met a truck cruising slowly down the road as we wended our way home over the mountains. A deer hunter and his wife, hoping to catch a buck out for an early evening feed. I tell him about the two little bucks I saw down by the river. Knowing that it is too late for him to get there before shooting hours end.

Two little bucks, in different herds, on public land, just off the public road. Perfectly harvestable, at less than 100 yards, yet there they each were, gently feeding away.

And me with a valid license in my pocket.

Found another little buck doing the exact same thing, not five minutes after leaving that hunter. Took the time to shoot him with the camera.

Had snapped a few other shots while we searched the hills today. Most of the fall leaves are gone, but not all:

As before, we were deep in the canyons when the sun set, so completely missed the reds and pinks. But did get a nice view of the lake under the rising moon as we came out of the mountains.