I shot a coyote while deer hunting a long time ago. On the way to a deer stand on the edge of a bog deep in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. It was a running shot at about 50 yards – a heart shot way beyond my ability. Dad heard the shot and came expecting to find me tagging a deer.
Back at camp that evening along the Wolf River, my trophy hung alone on the game pole. I was the youngest at camp and that coyote made me a celebrity among men. Its dusty tanned hide still hangs in the garage, 40 years later.
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