BY LUKE FRONTCZAK   The morning had been perfect – clear skies with a long narrow blanket of fog covering the valley floor below my hillside perch, which turned pink as the sun came up. Five seconds before beginning the trek back to camp, a little motion caught my eye as I put on my backpack. Pulling up my binos, antlers filled my vision. My butt involuntarily fell to the ground, and I felt my heart shift from fifth gear into second. After five years of hunting Washington state, this was the ...

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