B
ill McDonnell was go-
ing bonkers. Deer sea-
son had begun, but it was
colder than usual, so here
he was, sitting among the
mounted bucks inside his rancher in
Winchester, Virginia, watching winter
through the windows.
Up until his late 80s, Bill hadn’t
minded hunting in subzero tempera-
tures, but he had slowed in the past
few years. The snow-dusted moun-
tains of the Shenandoah Valley were
no place for a 92-year-old. He knew it.
But man, did he want to get outside.
Then, on December 15, the forecast
brightened, and before he announced
his intentions, his wife, Joanna Mc-
Donnell, knew what he was up to. The
couple went through an old song and
dance whenever this happened.
“You’re not going,” Joanna would
say.
“I’m going,” Bill would shoot back.
Joanna would try to bargain. “You’re
not taking your gun. Stay on a trail.”
“I’m hunting,” he’d say.
“Take a friend,” she’d reply.
“They’re all dead.”
“Take Bill Jr.” (Not possible that day.
Bill McDonnell Jr. would be at a foot-
ball game.)
Joanna: “You’re a dang old fool!”
Bill: “Agreed.”
But this particular day, Joanna didn’t
even try to talk sense into her husband.
Bill had fought in World War II and Ko-
rea. He’d been a sailor, and after that
a soldier. A “country boy through andthrough,” he might respect his wife’s
wishes on most topics, but not when
it came to the call of the wild. There
was a place he hadn’t hunted in a long
time, and he wanted to get out there
once more before he was too old.
The next morning, Bill woke up at
four, grabbed his muzzleloader, and
steered his Jeep toward Shenandoah
Mountain. At the end of the old Lau-
rel Run logging road, he hit the trail
on foot.
It was about 7:30 a.m. and 25 de-
grees when the sun peeked through
the trees. Bill had strict instructions
from Joanna to be out of the woods by
2 p.m. and home by 3 p.m.—plenty of
time before sunset, in case he missed
the deadline. Which he often did.
Not long into the hike, he came upon
a path he didn’t remember. Maybe
this was a secret route to the king of all
bucks. He took it.
As the temperature climbed through
the 30s, Bill veered off and back onto
the trail, looking for tracks and rub-
bings on trees, signs that a buck might
be over the next ridge. He wouldn’t kill
it—he just liked to get a trophy in the
sight of his scope, enough of a kick to
feel the blood surging in his old veins.
Then, around 11 a.m., he emerged
into a clearing along a ridgeline. He’d
walked farther than he’d suspected.
“What the ... ?” he muttered.
It seemed that his path up the
mountain had meandered quite a bit.
There might be a quicker route back
to the Jeep—as the crow flies, anyway. previousspread:^ april^greer^ (mcdonnell)100 june 2019
Reader’s Digest Drama in Real Life