B

ill mcdonnell was

going bonkers.

Deer season had

begun, but it was

colder than usual,

so here he was, sit-

ting among the

mounted bucks

inside his house near Winchester, Va.,

watching winter through the windows.

Up until his late 80s, McDonnell

hadn’t minded hunting in sub-zero

temperatures, 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. But man,

did he want to get outside.

Then, on December 15, the forecast

brightened, and before he announced

his intentions, his wife, Joanna McDon-

nell, knew what he was up to. The cou-

ple went through an old song and

dance whenever this happened.

“You’re not going,” Joanna would say.

“I’m going,” McDonnell 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.

Their son would be at a football game.)

Joanna: “You’re a dang old fool!”

McDonnell: “Agreed.”

But on this particular day, Joanna

didn’t even try to talk sense into her

husband. McDonnell had fought in the

Second World War and in Korea. He’d

been a sailor, and after that a soldier.

A “country boy through and through,”

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 hunting season was over.

the next morning, McDonnell woke

up at 4 a.m., grabbed his muzzleloader

and steered his Jeep toward Shenan-

doah Mountain. At the end of the old

Laurel Run logging road, he hit the

trail on foot.

It was about 7:30 a.m. and -4 C when

the sun peeked through the trees.

McDonnell 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

that 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 thought, and took it.

As the temperature climbed above

freezing, McDonnell veered off and

back onto the trail, looking for tracks

and rubbings 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 sur-

ging in his old veins.

Then, around 11 a.m., he emerged

into a clearing along a ridgeline. He’d

reader’s digest

52 october 2019