It all started back in summer. Must have been July or so.

We were all inside -- my sisters and I -- watching TV -- staying cool in the air conditioning.

Then we started wondering what happened to Dad. We no longer could hear the drone of the lawnmower.

I went outside. There he was lying face first in the grass with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

I ran over to him screaming, "Dad, Dad, get up!" I was frenzied with panic. I could only hold on to cold, clammy bicep sobbing.

But my older sister knew what to do. She ran back inside and called 911. Sadly, it would be too late.

Albeit the paramedics revived him in the yard, he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

So now here I was three months later thinking how strange it was that I was humping back to our favorite hunting spot alone.

The dry fallen leaves were lightly crunching as I steadily walked along the oak flats to the stand he built in three-trunk maple a few years back.

I could almost hear Dad cursing next to me while each footfall would create more crunching.

"Oh, they're going to hear us and be off to the next county," he would say through whispers and groans, as if the deer couldn't hear that over our rushed tippy-toeing through the underbrush.

What was even more odd was the mere fact I was even venturing out on this muggy October fall day. I would often dread going out with him because sometimes the long sits in the fall-winter chill would leave me wondering where my toes went. Or the rain on other trips would have me so water logged I swore it took three days to dry out.

But then there would the OTHER hunts, when we would chase down a nice buck from one cut cornfield to the next, or make a nice shot on a fat pheasant or lure in a cagey tom from 200 yards away. You just never knew.

I guess that's why he called hunting a "never-know proposition."

At last I made it to our spot. I usually sat over in a large pine with clear shooting lanes about 75 yards from Dad's stand. But today, I would climb up into his stand, which made this day stranger yet.

After a slightly strenuous climb up the tree steps, I pulled myself on to the four wooden planks supported two 2-by-4s.

I leaned back against one the trunks and opted against the seat Dad made. I was finally comfortable. The surprising stifling fall heat seemed less oppressive 20 feet in the air with the slight breeze picking up now and then.

I didn't expect to see much with the heat and all. This was one of those days Dad would call "doing your homework." Getting out there to practice your woodsmanship and observe any new signs the deer might be making.

Two hours had passed. I had seen two bushy tails circle the oaks in front of me but that was it.

The sun was beginning to dip below the treeline.

Then, there was lone deer making his way through the thick saplings and grass about 70 yards away to my front. But this apparently wasn't just any deer. He had horns and he was checking out scrapes and making a new rub. I was almost positive this was "old gray-nose."

"Old gray-nose," as Dad called him because of his aging white features in his face, was a nice mature 10-point in the what would appear to be in the 150 class or better, and had been giving us the slip back here for what seemed years.

But there was a problem. He was slowly trolling away from my setup and darkness was not too far off. It was clear he wasn't going to come in my direction.

I creeped my hand back into the worn-out pack I had used for years, but of course there weren't any calls in there. I forgot them back at the house. Dad would have loved this scenario. The dogging he would have dropped on me would have gone on most likely for hours.

The thing was is, I usually counted on him to do the calling. Whether it was deer or turkey, there weren't many hunters that could match him. At least that's the way it was the times I went out with other guys.

I was beside myself. Then, I couldn't believe what I saw. Hanging up on Dad's hook was his "never-fail grunt call." This wasn't one of those top-flight Knight & Hale or Primos calls that cost an arm and a leg, but a no-brander he bought at a hunting show years ago. Nothing drew in bucks like this baby.

What was more amazing was that it was there. Dad was so meticulous about equipment it would be unheard of that he would forget about one of his favorite calls in the woods.

Only last season we spent nearly two hours in the dark searching for his extra mini-flashlight that somehow fell out of his pack.

But here was his old reliable "never-fail grunt call."

Now, the next question was whether it would work after enduring the rest of the winter, spring and summer outside in the elements.

There was no time for practice. I was sure the buck was going to see me up in the stand I was shaking so bad and especially if I reached out for the "never-fail."

I chanced it when he looked the other way.

"Buuuwhaaaaaapp."

It worked perfectly but "old gray-nose" didn't budge.

I blew harder -- "buuuuuwhaaaapppppppp" and a second in rapid succession.

The last one got his attention. He stopped and headed straight for my setup like someone was going to be in trouble when he got there.

Getting the bow let alone drawing would be tough but a few minutes later I found myself at full draw, waiting for him to close another 10 yards.

Once he crossed the magical threshold, I let the arrow go. I never saw it hit but the way he kicked I knew I made the shot count.

I watched him trot off and weave in and out of the thick underbrush to my front like a drunken sailor. Then I heard the soft crash a few moments later.

"I can't believe what just happened?" I thought to myself. I climbed down after a wait that seemed like an eternity to make sure he was down for good.

Dad always taught me even though you might have an idea where the fallen deer might be that you should always first look over the shot area like a detective. Just to confirm everything. The arrow was streaked red.

I picked up the blood trail and found the brute 25 yards behind the underbrush he was previously inspecting before his fatal walk to me.

The drag back to the tree had me sweating profusely and winded. But I didn't care, I just brought down the wise "old gray-nose." Man, tears were welling up when I thought how proud Dad would have been.

Then, I remembered, I left the "never-fail grunt call" up in the tree stand. I was coveting that almost has much as the great buck.

I knew getting back up there would be tough and get me even more tired for getting the deer out of the woods but I didn't care.

Once I pulled myself up on to the platform, I was stunned to see that the "never-fail grunt call" was not on the hook.

After a long search around the tree and back and forth to where the deer piled up, now in darkness under the glow of a flashlight, I couldn't find it. I rifled through my pack over and over again but it was not there.

I even came back the next day but came back empty handed.

For the rest of the season, I would always trace around the area if it was a day hunt and look for it before I'd head back to the house.

It never turned up.

Later, much later, I realized, Dad's ghost had put the call there.