“Never pass up something on the first day that you’d shoot on the last day.”

It’s one of the first lessons of hunting, and I ignored it. Sunday morning, and my week in the pasture was drawing to a close. The sun was fully up. The deer were probably already lying down, as evolution intended, camouflaged in the brown grass, which had minutes before glowed neon-orange during the just expired-dawn.

On the previous Thursday, I had a shot, and I passed. My brother, Jay, and I were preparing to haul a mule deer (aka “muley”) out of a ravine. It was my father’s kill, but having two boys you’ve raised and unfailingly cared for means, at 72, it’s no longer your job to drag a deer 20 feet up a steep incline. I don’t recall ever agreeing to such an arrangement, but it’s part of the deal now.

As we struggled uphill, I saw him. He cut a hole through the searing yellow dusk. He was in range, and of decent size. He wasn’t enough. I get to hunt once a year, and I wanted something substantial. Not for trophy or ego, but for my freezer. I was out in Nebraska on that November day to bring as much venison back to Chicago as I could. I returned to the task at hand, moving and then cleaning my dad’s deer.

By Sunday, I had resigned myself to going home empty-handed. Quality family time would have to suffice, apparently. I started back, and I saw him again—still smaller than the muley I passed on Thursday, but he would do. Gun steady, safety off, deep breath. Exhale, squeeze, don’t pull. Bang. Breathe, watch. Another deer, another hill, another drag.

Back at camp, it was still only 9:30 am. Jay and I began loading up camp and into the pick-up as my dad supervised (I don’t recall ever agreeing to that arrangement, either).

While packing up the fridge, I grabbed one of my last Vienna Lagers from Kros Strain Brewery, and decided my coffee cup would be better repurposed as a beer mug. I filled it up to the top, slammed what didn’t fit, and sat down next to my dad.

Cold in a dirt driveway, surrounded by dusty, dead grass, Kros Strain’s Vienna Lager tasted reassuring. The week had been full of enough uncertainty, and so I craved the comforting familiarity of the local brewery’s Vienna Lager: soft malt, noble hops, no bullshit.

I drink Pilsners all year long, but they feel like summer. Viennas are a beer for fall. As I gulped, it reminded me of the leaves underfoot, and naked branches. The bittersweet flavor was, in some ways, an evocation of a week of successes and hard-earned lessons.

I haven’t hunted long, but I’ve learned quickly that the best intentions and preparations guarantee you nothing. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which fills up first, as my father says. This would be the first time my dad and I both came home with deer from the same trip. I handed him the mug—the occasion called for us to share.

I wasn’t going to pass this up.