Dec 13, 2025 6 min read

By Dave Bates

Contributing writer

I love snow.

Having been a ski bum for three years in Colorado, of course, I love snow. I don’t mean simply enjoying snow, but rather the kind of passion that keeps me staring out the window all night, watching a good snowfall pile up, that was forecasted days in advance. I like surprise snows, as well. I enjoy walks in the snow and the freshness of snow. I love the smell of snow.

I especially love hunting in the snow. With our most recent accumulation this past week I thought it might be time for sharing an old story on a familiar thread. Some of my most memorable days afield were improved with a blanket of snow. As a kid, a snow day off from school was the pinnacle, even if it meant subtracting a day or two from Easter break or adding a day into June. Even as a teacher, it was a hoot, awaking to just such a day, listening to the message from the school district that school was cancelled, over and over.

Shortly after the Pennsylvania Game Commission moved the opening day of deer season to a Saturday, it opted to make buck and doe seasons concurrent and allowed for Sunday hunting one weekend of the season, as well. Thank you PGC. I had already hunted the Saturday opener, as well as full days the following Sunday and Monday. It is the tradition of our schools to include Monday as part of Thanksgiving break. Having come up empty with three days of hunting under my belt, I noted the forecast that called for a skiff of snow overnight into Tuesday. My students were scheduled off school but an in-service day was planned for staff. I announced to my wife and our cat that I was thinking of taking Tuesday off. Kelly glanced at me, rolled her eyes like they teach in “Wife School” and nudged my computer in my general direction. The cat more or less agreed.

I made several feeble attempts to justify an extra day of hunting. I think I may have even quoted Winston Churchill’s “Never, never, give up!” speech. In fairness, I was a history teacher but the theatrics may have even been a bit much for me.

I made the call. Looking out the window intermittently throughout the night, I can’t say I woke up refreshed. I was, however, motivated. The thermometer showed 25 degrees. I donned a fairly light walking outfit, shoved a pocket full of hand warmers and a thermos into my pack and headed for my buddy’s best stand. Mark had tagged out on the opener at first light. He’s fond of showing off like that. His best stand is also the longest walk from my house but Mark encouraged me to hunt it knowing that he’d seen several good bucks from his platform during archery season.

The walk took nearly an hour and by the time I made it to the stand I was perspiring. The minute I climbed into stand, the wind picked up and I started to shiver. I added a hooded sweatshirt to my existing layers, traded my ball cap for a toque and dropped every body warmer I brought along. I wasn’t certain how long I would be able to remain on stand but I intended to hold out as long as possible. I could always thaw out later if I struck out. As fate would have it, I wouldn’t have long to wait.

Every few minutes I would remind myself that I had to stay focused. This wasn’t going to be one of those day-long hunts with the weather so cold and me so underdressed. I was trying to accomplish that self-talk that keeps you in the game … “You’ve hunted three days with no luck.” “Today is the day your luck changes!” “9:00 a.m. is as good as 7:15 a.m. for taking deer.” “Stay sharp.” “Don’t let a deer surprise you from behind.” “Glass every inch of the woods with your binoculars.” “Head on a slow swivel.”

Snow was falling gently, brightening up the woods significantly. At 8 o’clock straight up, I caught a glimpse of a buck moving right to left, behind me. I checked that he was legal, probably a decent six or an eight. I shouldered my little Browning carbine and centered the crosshairs behind the front shoulder. Just as I tightened up the slack on the trigger, he stepped behind a tree. I followed at speed with the deer’s progress and when he emerged, I fired. The .308 round struck a bit further behind the shoulder than I would have liked but it didn’t seem to matter much to the buck. He kicked, ran 10 yards towards me and slid to a stop. It’s funny how time freezes in the seconds after the shot and the scene plays out in your head multiple times.

As an outdoors writer, this is the part where I’m supposed to say that I’ve killed enough deer to not get excited at harvesting a nice buck. Maybe I should write that I sat down and had a cup of coffee from my untouched thermos, savoring the moment? Maybe I should have taken a few selfies to document the success? But I didn’t. I sprinted to the deer as fast as a 50-something-year-old man has a right to. Like a 12-year-old, I held his antlers in my hands and admired his magnificence in the newly fallen snow. I stroked his warm neck and smoothed away a few clinging oak leaves from his coat. I dabbed away a drop of blood from his nose so as not to mar the beauty. I watched the light slowly fade from his eyes. And I gave thanks to God for good health and good rifles and good deer stands and good friends … and for snow days.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com