Picture this:
It is morning, 9-ish. You are in rural Alabama standing atop a cliff at a sweeping bend in the river twenty feet above the surface. The river is wide and deep moving steady and strong. It stretches out before you in both directions. Snow is coming down thickly in flakes of perfect shape and texture. Mist gently rises from the dark waters. A one-antlered buck (probably an eight-pointer) is desperately swimming across the sixty yards of river. Close behind, and gaining, is an eager Springer Spaniel. Suddenly, as if the gods were sending an omen of good fortune, a hawk majestically soars across the scene.
This is what we witnessed on the first morning of our weekend.
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