When it comes to hunting, especially hunting big bucks or old longbeards, I must admit that I’m a bit superstitious. Actually, it’s not just a bit, it’s more like the level of a Major League Baseball relief pitcher.

Much like a quirky reliever that doesn’t shave on game day, step on foul lines when he takes or leaves the field, and always wears the same socks when he’s on a win streak, I also have a few rituals when it comes to hunting.

First, you will never find me in the woods without my Boston Red Sox hat or beanie. I’ve loved the Sox since I was kid and I’m convinced that both the hat and the beanie contain an endless supply of good luck.

When the whitetail rut arrives here at the farm, which is usually in the weeks leading up to and just after Christmas, I’ll also be found wearing my trusty brown Woolrich sweater.

I found the sweater years ago on the sale rack at Harry Mayer’s. I’m fairly certain that Harry never intended for that sweater to find its way into the woods, but that’s exactly what happened and it has served me well, providing warmth (and luck).

Certain days and certain locations also factor in when it comes to my hunting superstitions. During the rut, the days around Christmas are magical, particularly December 23rd and 26th.

Last year, I was hunting in what we call the High Road stand on the morning of December 23 when I shot what was, at the time, my best buck to date. This year, the 23rd brought with it some of the coldest temps we have experienced in years as well as the promise of rutting bucks.

I made my way into the stand that afternoon, heater in hand, around 2:15. The temperature was in the mid-teens with a wind chill in the single digits. Shortly after I settled in, a doe made her way into the lane I was watching, all the while glancing toward the thicket over her shoulder.

Within minutes, an 8-point buck crashed out of the thicket making a beeline toward the doe. As I raised my rifle, the doe spotted my movement and froze, looking in my direction. When the buck turned to see what had caught her attention, I took aim and squeezed the trigger. Moments later I knelt beside him, giving thanks for the harvest.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day found us in Meridian celebrating with family and friends and from time to time, my thoughts drifted back to the woods and to the buck we had named “Mr. Crabs.”

I had first gotten game camera pics of “Crabs” four years ago. He was special from the beginning, with dark antlers that featured crab claws at the end of each tine. Each season we waited to see if he would turn up on camera and each year the wily buck, with a habit of only appearing on camera at night, grew in both stature and legend.

Since he frequented the High Road stand area most nights while making his rounds, I knew that my best chance of seeing him was there. Early this season, I moved an old blind to the High Road in hopes that it would offer more concealment and, perhaps, increase my chances of seeing the elusive Crabs.

I hunted the stand Monday morning and the deer were on the move. However, the big buck was nowhere to be seen. After grabbing a quick lunch, I was back in the blind by 2, and around 4:30 a doe and her little one came into the lane. I had named the doe “Golden Eyes” for the distinct golden markings around her eyes and muzzle.

She kept a close, nervous watch on the thicket bordering the lane. I, too, turned my attention to the thicket and, just before 5:00, I heard the footfalls of a heavy deer. Grabbing my binoculars, I scanned the brush for the source of the sound. Suddenly, I saw the huge right beam of an antler and knew immediately it was Crabs.

Reaching for my gun, I put the crosshairs on an opening into the lane just as he stepped out. I settled the crosshairs on his vitals and slowly squeezed the trigger. A few seconds later, I heard a crash in the pines that told me Crabs was down.

There was no “ground shrinkage” when I walked up to the fallen monarch. He was truly the buck of a lifetime and as I knelt beside him to give thanks I began to weep. I felt a deep sense of pride for the work we’ve done at the farm to provide better habitat for the wildlife. I also felt a deep, humbling sense of respect for having been bested by this beautiful creature for four years.

In that moment, the words of Charles Dodd White from his moving book “A Year Without Months” came to mind: “I believe it speaks well of a man to cry for an animal he has killed.” It was an emotional ending to December 26, 2022.

Here’s to the outdoor pursuits that have the power to move us to tears, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.