The Editors of Field - The Best American Hunting Stories

S talking along a hillside of broken conifers behind my guide, Michel Quevion, on the first day of the hunt, Im playing a high-stakes version of Dancing With the Stars. Maintaining my interval of exactly two steps behind, I mirror his every moveGinger Rogers with a .270 and Muck boots trying to keep up with this Fred Astaire, a Qubcois whose English sounds like it has just gone through a garbage disposal. Not that he speaks much. My job is to avoid costing us points with the judges, who are wearing antlers and will vanish at the first misstep. When Quevion steps, I step. When he slows, I slow. When he stops, I stop. And I hardly dare breathe until he is moving again. Ive done this dance many times over the years, but Ive never felt such urgency to get it rightnor such dread about missing a step.

I cant yet put my finger on what it is about this guy that ups the ante. We are a few miles from the southeast coast of Canadas Anticosti Island3,000 square miles of essentially uninhabited sub-boreal forest in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Visibility at the moment ranges from 10 yards to more than 100, and the yellow grass in the conifer forests understory is loaded with beds and piled droppings. I dont know what these deer are eating, but they are processing large quantities of it. Weve already bumped a few, which fled without snortingtheir white flags erased in midair on the second or third leap, as if sponged up by the forest. I couldnt say whether they were buck or doe, but all looked uncommonly round and sleek. Not that it matters now.

Quevion and I have not spoken in 40 minutes, but he did shoot me a momentary glance a while back that spoke volumes. The uppers of my boots had brushed each other midstep, sending out the faintest whistle of faced neoprene. Quevion turned and cocked an eyebrow, prompting me to fall to my knees and roll my pants legs outside my boots, the way he wears his. I vowed never to make that mistake again. The problem right now, however, is that my arms are killing me. Somewhere down on my bodydangling from a pack strap, binoc harness, or beltis some loose plastic snap or buckle that keeps hitting my rifle. I compensate by extending my arms, carrying it farther out. Felt gun weight naturally increases proportionally to the guns distance from your core, however, so my Model 70 Featherweight .270 now feels like pig iron. Id be perfectly happy to stop for the 20 seconds it would take me to find and fix the problem. But Ive already used up one stop to fix my pants legs. Im not about to stop for a second wardrobe malfunction.

Keeping my interval and focusing on Quevions boots, I become aware of the force field of energy he emits: a combination of mental focus, physical awareness, and sheer predatory determination. He seems to intuit the presence of deer before his physical senses have located them. When this happens, he suddenly stops midstride and simply waits for his eyes or ears to confirm what he already believes. As he stands there, hands motionless at his sides, his concentration is such that the tips of his fingers twitch involuntarily, as if that much electrical current must find an outlet. I recognize that Im in the presence of an increasingly rare phenomenon in the modern world: a man making a living at a task he seems born to be doing. And it makes me redouble my efforts to win his approval, even as it triples my dread at disappointing him.

Ive come to Anticosti Island after a couples therapist advised that my treestand and I ought to see other people. Like nine out of 10 American deer hunters, I do my field work 20 feet up, where I sit motionless for hours on enda lawn dwarf in a Lone Wolf. Lately, Ive found myself lusting after something more physical: an old-fashioned, boots-on-the-ground whitetail hunt. A little research revealed that Anticosti, where a hunter can take two deer of either sex, is arguably the best place in North America for that.

I glommed on to a party already booked for a five-day hunt that included Ric Riccardi, brothers Jack and Paul Reilly, and Steve Burnett. I met Burnett, my entre to the group, through David E. Petzal.

Heavey, Petzal told me, hes the only human I know of even half as strange as you. I think you two would hit it off. The hell of it is that Petzal was right. Burnett and I have become fast friends.

Riccardi has come to Anticosti camps run by Cerf-Sau Outfitters for 22 of the past 26 years. Three things make this place special, he tells me. The ground here is quiet enough to make still-hunting effective. I mean, if youre walking in Rice Krispies, youre not going to see much. Second, its the only place I know of where I can walk all day and never see another hunter. Third, every time you take another step, theres the chance youll see a shooter buck.

Cerf-Sau has camps in the Bell River and Chaloupe River territories, with a combined area of 425 square miles on the southeastern part of the island. Were staying at the Chaloupe River camp, where we settle into a roomy cabin with hot water, electricity, and a woodstove. We take meals and pick up boxed lunches in the main building with other hunters, almost all of whom are American. The Reilly brothers are sharing another guide, Francois. Riccardi, the veteran, knows the island so well that he prefers to hunt solo. Burnett and I, the Anticosti newbies, are hunting with Quevion.

Weve been warned by the others in our party that Quevion is a hellacious guide.

The best Ive ever seen at spotting whitetails, says Riccardi.

He doesnt talk much, says Jack Reilly. But everybody around here listens when he does.

Paul nods. He wants you to get a deer even more than you do.

On this, our first day, Burnett had Quevion in the morning, and I got him after lunch. When I asked how the morning had gone, Burnett piped up, Good! Then added, And sort of humbling. Hes a great guy. Its just that hes so damn competent you feel like a moron. Dont even take your binocs. Theyre just extra weight.