Frosted leaves crunched like corn flakes under the deep-lugged soles of my boots. I’d stop about every other step to peer through the hardwoods – and to listen – then I’d repeat the process.

A fluorescent, blaze-orange hat kept my balding head warm despite the post-dawn chill. An equally bright vest with a pin-on compass flopping with each stride covered my red-and-black-checked woolen Mackinaw, its high collar raised against the cold.

Cradled in the crook of my left arm – my right hand held firmly to the pistol-shaped grip – was a Remington Woodsmaster semiautomatic rifle chambered in .30-06 Springfield.

Between steps I heard what sounded like a sapling slapping against another. A crunch, crunch, crunch followed, then stopped.

I bent my knees slightly, shifting the rifle’s business end from my arm to my left hand as I did so. Squinting through the tree trunks and branches and what leaves clung to them, I looked hard.

Had that sapling sound been caused by a deer’s antler passing by? Was the crunch, crunch, crunch made by a whitetail’s splayed hooves?

I held my breath, and held still. Seconds ticked by.

Then I saw a flicker. Was it a tail? An ear?

I straightened my knees, inching taller for a better look.

Suddenly the animal let out a nasal-sounding half whistle, half woof. In the same split-second it bolted, the white of its tail standing up like a flag.

I raised the rifle but never got off a shot as the deer disappeared in a flash of tawny gray-brown hair and muscle and, yes, antlers.

After muttering to myself for a minute I sidled up to a tree, shook my head, and marked the spot in my mind’s eye where I had last seen the animal jump. Later, I’d check for tracks.

Deep-rooted tradition

Part of the pleasure of opening day is that each one varies. The hunter who missed a chance at a buck last year could easily fill his or her tag this Saturday.

Certainly, part of the sport is luck.

Much more of it is skill.

A good tracker will probably have better success than someone who can’t tell a deer’s hoof from a rabbit’s foot.

A practiced good shot has a big advantage over someone who hasn’t sighted a rifle in years.

Someone who’s patient and can sit on a stand overlooking a busy deer crossing is much more likely to get a shot at an animal than someone who gets antsy and moves around making noise.

Bird hunters who have already been out and about have also noted places where they’ve crossed deer signs: tracks, droppings and scrapes where bucks have polished their racks. Their chances of success are better than those of someone who heads into the woods for the first time today.

But because luck comes into play, everyone has a chance, especially in Maine, a state with a deer herd estimated at nearly 260,000 animals.

It’s a state where deer season is a deep-rooted tradition, passed on from generation to generation, according to Roland “Danny” Martin, the state’s commissioner of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.

But if you’ve lived here long enough, you already know that.

Doug Fletcher, a Sun Journal general assignment reporter, is an avid outdoorsman.