An August evening, guided by instinct and an old dream, I took on the challenge of traditional bowhunting. A simple, genuine moment, forever etched in my memory.

It all began last summer. Once the tags were secured and a few roe deer spotted, a local commune offered me the opportunity to harvest two. But despite hours of scouting and sitting on stand, I couldn't locate a second animal that met my criteria. I didn't want to take a young buck, nor a small one. I was hoping for an old, solitary male, marked by the years, or perhaps a declining buck—like a gentle sigh of nature. The weeks went by, and luck was generous. A wild boar, three foxes, a roe buck, and already some beautiful memories with the bow. My season was full of kept promises. Early August. The rut was in full swing. The atmosphere became heavy, almost stifling. The days stretched out under a pale, bleak light, and only the coolness of dawn allowed us to breathe. I prefer hunting in the morning, when everything is still asleep. But too often, obligations call me back before the magic can settle in. On this particular day, however, I was free. Three friends from Seine-Maritime had come down for a few days to hunt roe bucks. At noon, ribeyes were grilling over the fire, glasses were emptied in high spirits, and the day rolled by with a simple, joyful carelessness, the kind we cherish in the summer.