No Deer. No Problem.

Didn’t see a single deer this weekend.
Not a flick of an ear. Not a tail flicker. Nothing.

The coastal fog’s been choking the entire archery-only zone. Out here on the Central Coast, we call it haar.  A thick, wet blanket that rolls in off the Pacific and makes glassing damn near useless. Doesn’t matter if you’re rocking 10x binos or a high-end spotter — if you can’t see 20 yards ahead, you’re just standing around holding expensive optics and squinting at ghosts.

So I hiked in deeper.
Public land. Uphill both ways. Not a soul in sight.

I was chasing clarity, both literal and mental. Getting above the fog line meant better odds, maybe even a window through the haar where a buck might step out. But it also meant burning quads, soaked boots, and that good kind of loneliness where every sound matters.

Still… no bucks.
No shots.
Just silence, wind, and the rhythm of your own breath.

But right around the time I was hiking out, right when the sky should’ve gone black — it didn’t. The clouds opened up. The sun dropped low. And the entire ridgeline lit up in this burnt orange fire.

I just stood there.
Soaked. Empty-handed.
Grinning.

This is the part they don’t show on hunting shows.
No kill shots. No gear B-roll.
Just a guy in the middle of nowhere, watching the sun remind him why this is worth doing.

Was I disappointed?
Sure.

But would I trade that hike, that view, that total reset for a rushed shot at a fog-blind buck?
Not a chance.

We call it hunting, not getting.
Some weekends, the only thing you bring back is peace of mind.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Chuck
Grit Knives