I was up the tree before I could see my hands. [Month] opener, [unit / area], the same ridge I have hunted for [number] years. Cold enough that the metal of the rifle stung through my gloves, and I kept my breath pointed down so it would not fog the scope. The woods do not owe you anything on opening morning. You show up anyway.
The setup
I had this stand picked since summer, off trail camera pictures of a heavy [8-point] moving through a saddle just before dark. The plan was simple. Be in the tree by [time], let the woods settle, and wait him out on his way back to bed. I was carrying [rifle / caliber] and had ranged the shooting lanes the week before at [yardages].
The hunt
For two hours nothing moved but a pair of squirrels and a nuthatch working the same oak. Then around [time] I heard a stick break behind me, the wrong direction, and turned my head slow. It was him, or one close to him, already past the near lane and quartering away at [yardage] through a screen of saplings. I never had a clean shot. He fed off the way he came, and I sat there with my heart going and no deer on the ground.
Looking back
I could have set up thirty yards south and had that whole trail open. I did not, and that is on me, not the deer. But I would still rather be wrong in that tree at first light than right about anything from the couch. The verse I kept coming back to on the walk out was [reference], and I will leave that there for now.