Wes Coffey

But the ratchet strap, the one that had been intact when I climbed down, was gone.

Not broken.

Not on the ground.

Gone.

The buckle, the strap, all of it, removed from the tree as if it had never been there.

And the stand was leaning.

The bolts that held the platform to the tree had been loosened.

Not stripped.

Not broken.

Loosened.

like someone had used a wrench on them.

Travis said when he climbed up to get my bow, the platform wobbled so badly he almost fell.

He said if I'd stayed in that stand another hour, if I'd waited until full daylight and shifted my weight getting ready to climb down, the whole thing would have come away from the tree.

I would have fallen 16 feet onto frozen ground in the middle of 640 acres of empty timber with no cell service, four miles from the nearest road.

and whatever had been circling my tree all night would have been right there waiting.

I sold my bow two weeks later, sold my stands, sold my saddle, sold my climbing sticks, sold everything.

I put the money in my checking account and I never looked at it.

Travis still hunts that property.

He says he's never had a problem.

He says I probably got worked up over a bear.