They were still in the area, but maddeningly unpredictable for a man with a bow. My fifth evening in that stand would be my last. I had to go home at some point, I knew. Shortly after lunch, I went out to shoot my bow, full of nervous energy. I checked the wind a dozen times. Each time the dry brown grass drifted toward the south--perfectly wrong for the stand. I decided to try it anyway, hoping for a miracle. The wind brushed the back of my neck for two and a half hours and nothing moved. Finally, just as the sun dropped behind the hills, the wind died and the thermals reversed.