Years ago, Lynn's uncle and her two cousins would always make an annual mule deer hunting trip to ... heck, I don't even remember ... Utah? .. Colorado? ... Arizona? ... Nevada? Anyway, they'd take their motor home and park it way the heck back in the mountains and use it as their base camp. They'd take off on 4-wheelers and go to a remote area to hunt, then return to the motor home in the evening. One year they'd been having lousy luck for a few days and on one particular day, Lynn's uncle twisted his ankle while climbing a rocky hill. The next day his ankle was really sore and swollen, so he stayed at camp and the boys headed out to continue hunting. When they returned to camp that evening (empty handed), dad had a nice buck all dressed out and hanging in front of the motor home. He told them that right after they left, he started cleaning up the breakfast dishes and that buck walked right up to their camp. He grabbed his rifle from just inside the door, took two steps away from the camper and nailed him! As it turned out, that was the only deer they bagged that year.