My phone rang just late enough to make me nervous that something was wrong. I was right. My brother, Bruce, had fallen from his deer stand. He was in the emergency room. My heart raced. My mind whirled. I thought about how high he hangs his stands. Always has.

I recalled the aspen tree above Gunflint Lake he told me to sit in one morning. In the darkness, I remember staring up at the metal platform of his portable stand 30-some feet in the air. Small screw-in steps alternated on the path of ascent on each side of the tree. I counted a total of seven. Seven steps to get me from ground level...