There is no way he could have imagined my world, and I find it difficult to imagine his. We are separated by a century or more: generations of Bakers have come and gone. Nothing directly connects us, except for the gun cradled across my lap, 12 feet up a birch tree. He was my grandpa's grandpa; I know very little about him, and his name even escapes me at the moment. That saddens me. I hope my great-great-grandson will know my name - know a little something about what made me tick.

The morning is quiet and cold, perfect to let a whitetail work its way up the ridge and under my feet. Snow f...