In the early 1960's, Iwas bowhunting in Virginia in the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I had hunted edvery day, morning and evening for almost 2 weeks, and it had rained almost all the time. Of course, I never even saw a deer.
Leaving my morning stand and hiking to the trail out to my vehicle, a grouse flushed almost under my feet and spread his wings gliding away from me out in the wide open spaces. In much the same manner that a baseball player might fling his bat in exasperation, I loosed an arrow in frustration and hit the grouse dead center. Of course it was an "accident" but it sort of made up for two weeks of cold rain and no deer.
Joe