WELCOME TO THE WHITETAIL JUNGLE

FROM THE TREESTAND, THE WHOLE WORLD LOOKED underwater. The tops of alyce clover and deer vetch seemed to float atop a pane of sheet water covering the 3-acre food plot. Behind me, a wall of jungle vines enveloped the flooded canal. Out in front, on the highest ground in the plot, stood three twisted cabbage palms. It was July in South Florida and 94 degrees. I couldn’t imagine a whitetail deer stepping into this scene. Maybe a hippo. Or a T. rex.

The misfires of my soaked Thermacell only seemed to lure the insects. Blackflies and mosquitoes buzzed across my face and up my nose. Microscopic ghost ants, with translucent bodies and coal-black heads, ascended a vine near my bow. Dragonflies with bodies as thick as .410 shells dive-bombed my head.

My cheeks were growing swollen with bites, but for long stretches I hardly noticed. This place