After five seasons of deer hunting, I’m happy to report that finally, at long last, after plenty of tromping, hours of sitting and weeks of plotting and planning and wondering, I have had some tangible success.

No, I didn’t get my deer.

Didn’t even fire a shot.

But for once, I actually, honestly, really saw something that I was sure was a deer.

And eventually, I got very, very muddy (which I have been told is also an important part of the deer-hunting experience). More on that in a bit.

There was no guessing what those might-be-a-deer footsteps behind my stand meant this time around. There was no listening to thundering hoof beats as my (unseen) deer galloped off into the setting sun.

Nope. This time, I was stealthy. I was shrewd and wily and sneaky.

OK. I was lucky.

But I did see a deer. Make that two (heck, it’s my story, and after five years of fruitless skulking and sitting, if I want to tell you I saw a herd of 20-point bucks, I may have earned the right).

So let’s call it two. Two does. Two does in a zone where, miraculously, I hold an any-deer permit.

And two does that are still out there, somewhere, walking.

When those two deer pranced by, I stood perfectly still, even as one stared me in the eye from 20 yards away. When she looked down, I raised my rifle … peered through the scope … and decided not to shoot.

I’ve got moose meat in my freezer, you see. There were still 10 days of hunting season left. And (believe it or not) I was having too much fun to fill my tag and walk out of the woods until next November.

It’s funny how the sport gets under your skin. And it’s funny how what you always figured was the end-all, be-all goal of the hunt – a successful shot – can turn out to be the outcome you really don’t want.

Not yet, anyway.

And not until you scour the woods a bit more for the buck you’re sure must be there … somewhere.

Later the same day, however, I got to experience a truly successful hunt. Or so I’m told.

Hunting at Camp Swampy, the Watson family retreat in rural Cambridge, is always a lot of fun.

Arthur Watson and his brother, Mike, are always gracious hosts, and are constantly teaching me valuable lessons about deer hunting.

Last week’s lesson: If Arthur offers you a spot in the Swale Seat (a tree stand I used to think was 40 feet up a tree, but now realize is probably closer to 25 … except when I’m the one expected to climb it), turning down the invitation may come back to haunt you.

For me, that’s never been a problem. I don’t like heights. The Swale Seat is high. Therefore, I don’t like the Swale Seat. End of story: John stays down on the ground, where he belongs.

Last Wednesday, with Arthur perched high above his favorite swamp, Mike and I slogged our way toward him on a balmy 65-degree day.

Shortly before meeting up, we heard a shot ring out. It was Arthur, high above the swale, filling another tag.

And it meant it was time for Mike and I to get to work.

The man in the Swale Seat, the Watsons have figured out over the years, should never get out of his stand until the deer has been located.

From 25 (or 40) feet up in a tree, you can see a deer, and where it falls. You can pick out individual trees, and use them as landmarks.

From swale level, all you can see is swamp grass and an occasional bush.

That’s why (according to Arthur) he sat up in his tree, high and dry, while Mike and I began to wade through thigh-deep water in search of a deer he swore was out there … somewhere.

Eventually, Arthur directed us right to it. I’m not sure if the detours he made us take as we meandered around in the mucky swamp were for his amusement or not, but either way, Mike and I had a wonderful time. Just wonderful.

Even as we trolled the deer back to shore. Even as we tried to stay upright in that boot-sucking mire.

The buck, for the record, was a nice eight-pointer. His weight is unknown. Arthur said the deer probably dressed out at about 165 pounds, but that’s easy for him to say: He never dragged the critter 225 yards across the swale.

Therefore, for the purposes of this column (and as one of only two people who did drag the soggy beast back to terra firma) I officially estimate the buck’s weight at 280 pounds, give or take.

Soaking wet, of course.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.