Good things are bound to happen on your birthday, right?

Especially if that special day coincides with the first firearms season in Illinois and you’ve got an open tag to fill.

Nov. 20 – my birthday – dawned cool and foggy in White County, where I was hunting with Illinois Whitetail Services LLC. It was the second day of the Land of Lincoln’s three-day firearms season.

Two things were clear when I headed out to my stand that morning. First, it was going to be one of those damp, bone-chilling mornings with that heavy fog lingering, so I needed some clothing that would keep me warm.

And second, scent control was going to be critical, since any scent I put out into the environment would cling to the dew and fog condensation that was everywhere – including in the air – and any shots that I might be offered would be archery close, since I couldn’t see more than 40 yards through the pea soup. Any time I expect to be close to deer, scent control becomes a primary focus of my hunting gameplan.

Fortunately, I had my ScentBlocker Dream Season Pro suit, which is both warm and excellent at keeping my human scent where it belongs – trapped against my body.

My stand was perched in a long, thin strip of woods that straddles a dry creek running through the center of a huge cut cornfield. I had hunted from it the previous evening and saw tons of does and two small bucks, but no shooters.

Seeing all those does the night before had me full of anticipation the morning of Nov. 20, because I knew the rut was in full swing. And as my friend, Doug Doty, owner of Illinois Whitetail Services LLC, likes to say, "Where there are does, the bucks are sure to show."

As daylight grew around my tree, does periodically materialized from, and then disappeared back into, the fog. Around 7:20 a.m., a doe fawn came walking through the strip bawling like a sheep.

The little deer walked over to my tree and stood directly beneath my platform bleating over and over. The doe obviously didn’t wind me and I hugged the tree praying she didn't spot me either.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching the front of my stand quickly, followed by a loud grunt.

"That's a buck," I said to myself before turning around.

I peeked over my left shoulder and spotted a thick-necked deer sporting a tall crown of antlers walking with his nose pressed to the ground toward a fresh scrape.

When the eight-pointer passed behind a tree, I spun around and grabbed my muzzleloader off its tree hook. When he popped into plain view again, I froze.

When he passed behind another tree, I lifted my rifle to my shoulder and pulled back the hammer. The buck stepped into the open again at 30 yards and my crosshairs settled on his shoulder.

"Poof," went the gun when I squeezed the trigger.

The buck became alert, but he didn't bolt. Panicking, I opened the action on my gun, removed the primer cap and put in another. Same result.

At the second fall of the hammer, the buck walked away on stiff legs and a sick feeling settled in my stomach.

"Just misfired on a big 8," I typed in a text message to Doty. "I can't believe that just happened. I'm going to have to take this gun apart and dry it out. I guess some water got down the barrel."

"Do you need me to come get you?" Doty replied.

"No, I have everything I need to do it here," I texted back.

Cursing my bad luck on my birthday of all days, I sat in the stand and unloaded and disassembled my rifle. Soon enough, I have everything dried off and I reloaded the gun.

This time when I hung it in the tree, I placed a glove over the end of the barrel to keep falling condensation from going down inside.

Thinking of that bawling doe fawn, I periodically turned over my can-style doe-bleat call with the desperate hope that it will attract another nice buck. Around 8:30 a.m., just an hour after my misfire, I heard a twig snap behind me.

I leaned to my right to look around the tree and spied a buck with a wide rack sporting tall tines sneaking toward me.

"No way this is happening," I said to myself as I stood up, removed the glove from the end of my rifle's barrel and then hoisted the gun off its hook.

The buck was on top of me within seconds. He crossed a dike and walked behind my stand at 20 yards, giving me the perfect opportunity to shoulder my rifle and pin it to the tree.

When the buck reappeared directly downwind from me, I grunted. He stopped on cue and I peered through the scope.

Fog.

I had closed the scope cap after my misfire without wiping the condensation off the glass, and now I am looking through a heavy, white film. Fortunately, the buck was so close, I was able to find his shoulder and lock the crosshairs on it.

With very little confidence in what was about to happen, I squeezed the trigger.

At the shot, the buck ran right under my stand and piled up 15 yards away. My hands shook terribly as I pulled out my phone and called Doty.

"Doug, you're never going to believe this, but I just smoked a bigger buck than the one I misfired on," I stammered.

Doty laughed and replied, "I always say, 'You can go from zero to hero in a split second out here.'"

Happy birthday to me!