Field Note No. 3 - Longevity Derived from Discipline

Why so few 10pt bucks?

The mornings come darker now.
When I take the dog out before sunrise, the air feels crisp, the grass heavy with dew.  From the back porch we both look across the dark moonlit pasture and the darker woods beyond.  I have a flashlight, he has a nose.  Our walk takes a familiar route, around the fence line, same quiet rhythm before the day begins.

Lately, though, we’ve had company. Two deer some days, up to eight on others. Always there and gone before the dog gets halfway across the field. You catch only fragments, white tails flicking, the rustle of leaves, a shadow folding back into the tree line. By daylight, the patterns show themselves clearly: piles of poo, trails pressed into muddied grass, narrow tunnels through goldenrod and briars, the familiar choreography of creatures that know their ground.

The younger deer are easy to spot. During late afternoons, they play tag across the open pasture, leaping without aim, learning the limits of their legs. The older ones stay near the edges. They move like thought itself, measured, slow, almost reluctant, constantly looking and listening. Where the young rely on energy, the elders rely on awareness. They step only when something tells them it’s worth it.

I have friends who hunt the property. Last season, on opening morning, three of them climbed into the same stand at the back of the farm. Before lunch, they’d taken three bucks: a four-point, a two-point, and a six. All deer made the same mistake: following some dame (doe) into open ground, drawn by the instinct of the rut instead of judgment.

It makes you wonder about the ones that don’t show up with a tag, and only in stories of the one that got away.  The ones that live long enough to earn ten points on the rack.

Somewhere out there, a buck like that still walks the same woods, likely on this same farm. He’s seen the seasons cycle, heard the gunshots echo, felt the air change before dawn. He doesn’t run less because he’s old; he runs less because he’s learned. He knows which trails are safe, which crossings draw trouble, which wind carries scent toward danger. He repeats the routes that work and adjusts the ones that don’t.

His life looks ordinary from a distance, steady, even predictable, but every step is a calculation.
He isn’t hiding. He’s choosing.

That kind of wisdom isn’t flashy, and it doesn’t make headlines. But it explains why a ten-pointer still exists at all. Longevity favors those who act with discernment, not impulse.

The same pattern shows up in work and in life. We get conditioned to chase every opportunity, respond to every ping, every “urgent” thing that moves in our line of sight. We often equate motion with momentum and exposure with success. But constant movement isn’t mastery; it’s often merely noise.

The people and organizations that last, they learn to filter their actions. They build habits that hold. They keep walking the same paths, not because they fear change, but because they’ve tested those routes and know where they lead. When they change direction, it’s deliberate. When they stay the course, it’s with conviction, not inertia.

Each morning’s walk reminds me of that. The dog charges. The deer vanish. The field resets. And somewhere in that repetition lies a quiet kind of excellence: the discipline to move with purpose, the prudence to pause when the air feels wrong, the humility to tread familiar ground with steady eyes.

Maybe longevity isn’t about running swiftly or following the masses.
Maybe it’s about knowing your ground and honoring it through discipline.