“That deer looked fresh,” I said to Dad as we passed a road-killed doe on our way to hunt. It was the last week of Pennsylvania’s late muzzleloader season and we needed meat. After turning around a mile up the mountain, using precious daylight in a month starved for sun, we found the doe’s body was still warm. Her head had been struck by a sideview mirror, littering plastic and glass along the roadside. She dressed out at 120 pounds, but dragging...