Bad tracker / Tadpole

The southeast wind rustled through the trees above. No risk of his scent blazing his trail and making his presence known before he intended. He knelt and scooped a fist of soil and let in crumble in his fingers. It had the feel of calcisol, common in this region and ideal for tracking. A quick scan of the terrain revealed scattered acorns, brittle twigs, patches of grass, and a whole story of steps once laid, ways once walked, and paths once taken. He quickly located the print of his prey. He carefully traced its outline with the tip of his finger before dragging it across, making a line straight through the print in a dramatic foreshadowing of the owner's demise. In a matter of seconds he had masterfully deduced his prey's weight (185 - 195 lbs), direction (south by southwest), and distance (no more than 1/4 mile ahead). With his prize as good as had he spit, removed the rifle from his shoulder, and rose. A preemptive smile slipped across his lips as he raised his binoculars to locate the object of his pursuit. The view of a homeless man trudging through the woods in a pair of bunny slippers caused him to drop his jaw and rifle. They landed in the brush, somewhere near his ego and his bottle of deer urine.

zeroth life lesson: far is the fall of the overconfident woodsman.