'Tis the Season When a Young Man’s Fancy Turns to…Deer Hunting

Perched on a comfy log with a long lethal piece of wood and steel cradled in my lap I settle in to allow the noise of my entry to settle. The woods are never truly quiet. Manmade sounds, the drumming of an old John Deere tractor starting up is replaced by the drumming of the male Hungarian Partridge, the staccato rhythm of a woodpecker searching for breakfast in the bark of a dead tree. Only faint echoes farm dogs barking or shots from some hunter off to an early start resound through the forest. Those are temporary distractions and soon the voice of the trees takes over. Creaking and groaning like a group of old men, the rustling of the few leaves still clinging to the trees, save the Oak which always holds on to them to the very last. What the trees are talking about is lost on me for I do not speak their tongue.

Catching the sound of approaching prey will be difficult as there is a blanket of fresh snow on the ground, masking the faint noise of their passing. A Jay in a nearby tree Squawks it’s warning that an intruder has entered it’s domain, small red squirrels come down to the ends of slim branches to scold me for intruding on their hunt for food, though it is not them I am after this time.

Time is not relevant to the trees; they mark it by passing seasons vice passing hours. The spirits of the forest ghost through the trees beneath the ridge upon which I sit, two does, safe as my permit is buck only, but there is the anticipation a buck will follow. Not so this time. Only the occasional caw of a far off crow breaks into the forest calm. I pull out a bar of chocolate and almonds, which has frozen while in my pocket – it is impossible to describe in words the glorious taste of the chocolate, it remains the only proper way to eat one.

The cold slowly works its way through my coat, but better the cold than the warm rains of last year. The black powder in my gun is as sensitive to moisture as a lady’s fresh coif. The hammer is on half-cock, the ball seated firmly on a bed of powder, the cap tight on the nipple, ready for service, but the call never comes.

No more deer to be seen, no venison for the stew this year unless my brother or father get lucky. I pause to wipe my moustache only to find it coated with ice from my breath. Too cold for even the deer to be stirring, they are undoubtedly still curled up in the comfort of the tall grasses, having had their fill of the neighboring farmer’s corn.

All too soon the hunt is at an end, my brothers comes up the path, also giving in to the cold, and we’re off to find dad and seek the comfort of a warm trailer.

It saddens me that much of today’s youth who become nervous when their cell phone loses its signal won’t experience the forest or have the chance to gaze into the sky and really see the stars, undimmed by city lights. Though dad is gone and my brother and hunting spot far away, my thoughts always turn to the times we spent together on these expeditions, deer or no deer they were a success in their own right.