The birds are finally awake. The sled dogs around me have already had their morning breakfast and howl. I am in one of “my” stands-this one overlooks the clearcut to my east and the “low area” to my west. The smell of the cedar gun rests, new this year with the windproofing material, makes me think partly of my now-dead bonsai tree but also of the infamous Point project where I helped install the shake siding with Bruce Ripley…teeth-gritting and intense – a roofer by trade who admonishes anyone who installs with pneumatic nailers. Also, German.
It is extremely misty this morning, making it hard to see more than 100 feet in front of me. Sitting in the stand will be a matter of patience, as always. I look up for deer, slowly. Eventually I teach myself to write and look at the same time and focus on the sounds around me.
I can see the stand of pines straight ahead of me. I remember when I tracked a deer through there six or so seasons ago. I was still using a Winchester Model 100 .308 with dubious accuracy, even though the gun shot well as we sighted it in two weeks prior. The deer walked up (to my right now, as I’m turned opposite of where we originally intended to channel the deer through) from the low area of the alders. The cutting done on the Land has significantly changed the flow of the deer, the look of the landscape, and the possibility for the future.
I shot this deer, wounded it, began to track it. All November nights are the same- it was 17:13, shooting ended at 17:15. Classic Mitchell moment. “Gotta put meat on the table.” Bright red blood was on fallen stumps, underbrush, and the recently-landed leaves. I debate more poetic things to write about the leaves but leave you with this one. The trail becomes only droplets as we crawl on our hands and knees (multiple Tikka headlamps going)- we lose it when it crosses the River.
Next weekend is now and now was six years ago. November stays the same. The story has been heard by a few different walls of deer camps. We are advised to shoot our deer in the neck to prevent this type of loss in the future. Same time of day, same stand. One less deer walks up the hill with what is normally a trio of deer. Similar spot, angle, and shot. The gun goes off; the deer jumped and ran.
No hair. No blood.
Maybe some clear fluid? Spinal fluid? I had aimed for the neck this time. Flat out missed this time. Time for a new gun. It sits on my lap right now. A fine Ruger Mark II 30-06, lefthanded. Taken two deer for me and those around us who seek to benefit from this yearly harvest.
I look up again. It is hard to capture experience and hunt at the same time. I realize it is all I really have wanted to do as I sit out here alone in these woods. Any man who tells you they don’t retreat to the woods to recapture their thoughts, alone, grounded- is a sporting liar. But I’ve got venison to harvest. Must stick with the classical understanding of this enterprise: skills, instinct, traditions to success. Romantic knowledge will wait until I don’t hear a mysterious crunching not far from the stand. A shot in the distance- the first of the morning.
It causes me to knock my coffee cup over. A muffled crash. Too loud. But hard to know what is too loud for a deer- pretty much everything. More things to think about- the chickadees, WHY ARE THEY SO DAMN LOUD? I can barely hunthink. Ingsoc is always accepting new definitions, eh, Gerald?
Notes: Directly behind me are a flat of spruce tree I planted this past spring. One deer just ran by my stand. I semi-tracked it down (small hooves though in the leaf-litter) and decide to go where the ghost buck was last spotted.
Tomorrow: Suggestions. And here is part of the clearcut for the visual learners.
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