First Day

Last Saturday was the first day of bow season. So with great anticipation, I dressed in my invisible de-scented camo and headed out to my invisible tree stand, taking my new, deadly accurate and lethally fast bow. I was not disappointed. Shortly after first light, a doe and fawn came walking by 18 yards away, totally oblivious, of course, of my presence. Shortly after, a young bobcat followed, but saw me move as I reached for my camera. I took a picture, but my camera is terrible in low light conditions, even though it was about 7:30 by then. I watched a male ruffed grouse strut his stuff as he ate his way through the woods 20 yards out. And as always, the squirrels and the chipmunks kept me on high alert with their constant leaf rustling. A red tailed hawk swooped by below me about 5 feet away from my tree stand, landed in a tree 40 yards away, and a few minutes later dove down and grabbed some breakfast and flew away with it in his talons. Finally, two bucks, a four point and a six point, came by, both within ten yards. One stepped out into the field and ate and chewed it’s cud for awhile, the other made a scrape (not a rub). The evening watch included a small buck entertaining me for 10 -15 minutes as he made a rub 25 yards away. It was great to sit in the woods again.



If you would like to be really bored with hunting stories, here is a piece I wrote several years ago.

Just back in from a long day out deer hunting. Frosty this morning, and foggy, despite the 60 degree temperatures we had yesterday. Nonetheless, it promised to be a beautiful day in the woods hunting. I was not disappointed. It was one of the best days hunting ever. I didn’t see a deer all day.

Hunting is a passionate activity for those who practice it, an enigma for those who don’t. For me, each fall, the hunger for deer hunting calls, as much a part of my tradition as it likely is the manifestation of some deeper calling. As innate as the maternal instincts of a mother caring for her child, so to is the urge to hunt for man since before the practice of botanical cultivation. While maternal instincts remain a necessity, and a blessing to mankind, modern civilization and conveniences have relegated hunting to the arcane.

Why do I hunt? I doubt the primal urges passed down from our ancestry move today’s spirit. A degree of spirituality for me is involved. Is it the “call of the wild”? If wild is defined as the great expanse of God’s gift to us known as nature. I find it to be the “call of the peaceful”.

Certainly, the very act of killing an animal might be considered “wild” and violent. Undeniable. I do not enjoy that part of the sport; I partake in that aspect very reluctantly, but do so in a most holistic sense. Who enjoys field dressing a deer? My wife doesn’t understand during the first week of deer season when I call from deer camp and tell her I saw some deer today but didn’t shoot any.

A right of passage? It once was for me.

From the first time my Dad took me rabbit hunting, along with my three older siblings, my seven or eight year old body in tow. I remember it well, out past the maple-sugar shanty, walking through the woods near a grassy swamp. I was wearing corduroy pants and each time my fat little legs would take a step, the audible rubbing sound precluded any chance of hunting success. I presume my older brother and two sisters must have been perfect hunting companions. Dad tied his cotton handkerchief around one of my legs to quiet the disruptive hunter. I began to learn then a sense of responsibility for hunting companions and that a chance for success meant more than just traipsing aimlessly through the woods.

The search for knowledge continued sporadically; learning more through experience. Hunting with my brothers or friends, mostly squirrel or rabbit. The year I turned sixteen meant I could hunt with the big boys! I could hunt deer!

The first morning dawned cold. Real cold! I went hunting with our neighbors. They put me on watch. That means, you go stand next to that tree at the end of that pine stand, stay there, we are going up on the hill, and after several hours of walking and staying warm, we’ll work our way back to your frigid feet and push all of the deer in Steuben County right past you. “You have the best chance of success of anybody.” they said. I was excited.

Best chance of getting cold I soon discovered. And excited anticipation soon turned to desperate survival. My limited knowledge about proper dress for cold weather hunting had me pacing back and forth through six inches of snow within a half hour in an attempt to maintain feeling in my fingers and toes, creating a tell tale beaten path fifty yards long. I counted. Back and forth. It was boring too. Sure enough though, within an hour(or ten it seemed), despite my frantic activity, several deer arrived on the scene some sixty yards away, and I leveled my Dad’s sixteen-gauge shotgun with open sights on the only deer presenting itself as a clear target and dropped the deer in it’s tracks. With excitement and pride, and suddenly feeling warm again, I approached the fallen deer. It was a buck! I had no clue. Not a big one. Spike horn, four point, I don’t even remember. What I do remember is when the gang showed up and congratulated me, they couldn’t help asking what the beaten path in the snow was all about up there by the stand of pines where they had put me on watch. Oops. So much for covering my tracks.

As I went to college and moved away for my job over the next fifteen years, hunting was a reason to come Home. To spend time with family and friends, and reacquaint myself with the hills and the woods. I never met with great success. But it was Thanksgiving time, and I was thankful. In fact, because of my limited time in the woods, I was a very poor judge of deer size. Invariably, I shot the smallest deer and became labeled as the “Bambi Killer”.

Now more than thirty years later, more experience, more observation, taking up bow hunting and it’s integral study of the art, I may have rid myself of the title, but I’m still just a babe in the woods.

Hunting for me now is still a “Coming Home” experience. I no longer care about shooting the biggest buck or the most deer. Sure, that’s nice. But if it happens under the right circumstances at the right time. There are a lot of other reasons I spend time in the field. I don’t even care if I shoot a deer.

It’s an inventory. Of life, of memories, of timber, of wildlife.

As I sit here in the solitude next to the warm wood fire, the stars sparkling outside on a cloudless night, a constellation filled sky replete with shooting stars, stars that can’t be observed from the suburbs in which I regularly live, I relish in the escape from the hectic bureaucratic business world of busyness. The calm and quiet of deer camp is restorative. No one can measure the benefits of such solitude, especially after such a hectic year, and for one whose roots are so deep in the quiet countryside. For some, and sometimes for me, deer camp can also be the camaraderie of old friends and family. But mostly, just quiet. And rest. And thoughts. Much like my day in the woods was today. Or any other day in the woods.

Memories. As I sit or hike in the woods, I recall childhood memories. Or as I visit with the local hunters on our land, recall past hunting success and enjoy stories of hunting and outdoor lore.

Today I sat in a tree-stand mere yards from a site where I recall as a very young boy cutting fire-wood with my father. He cut and I and my brothers played. Dad built us a fire and the warm memories resurfaced as I reflected. Several years ago I was hunting through the woods and came across a tree stump. Just another ordinary tree stump, a remnant of a once mighty tree that my father had cut down for firewood, and subsequently chainsawed his initials, RJM, into the stump. A decade after his passing, it no longer was just an ordinary tree stump. It was a monument of memories. I know the general location, but have yet to find that tree stump again. No matter, the evidence of my Dad’s whimsical and creative nature remain. Come find it again with me.

I walk past sites of previous deer hunting success, and recall the accomplishment, skill, and mostly dumb luck. I hike the hills and remember the stories of old house foundations and trails. I walk past the still brown area from a fire many years ago and recall the “hermit of our hill”, Gordon Mosher, who died in a tragic fire one cold winter day, living in a 19th century logging shack on our 20th century property. The boogie man of our youth and misunderstood mountain man of Biscuit Hollow. I visit with the hunters and hear their tales of hunting success. But most fondly, their stories of how they first started hunting here so many years ago and their memories of my grandparents and parents, welcoming them to the valley, and making them life-long family friends.

My deer camp is my childhood home. How many memories can that recreate when you have so little time otherwise there to reflect.

Timberstand. Mundane to most. Probably the most valuable crop we grow on this so called farm, but little noticed by most. I enjoy walking the woods and inspecting the timber, seeing its growth. Observing damage from the previous year’s storms and wishing for more time to selectively harvest now for an improved harvest later. I admire the commercial grade logs and dream about harvesting, sawing, drying, planing, and creating furniture and moldings from the trees off our property for the beautification of our home, my deer camp, to add to the authenticity of the home that my Dad built for his wife and subsequent six children some fifty years ago. I thrill and reminisce as I walk through the maturing plantation of larch I planted as a 4-H project with my grandfather 35 years ago, and watch the deer scamper from the cover.

The maintenance of the deer herd is important to this end. I had a professional forester inventory our property several years ago and he was amazed at what little regeneration of new quality timber we had. A result of too many deer and turkey was the reason, he observed. Eating all the browse. One loses sight of the quality of timber because the profit is only realized every fifteen to twenty years. But amortized over that period of time, one begins to realize the importance of maintaining an appropriate deer population, thus I am again inspired to hunt.

Wildlife. Oh, the beauty of God’s creation. To observe His wildlife in their natural setting, up close and personal, is beauty in motion. Squirrels and birds of many feather, bears, foxes, bobcats, coyotes, and yes, even deer. Being close to the creatures, still enough to observe, and be unobserved. The greatest thrill! From the smallest chickadee three feet from my head as I sit quietly; the gray squirrel imitating a deer’s walk through the dry leaves, quickening the pace of my heart needlessly. Raucous crows or pileated woodpeckers adding their imitation tropical forest cry and rat-a-tat-tat. A mink or skunk has come scampering along. The raccoon and opossum as well. Deer mice rustling about your feet. And the most beautiful creature of the woodland, the whitetail deer. Does and fawns and bucks, feeding and fighting and breeding. The most exciting, and peaceful, contribution to the restoration of one’s soul.

Of life. One has a chance to think. Not always. Alert. Observing. Noises. Looking. And the woods go quiet and you relax. Time goes by and you have the opportunity to reflect. Missing those who have gone before, and those who are not with you enjoying this experience. Those who have played such a formative role in your life, and those who make your life whole now. Your wife, your children, your family and friends. Your God. You reflect on the past year since last deer season, and yes, you recall your hunting successes. But then you think about life. Your family. Your job. Your successes and failures. And realize that the quiet and hope of God’s creation restoring your mind and soul at this moment is the restorative and inspirational source you need to go on. To be the husband, the father, the boss, the employee, the servant of God you need to be. The prayerful time is uninterrupted, until the next squirrel comes hopping along, and you smile and know that all is right with the world.

Hunger. No hunter that I know of has ever gone hungry in deer camp. The creative culinary skills in primitive conditions by otherwise unskilled cooks, or without the familiar contribution of the fairer sex of the family still creates the most tasty and hearty meal after a day in the woods. I know that at one time, the primal nature of man drove him to hunt for necessity, to feed his family. We are fortunate that we do not live in that time. I recall a time however that hunting provided the most economical, and nutritious source of protein for the family. Even my family. But now, my wife and kids (mostly my wife) do not care for venison or wild game. I still have two deer in the freezer from last year. Maybe even a squirrel or two. But the deer hunt must go on.

Not just for all the reasons above. But also for the ethical harvest of a burgeoning deer population that causes damage to the future value of the timberstand, farmers’ crops, depleted food sources creating dangerous potential for herd diseases and resultant wintertime suffering without the merciful control effort of the deer season, and even car damage on the highway as I so up close and personally experienced this fall. But what to do with the venison? My family may not be willing or able to use all of this nutritious source of protein I am able to harvest each year, but we are fortunate to have another opportunity. There are those among us in our community who are hungry. I have been excited to play a very minor, but supportive role in an endeavor known as the Venison Donation Coalition. I hope to contribute any deer that I might harvest this year to that end.

Finally. Yes. I thrill at the sight of deer and the opportunity to harvest this resource. I even tremble when the sights fall on a potential trophy. I hesitate, and often fail to even shoot. But when, and if, I do, be assured that the harvest will go to a good cause. And the process of the hunting season will have made me a better person.