The Long Season

By the metric of hours sitting in the deer stand, this was almost certainly the longest hunting season I've experienced. I started off keeping a record, but the exercise of cataloging failed hunts was simply too discouraging.

There were additional reasons to be discouraged. I've seen precious few deer on the 30 or so times I've hunted. On only four of those hunts did I see any that were even marginally within range. On three of those four my poor job of concealment gave me away and the deer spooked. Twice the spooked deer was a small buck that I coveted.



On one hunt, I watched a group of nearly 20 deer moving steadily through the woods hundreds of yards away. I'm fairly certain they all got together and decided to move permanently far away from our farm. On another, I saw nothing during my time on the stand, only to view a group of five or six just down the trail as I was headed home. 

On yet another occasion, I was set up in a location and decided to move due to the noise of target shooting nearby. An hour or so later as the noise abated, I decided to return and within a few yards of the stand was greeted by the sight of a white-tailed rump bounding away. Had I only stayed in place...

Aside from the obviously devastating emotional toll from being repeatedly outwitted by the deer, there are many other good reasons for me not to hunt. To wit, my equipment is limited and I'm too stubborn to upgrade. We have the income to buy all the groceries we could possibly need or want. The hours spent in the stand could more reasonably be spent repairing the leaky kitchen sink, giving the truck it's annual washing, or spending time with my sweet wife. And I'm beginning to wonder if my body is still up to the toil of hauling a deer out of the woods, skinning and quartering it, and being on my feet for seven hours turning it all into sausage.

But delicious sausage. Such sweet delicious sausage.

Hunters and anglers will readily tell you that it's about the experience rather than the harvest. We'll also add a couple of pounds to the fish that got away, and a few points to the buck we just missed. In short, we are liars.

Yes, there are plenty of hunters like me who claim it's not about the trophy, but trust me, we all want the trophy. In my home there's no big fish or set of antlers over the mantle, but I'll happily show you the photos, and I've saved the shell that took each deer (marked with date and time), and I've weighed the meat, and I've written the stories.

Trophies.

And sitting in the stand, visualizing the deer that's about to emerge from the mist, there's always the hope that it will be the eight point buck rather than the small doe.

But aside from trophies, sharing stories is integral to the annual hunting experience, and this year was no exception. At the Thanksgiving table this year, a conversation with long-time friends turned to hunting, and a couple of them recounted long past experiences that soured them to the prospect of taking an animal's life. They were not judgmental, and I'm sure aware of the irony of having the conversation between bites of turkey. As for me, I listened with interest, feeling little need to explain my own fascination with the activity. I've spoken of it before if you're curious.

Among those fascinations, the process of skinning and quartering a deer and deboning the meat is a fascinating lesson in anatomy. There are vivid demonstrations of how limbs are propelled, how muscle connects to bone, where fat is stored to retain warmth, and the elegant functioning of joints. I've attended the lesson eight or ten times. You'd think that would make one into a competent amateur. Alas, for me it's a lesson that sticks poorly, and each year the process is slow and tedious.

On December 15th my eighth season ended, not with the coveted buck but with a small doe that would stock the freezer. On that day a final challenge remained, a story for another time and place, but one I had not yet faced. How many seasons make an experienced hunter? Is eight enough? I couldn't say, but on that day I was grateful for friends with many more seasons than I, friends who responded quickly when I sent questions via early morning text, friends who offered sound advice and, more importantly, encouragement.

In the end, the season was long, the season was challenging, and more than once I questioned the wisdom of my choices. But the season held countless lessons that I hope have made me a better hunter. And ultimately, hunting is a skill I'd like to hone. The season also included the sight of a hawk hunting in the brush, a handsome buck minding two does, two sightings of my wife's albino deer (which, to state the obvious, I am forbidden to take), and a squirrel that scampered down the very tree in which I was sitting oblivious to my presence; in short, time amongst the sights and sounds of the forest. Perhaps most importantly it left me with stories (a few of them true) to be shared with friends.