[Near the bottom of this post is a picture of a harvested deer]
This deer hunting season, my ninth, was a season of hard won lessons. And in the end, the biggest lesson is to do things differently next year.
To be honest, there was much I did not enjoy about the season. There were warm days in October when gnats and mosquitos were a frequent nuisance. There were long hours sitting in makeshift stands that lack creature comforts, leaving me stiff and sore. There was the usual disappointment of failed hunts. In many cases I saw zero deer through hours on the stand. Perhaps even worse were the various occasions when a deer spied me before I even had a chance to aim, and scurried off or stayed out of range.
But worst of all was the fact that I spent way too much time separate from the person most important to me, and was often grumpy and achy during our time together. In spite of my blatant neglect, she remained supportive, tolerant and loving through it all. There was a crisp October day nearly 30 years ago when we spoke our vows to each other, a happy day indeed, but I assure you I had absolutely no clue of the magnitude of my good fortune.
Of course, the distorted lens through which we see the past will cause the unpleasantness to fade and the joys to retain sharper focus, which is as it should be. I am, in the end, a creature of the woods and treasure my time there. There were sights I won’t soon forget: groups of coyotes moving quickly through field and forest; a great blue heron alighting high in a tree; a pileated woodpecker, my self-proclaimed spirit animal, circling a pine trunk a few feet from my stand; the antics of countless squirrels, including one who climbed the very tree in which I was perched to get a closer look and assess my intent; handsome bucks moving with great purpose; falling leaves; a meandering stream.
And perhaps the greatest joy is the twenty-five packages of venison sausage now in the freezer. Admittedly, my assessment may be influenced by the effort it took to put it there, two hours to skin and quarter, plus seven the next day to debone, cube, grind, season and mix. But I will nonetheless stipulate that it’s the most delicious meat of all, and the experience of mixing, wrapping and stacking the first batch is singularly tactile and deeply fulfilling.
My quest for a single deer for the freezer ended late in the season and rather ironically. The Monday before Chrstmas, I was showered and dressed and out for a short stroll in the woods with the dogs before heading to work. A short ways down the path, as I was admiring the beauty of nature (and/or scrolling through the feed on my phone) I looked up to see a group of five or six deer just a few yards away.
Now deer, obviously, are quite skittish and though I contemplated going back to the house for my gun, I well knew it was a fool’s errand. The deer would surely bolt at any second. But fortuitously the dogs had not yet noticed them, so foolish or not I turned back. At that moment, Daisy spied the deer and let out a small yelp, but my momentum toward the house was well underway so she thankfully went quiet and came along. I dropped off the dogs, grabbed the gun and informed Kate of my Hail Mary strategy.
In spite of their shyness, deer are also rather inquisitive, curious it seems to understand their world and the creatures that move through it. So perhaps it was curiosity that compelled them to stay put. But whatever the reason, after many hours sitting still and quiet in carefully selected camo, I stood there in full view, in my khakis and red puffer vest, and fired the shot.
It was a good shot and the deer went down. But as sometimes happens, it got back up and began to run, at which point a responsible hunter (which I aspire to be) will wait thirty minutes before beginning the search for the hopefully downed deer. My mind racing, knowing it would be a long thirty minutes, I returned to the house to give the dogs the rest of their promised walk.
A short time later, I found the deer nearby, a small doe.
Kate, like many non-hunters, has conflicted feelings about the whole endeavor. She walked out with me to recover it, excited at my success, eager to enjoy the lean and tasty meat, elated that my season was done, but shed a few tears for the beautiful animal. And I think that’s just fine.
Next year, as I say, will be different. I will be less eager to hunt on warm buggy days. I will do a better job with concealment and stand placement. And my aging bones being less tolerant of long hours perched atop a piece of scrap plywood with a thin cushion, I will have more comfortable accommodations.
And while I’m optimistic these changes will improve my odds of a successful hunt, even more so I hope they yield more time to treasure with my beloved Kate.
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