Season’s End

I kept watching the clock, but I knew in my heart there wasn’t time.

It was the last day of deer season, which in my business really just means it’s about a half-day at work, unless someone gets drunk, rude and/or stupid, thus creating breaking news. There were still so many moving parts to fix that I was losing hope of even a few minutes under a convenient tree. I’d even given in to temptation of a stand on a cornpile, courtesy of a dear friend. I’m more of a scout and track kind of hunter, even though my bad back and worse leg don’t make that an attractive proposition like it was when I was still fit and young enough to be as true a courer des bois as one can be in the age of the cellphone.

But the end of the season is grocery shopping and matter-of-principle hunting more than matching wits with a trophy.

Everything all season went sideways each time I planned to hit the woods and find a friendly tree. Work crises, a flat tire, weather, runaway livestock and life in general. October through Thanksgiving were frenetic; I consoled myself that Thanksgiving would work, but that went sideways, too. Then the days just slipped away.

So I found myself hours away from being good-naturedly mocked by other hunters til next year.

A dear friend was more than hospitable about having a spot reserved for me, even putting out some extra corn in case a wandering herd of hogs came through. My beloved Winchester, a gift from a friend several years ago, was sighted in, clean and ready. The daily errands were run a day early, just in case.

But the clock was winding down like the sun, and neither was looking very hopeful.

Still I tried.

That morning, as I went out to count goats and greet the day (no extra or missing goats, and a gorgeous if chilly dawn), I heard hounds running on the other side of the canal from our farm, back past the holler and along the cutover, where the mature pines fight with the oaks and gums. They were close enough to prick up the ears of my own worthless hounds, but not near enough for them to get upset, especially since they wanted breakfast, and running deer is below a coon or bear hound, thank you very much.

Jughead, who would chase a statue and bay at it if it ran, looked hopeful as I tried to sneak my gear to the truck. I apologized to him, since this wasn’t a day for casts and camaraderie, but for patience.

During a brief stop at a store on the way in, I saw a feather and his son, maybe seven years old, a grin as wide as the sky across his rosy cheeks. Their hunt had started before most decent folks were out of bed, and they were on the way home with a nice fat four-pointer in the back of an experienced truck. He proudly told anyone who would listen that it was his first killed off his grandpa’s stand, with one shot. I wondered if his dad had taken his first there, too, and maybe even Dad’s grandpa had his hands steadied by the patriarch of another generation on the same stand back when investing a cartridge in a deer was serious business, possibly even the difference between a celebratory roast cooked on a wood stove and a supper of field peas and sweet potatoes.

My social media was lit up with photos of waterfowlers and deer hunters when I got to work. The approaching weather change, heralded by a howling wind, had the animals moving everywhere. With all due respect to duck hunters, I was happy for them, but had no desire to freeze my skinny backside in a boat at 4 a.m. There were pictures of a coyote or two as well as a bear and a rogue hog. It was a day to make memories.

I could have just turned everything over to someone else for the day, but that bothers me, so I rushed through as much as I could, waiting for the time I could rush out the door, change clothes and head for my spot.

It’s strange, I know, but I don’t hunt at home.

We know several of the deer by name, having watched them grow up from rescued fawns or just conveniently ignored freeloaders with a taste for horse feed. The white on Fireball’s belly is slightly higher than the Plimsol line on most deer; he was a habituated fawn brought to us for release. It took several days for him to get the idea that he was a deer, not a goat.

He has four honest points now, and has replaced the Swamp Monster as the big buck on campus. I heard the Monster was harvested last year, after several years of successfully avoiding hunters and cars, while improving the gene pool.

Then there’s Big Mama, a mature doe who consistently throws twins who always seem to thrive. She had twin boys this year, and I was surprised to see the button bucks still hanging out with their mother on my cameras right before Christmas.

 Spot has several distinct markings on her shoulder; they might be scars from a narrow escape, or natural discoloration. Whatever the cause, she is paranoid as a rabbit, barely even hanging out with Big Mama, and avoiding Fireball. She’s even scared of the squirrels.

If one of our deer is harvested somewhere else by another hunter, this is just life. God made deer to be eaten by carnivores. Man is a carnivore, just one that’s a lot more sophisticated in his hunt than the coyotes, bobcats and bears, or the wolves and panthers that once roamed these woods. If someone else takes one of “my” deer, I’ll miss said critter, but their steaks won’t be on my table. If someone else’s “pet” deer crosses my firing lane, the same rule applies. It may seem odd, but the hunt isn’t about the kill. It’s just one possible result of a day well spent.

As I left town, my hand fell to the walnut on my Winchester, which is still unblooded. While not as traditional as the flintlock I used to carry, I still like the idea of iron sights and simplicity when it comes to deer or big game. My other rifles are better for other game, but I cannot count the number of gray-headed masters I knew through the years who carried a “cowboy gun” long after autoloaders became common, and bolt actions with longer range became readily available. One of my older rifles, an ancient Russian surplus Mosin, has seven faint notches carved in the stock. Whether they represent Nazis or deer, I cannot say. I lean toward the latter, knowing the family who last owned it.

A final phone call, a final email, and I was heading out the door. As I got ready to make the turn to my destination, the sun was just touching the tops of the pines when the phone rang. Something only I could do needed doing, right then.

I sighed, and gave up. At least I could do some nuisance hog work on the corn on another day.

I turned down our lane as the shadows faded into the gloaming you only see in the deep woods for a few priceless minutes on a winter’s day, when God smiles and makes everything beautiful for a few minutes. The truck slowly bounced down the clay and marl, soil thirsty for a good rain — and at the end of the lane, I saw him.

Fireball was scavenging a few forgotten acorns. At another time, in another place, with nothing in the freezer, I’d have slowed the truck, opened the door as quietly as possible, and used the open pines as cover for a quick stalk. But this was at home, and as I said, I’ve known him since his buttons were just breaking loose.

Instead I just stopped and enjoyed the light dappling through the trees, the sky purple-pink with the promise of a frigid night, and watched him go about his business. In the last light of the day, he finally moved off, and I headed in for coffee and supper.

I felt a little silly, not to mention frustrated at another wasted season, but as I said, the hunt isn’t about the kill.

It’s about shadows stretching past old trees, squirrels cursing at you for trespassing, smiling little kids and proud fathers, and hounds singing in the dawn. It’s about walking softly through the woods with an old rifle, shivering patiently in a tree stand, or listening to the dogs turn a deer through a tangled bay.

With all that, a buck on the tailgate is just a bonus.