I love deer hunting. With my Dad being a hunter, I don't know how the joy of it eluded me for so long, but now that I have found it, I'm hooked. Someone commented to me the other day that she doesn't know how somebody can sit in one spot for hours waiting for a deer to come through...I understand, it's not for everyone. But to me, it's so much more than waiting for a deer. Sure, there's the thrill of actually shooting one, there is little that can compare to that kind of excitement. However, it is also so much more.
On Saturday morning I began my hunt. I hadn't really scouted this specific area yet, so I started by walking along the edge of a small ravine. In a dead, hollowed out tree inches in front of me I caught a flicker of tawny and white feathers. I peered through a crack, and said, "hello little bird". The smallest owl I have ever seen locked his big round eyes with mine. He cocked his head to the side, obviously not overly concerned about my presence. I smiled, remembering the "owl" game my Grandma Denniston used to play with my brother and me. In a flash, he was gone, taking flight on silent wings.
I eventually found a place to sit down and wait to see if something should wander by. The hush that had fallen over the woods slowly made way to the chirping of birds and the rustling of creatures unseen. I took in the blue jays calling to each other, swooping from one gray tree to another.
After sitting long enough for my bottom to get sore I stood up and followed a game trail. Trying to make sense of deer scrapes and rubbings, I picked my way along, hoping I would come up with something conclusive. One, single, lonely yellow butterfly, daring winter to come along and end it's happiness, fluttered on the brisk morning wind. I followed it, fantasizing that it was leading me to a secret deer hideout. Ignoring the silliness of such a notion, I continued along in the direction it went. A pheasant burst out of the brush just beneath my feet. I startled the woods into silence, and myself into a pounding heart with a rather loud screech.
Up ahead the brush began to rustle, something bigger than a squirrel (more to come on the squirrels....) was moving quickly through the dry underbrush. Unless the deer was crawling on its knees, I knew it had to be something else making so much noise. And then, through the top of the grass, a blue and red head popped up, let out a little gobble, popped back down, and pursued its noisy path. I pretended like I was hunting him for a little while. On the other side of the river I saw the turkey's real hunter: a big beautiful tan coyote. I had always pictured coyotes as mangy and forlorn creatures, like Mr. Wile. E. Coyote. This animal couldn't have been further from such a description. Obviously well fed on turkey, or deer, or both, he silently prowled along the edge of the river, spotting me, and taking off.
I made my way to another post, one where deer had been routinely spotted and reported. I settled in to wait for a deer to wander by, wishing I could slow down the inevitable sunset just a little. I had three clear views of directions I knew the deer had been coming from. I thought my chances were pretty good. What I didn't take into consideration was Agent S. Q. Whirl. I am convinced that squirrels are the secret agents of the woodlands. It wasn't long until one had spotted me. He hopped across the branches over to me and stared me down. I almost broke under the pressure, but managed to maintain my composure. He started the interrogation. Nonstop chattering, grunting, and snuffling, much of which I am sure were completely unacceptable curse words. He flicked his tail in irritation and looked like he was going to go super squirrel ninja on me at any second. I avoided eye contact and wondered what defense such a tiny creature could possibly have. And then it occurred to me: being as annoying as possible. Mr. Whirl took off and circled the woods along the tree branches, tattling the whole time about the hunter he saw spotted at the top of the hill. You know that scene in Bambi where the critters all start yelling "hunter in the woods! hunter in the woods!"? Well, I have no doubt that it was a squirrel that started the rumor. Needless to say, I did not see any deer that night, but I blame the squirrel.
Sunset settled in, the sounds of night time animals making their way out of their burrows reached my ears. I bowed to my tattler as I departed, he refused to accept the compliment and chattered at me one last time.
I still have several more days to find and shoot a deer. But if I don't, I will never consider such a venture wasted. It is about so much more...
