Blessings of life permeate the changing of the seasons

The unusual temperatures of September have prolonged the haying season as well as allowing gardens to flush a third round of lettuce, radishes and cilantro just in time for the last ripe tomatoes and a flourish of salsa-based meals.

This month’s lunar orb is named the full corn moon to recognize the passage of time and the blessings of life here on earth. Tonight, I can hear the lonely call of migrating Canada geese riding the gentle north wind in the starry firmament.

On my walk today, I picked up my first hickory nut of the season and, cracking it open, took a deep breath, inhaling the musky earthy odor. A few trees have begun to show shades of red and the fragrance of fresh second-cut hay permeates the valley, as the cloak of autumn fog seeps into the fields.

For the hunter, these last few weeks of September signal to our hearts and spirits that it is time to merge ourselves with the animal kingdom in a dance of eternal co-dependence. The newly cut corn fields share their spilled excess with the whitetail. Our spirits cry out for one another, as we know that, as a part of nature, we depend on each other to survive.

A walk in the woods takes on a new purpose. We seek signs of the deer’s presence. Where does he eat? What is available this year? Apples? Acorns? Hickory or beech nuts? What paths will they take to the fields at night? Where are they bedding down? Are there any early rubs or scrapes from eager young spikes seeking their first encounter with a doe?

As the heat of late summer continues to lower the lake level, we’ll ask ourselves, will we be able to navigate the swamps in pursuit of the majestically crowned wood duck? Will we hear the “peeeep” of the green-winged teal in the shallow backwaters filled with wild rice seed?

Squirrel season has already begun and the big bushytails are claiming their lofty territory among the canopy of oaks, chittering and making cutting sounds at each other. From the still green branches above, the flash of a grey tail can be seen, but only for an instant.

Some folks shudder at the thought of eating squirrels. My grandmother, who was from the “Old World,” savored these for Brunswick stew. She taught me that, when we are a part of nature, we rely on her to provide for us.

Frankly, I prefer to procure my sustenance for myself, taking full responsibility for harvesting it, be it animal or vegetable. Of course, you will still see me in the supermarket because I am still somewhat reliant on some foods, but the honor of serving a meal of venison neck roast with tomatoes and spices from the garden, for me, is the highest form of sacred nurturance. I share these meals only with friends who can respect the love and thoughtfulness that goes into every aspect of the meal.

In a few short days, I will be sitting in my tree stand, watching over the trails 20 feet beneath me. I close my eyes, lean against the powerful trunk and try to become one with everything around me.

The pileated woodpecker passes by on his nightly patrol, calling to anyone who will listen. I breathe in the deep musky aroma of the earth. The fragrance of apples from the nearby orchard mixes with the intoxicating fragrance of the lake as the depths surrender to the warmth of the surface. Woodsmoke from someone’s end-of-summer firepit wafts by my stand.

I inhale deeply again, taking in the acrid yet bittersweet end of a summer evening’s blessing. Opening my eyes, I watch the rusting orange hue fade over the mountains to the west. The chill of an early autumn evening caresses the back of my neck.

I slither into my fleece balaclava and lay my head back against the tree trunk. All is silent.

Then a sudden quick snap of a twig in the distance. I sharpen my eyes to seek any movement. I spot a flicker of white between two trees where a barberry bush spreads its wiry branches between them. Then, a brown foot, stomping below the bush. Then, a deep bellowing, blowing sound. Something is aware that the evening thermals riding up the hillside carry with them the scent of something foreign along the path.

Moments pass. I breathe quietly through my nose, measuring each breath with intention. Not thoughts of killing, but thoughts of anticipation and wonder.

Minutes later, a large rack of antlers lifts above the shrubbery, the tines glinting in the last rays of sunshine on the hillside. The mature buck steps out from behind the tree, and his thick neck turns toward me. His eyes strain to see through my camouflaged figure, a mere 40 yards away and 20 feet up in the tree.

He does not see me and proceeds to march proudly down the trail toward me. I sit still, and as he walks under me, I glance down and bid him a good evening.

For where I hunt, it is a code of honor to take a doe before we take a buck. It is a sacred code between myself and the woods where I belong.