Memories, dreams and reflections from deer camp
As the calendar flips to November, I ask myself, “How many hunters still cherish the old paper calendars, like the classic Remington Arms ones of yesteryear?”
I know I do. At times it seems like Merle Haggard’s song “Are the Good Times Really Over for Good?” have come true. But when November rolls around and that calendar turns to the page of the big buck hiding behind the blowdown, pillars of moonlight slashing through the snow-laden boughs and the pale-yellow lights of the camp in the background, I’ve got to believe that the good times are still around.
Looking inside a camp window, the inhabitants are sitting around a table playing cards and laughing. One of them has a wry smile on his face as he tries to squeeze his chubby cheeks together in a failing attempt to maintain a poker face. There’s a guy hovering over the stove in the kitchen as if his job is to serve a seven-course meal in a five-star restaurant. Those sitting around the table are expecting nothing more than the traditional “pooh on a shingle.”
One of them is passed out in the lazy boy chair in front of the old Vermont Castings Defiant woodstove. An empty bottle of Glenfiddich sits on the table with a candle stuck in its throat leaning dangerously to one side. A “new” classic country song plays on the old radio on the dusty shelf. Some guy named “George Strait,” who sounds like country legends must have raised him.
The chatter around the table turns to each member’s thoughts on where they think the best chance will be to see their dream buck. Hank is headed up to the saddle again. Dave’s going back to the spot on Cobble Hill, where he claims to have seen a big ten-pointer last year. Tuck’s gonna walk Dead Creek downhill and see if he can intercept one of the “low hunters” chasing a big one up from the fields below. Chris, if he can wake up at all, may sit out on the deck and wait for something to cross the road. Such are the plans of men and fools who want nothing more than to sit alone in the woods as the north winds portend the advent of winter.
Sitting under a lonely pine overlooking a ravine of ash and hardwoods, one finds oneself wandering through the memories of their life. Lost love. Successful ventures. When was the last time I spoke with my brother? Childhood friends with whom we’ve lost touch. And lots of “what ifs.” It’s as if we’re seeking some inner peace by melting into our surroundings and leaving all these existential questions for another time.
For now, it’s more important to ask: “Does this tree I’m leaning against have a heartbeat?” “If a doe walks by under the beech tree stand with its tail up, will a buck be following her?” Thoughts boomerang back to the land before me. “Was that movement behind that distant hemlock?”
I am sitting in one of my favorite spots half a mile downhill from camp. I am immersed in the moment, taking in sensory impressions that soothe and inspire me. There are certain smells floating on the streams of wind that send us messages. Woodsmoke from the house at the bottom of the hill swirls together with the fragrance of beechnut.
Glancing down at the mahogany-brown earth at my feet, I notice spikey light brown triangle-shaped husks. Gathering a handful and cracking them open, I am savoring the seeds of this magnificent mast. Ripe beechnuts. Sweet and just slightly nutty. No wonder the herd from below walks up this trail in the morning after feasting on the grass fields in the valley at night. Looking up into the canopy of branches above, there are hundreds of these brown husks waiting to fall with the next strong wind.
One’s mind can spend an entire day noticing all of nature’s miracles. All it takes is to remain present. For those who say, “I could never have the patience to hunt deer. I get bored too easily,” I would propose that the opposite of boredom is the ability to stay present for everything that is happening around us.
And there is never a period where something isn’t unfolding. Just when we find ourselves in a meditative trance, something new and wonderful shifts our attention. I’ll admit it. Sometimes I do close my eyes. I listen and, yes, sometimes I fall asleep. But there is little more precious in this world than to be awakened by the first gentle snowflake landing on my nose.
The wind shifts a bit and the view changes as a wall of white rips down the mountainside aimed right at my spot. As the snow begins to obscure my view, I see something moving in the distance. A brown object weaving its way through the trees. It is clearly a deer. But is it a buck or doe? Lifting my old Remington 30.06 with the scope, I lower my cheek to the cold walnut stock and center my gaze at the rear optic.
It is fogged. The scope has been lying across my lap and has been warmed by my body heat. Rubbing the lenses, I try again. There it is, walking away. But does it have horns? I can’t tell. Whatever it is, it is headed straight toward the camp in the falling snow. Will any of my guys see it?
Starting back to camp, the snow is accumulating in crunchy, styrofoam-like pellets. By the time I get back, it has turned into a softer, more powdery cushion. Walking through the old green door, I see that everyone has returned and is palavering around the table. The yellow glow of the camp lights shines outside the window and across the road, where darkness has enveloped the woods and covered everyone’s tracks.
From outside, the snow continues to fall. An old buck crosses the rutted logging road, from below the hill where I spent the day. He is walking confidently. He heads up Crow Hill behind the camp, where he knows no one will suspect looking for him.
He’ll lie down on the ridge, and in the morning, he’ll watch the men from the camp wander off in their chosen directions. His eyes will follow them from his warm bed of leaves surrounded by a snowbank made by swirling around the deadfall. Only his regal rack of antlers will poke above the blowdown, as if posing for the picture on the calendar hanging above the mantle in the camp.
(Bradley Carleton is the founder of sacredhunter.org, a privately owned limited liability corporation that seeks to educate the public on the spiritual connection of man to nature through hunting, fishing and foraging. For more of his writings, please subscribe.)