I am going hunting in 2 weeks, at beautiful wooded Rosehill Camp near
Corning. I've got my spot picked out. The last time I hunted that land,
which was two years ago, I noticed that a pine grove at the north end
of the property was serving as a hideout for deer that had successfully
run the gauntlet from the cornfields at the top of the hill, through
the forest, past the hunters' treestands and down to safety. This year,
my grizzled accomplice (old RPR) will plant a ground blind for me about
a week in advance, at a natural entrypoint to the pine grove. With no
human activity in the vicinity for a week, the blind should "cool down"
in the minds of my quarry, becoming simply part of the natural
landscape. RPR will also mark the a trail of trees with reflective
thumbtacks, to catch my flashlight's beam and get me to the blind in
the 5 AM darkness on opening day. I will hunker down in full camouflage
with a thermos of coffee, a pair of binoculars, and my Mossberg
12-gauge.
Hopefully there will be snow. Sound is dampened but visibility is
greatly enhanced; in all, snow plays to the hunter's advantage in my
opinion.
Some hunters are blasters. My uncle Steve is infamous for this. He
needs about seventeen cartons of slugs to get through the season. More
restrained hunters are grateful for the "blasters" because they are
effective at driving deer with all their noise into more apparently
safe areas. That, of course, is where I will be, patiently lying in
wait. I am not a blaster. I learned when I was a young lad that a true
hunter uses only one shot per deer season. Although I will carry more
slugs in my knapsack in case of a wounded deer that needs euthanizing,
I will pass up all shots that are not perfect, because I do not intend
to be the one inflicting non-fatal wounds. Nothing is worse for both
the deer and the hunter than a misplaced slug that leaves the animal on
its feet but wounded.
The wiliest, trickiest, mature bucks are the ones most likely to
successfully run the gauntlet to my pine grove. I don't want to take
just any hormonally-crazed 2-year buck running around in the woods
trying to get laid. I want the big guy who's made it through two or
three winters on the strength of his wits, the mature prey animal who
knows it's opening day and that there will be hunters. I want the
antlered dominant buck. I want to outsmart him, outwait him,
outposition him, and kill him. And then I want to thank him, and bring
him home to my wife.
Opening morning features perhaps the most thrilling moment of the year.
The cabin begins to stir at 4:00. Low lamps are lit, coffee is brewed,
and glances bearing the weight of anticipation are traded in silence.
The eight or nine hunters check their gear bags and firearms one last
time, each according to a routine perfected decades ago. No one speaks
as the camouflage is donned and the boots are tightened; the rowdy
jokes and card games of the night before are forgotten now. One by one
the hunters file out of the cabin into the dark and gather for the trek
to their treestands. By 5:00 all are standing in a shadowy circle, and
one obscured anonymous face speaks up: "Ok, let's move."
The hunters move through the pitch-black forest swiftly, all together
at first. The soft glow of the cabin fades behind, and the steep
descent into the seemingly bottomless Flashphaler Creek canyon begins.
As the descent through the darkness continues, the hunters one by one
diverge along their subtly-marked thumbtack trails to their treestands.
The rustle of footsteps through the fallen foliage lessens gradually as
each hunter melts away into the deep woods. Only one set of footsteps
and one flashlight beam is left, and the hunter is alone to make his
way, awed by the solitude of the night forest. For two more hours
before dawn, the notion of deer is absent. There is nothing between the
hunter and his God.