To replenish my freezer with a yearly supply of non-processed, clean, organic meat, I choose to hunt for it. You either have to do it yourself or have someone do it for you, but in the end, if you eat holistic meat or any meat, the animal dies for your appetite. Most folks eat their cheese burger oblivious to the industries that artificially fatten and kills their food for them. The hunter lives with that intimate responsibility. Nonetheless, there are visceral gifts hunters receive for that ownership. What follows are the first three hours of my morning hunt.
It begins with the stroll through the morning chill to the stand, a raised ten-foot platform I built with a 6X6X6-foot see-through cloth cube my friends from Down Under call a hide. I have a comfortable swivel chair with a shooting rail to steady my crossbow. I use a red headlamp that saves your night vision. In every submarine movie, red light is used before they surface at night so the crew can see immediately upon surfacing. It’s the same principle. Each season, however, I have to get use to the black demons darting past my peripheral vision. A characteristic of the singular light source on your forehead casting moving shadows. Nothing is hunting you in the woods of Central Wisconsin, but I jump in surprise every year.
The goal is to be settled into the stand, ready and quiet, an hour before first light. That time in the dark is used to assimilate. You listen and slowly join the rhythm of your surroundings, a process I covet.
Most mornings are windless. In our busy worlds, silence takes time to recognize and appreciate. Those first few minutes are a portal as your senses expand outward like the rings in a quiet lake after you toss a pebble. You hear owls in the distance. When the wind comes up, you record the leaves flittering in the branches and your brain will memorize their location. If squirrels or chipmunks are present they sound like a deer walking in the leaves. You curse them and take note. Now, having understood the notes of the natural symphony, you listen for the anomalies: a hoof scraping through the leaves, the crack of a stick, or the hum of an animal moving through the grass. Any of which will produce an adrenalin rush.
Today the woods, the marsh, and my stand are covered in frost. Lucky me, the deer walking through the waist high foliage will sound like a zipper. As the light comes up, the marsh carries the subtle undulations of a gigantic bowl of oatmeal. The layers of temperature creating what looks like steam. Birds begin to chirp and the early silence become a cornucopia of life.
This time of the season is the buck rut. The boys are chasing the girls. Seventy yards from my perch is an area deer will bed down for the night. Hence, my early arrival and silence. Suddenly, a stampede erupts with five doe scattering in multiple directions. In the middle of the melee, stands a six-point buck who had surprised the ladies jerking his head around deciding which doe to chase. The buck is my goal. I’m hunting at home. I see the doe all year long. They frolic around the house in the summer, their like pets. The buck makes his decision and lopes across the marsh through the grass and fallen ash trees. An easy shot with a rifle, but impossible with a crossbow. Gun season is still two weeks away.
There is no disappointment. Hunting requires patients. Other opportunities will be forthcoming. I’ve just witnessed a wonderful moment in nature. Something you have to be in the woods to appreciate. Perhaps I’ll see him later. Last year, a doe came into view 20 yards away closely follow by an 8-point buck. He was part of my dinner last night as I watched Game Six of the World Series.
With the dawn excitement passed, the sun tossed a warm blanket over my blind. The frost had coated both sides of my camouflaged cocoon. In moments, it began precipitating in my hide. Rain was twinkling down on me from the interior roof. That’s a first, as I chuckled at another unexpected visceral gift. I take note to pack a towel with my gear as a drop finds the back of my neck. It’s another fine story for the next campfire.
The Adventures of Spaghetti Eddie 