May the Hunter Prevail

The sun has just lifted itself high enough to see farther than ten feet in front of your face. You have been able to sell burned leaves in the distance from area farmers trying to clear for their harvest and see faint fog around you. In your pockets is your trusty Bowie knife, and bag of half eaten venison jerky and a over creased book that you’ve read over and over again. The cold of the air freezes your nose and makes you think it is as red as Rudolph’s and your breath creates clouds. You had your chair set in the tree since five in the morning to give yourself enough time for one to stray from their herd to meet your sights and you know you will not be disappointed. You have practiced and prepared for this day; you and your friends, you have made all the preparations to make your time in the woods a successful one. You hear a crow caw in the distance and the wind fill in the gaps. This is your special place, it always has been your perfect place and this is your perfect morning. You are patient, you are cunning, and you are true. You are a hunter.

Then you finally stiffen up; you hear some leaves rustling in the brush, then it stops but you are still alert. You ready an arrow in your compact bow and watch your radius like a hawk. Again, rustling of leaves, but now they are louder, the noise has more purpose; it’s heavier with each movement. By now you have been in the woods often enough that you know exactly where it is coming from and exactly how fast. You sit as still as a lizard, the bow pulled to your ear, your grip tight, yet loose and a small bead of sweat slowly falling down the side of your face. The blood is rushing through your heart and veins, as it does not matter how often you have been here before you still get excited about the anticipation of the kill. And still, even though you were ready for it, he emerges from the foliage. He trots slowly in your line of fire, unable to detect that you are so near that you could kick him, but that would be stupid. You take a split second to admire the buck’s majesty and then you just let the arrow fly straight into the side of his neck and a damn good shot it was; must have dug into the deer a good two to three inches but just as soon as you are ready to break out the brew in celebration, the buck takes off running. Now you know the chase is on. Without caring what you leave behind you slide down the tree like a man on a fire pole and take off in the same direction. You know that the deer has a good amount of space between you and him as he is desperately running back to the herd but by now you know that they are either gone or conquered by a friend or two of yours. You know this deer has no chance, you, the hunter, have been at this too long. This is your backwoods, your place of peace and wisdom with nature that blends with your need as a conqueror as it has provided this very moment your kill.

You have run a mile as you climb a hill and look down a clearing. There you see him, the buck you hit. He holds a magnificent rack of nine points and can barely keep him moving. Your inflicted wound has slowed the deer down and he knows, instinctively, that you are behind him. The beast does not know he is beaten, his instinct will not allow him to but his confusion give you enough time to pull the bow back one more time to your ear and let the arrow fly. With luck you hit him in nearly the same place as the buck screams in pain and falls on his front knees. You come closer, anticipating any sudden or last attempt movements but this dear just stares at you, first his eyes seems to furrow then let go of it’s anger and pain as it falls to the side, conceding his fight to you, the victor.

You are a hunter, not a glutton, as the woods have provided and you are thankful. The buck’s rack is your trophy and his meat for the nourishment for you and your family. The cold of the air has overtaken your body again as the adrenaline that has pumped through your body has ceased. Your perfect place has proven itself true and with respect you leave with your one kill and vow to come back next year in hopes nature grants your wish once again.

Venator increbresco.

H.R. Green, 16th of October, 2009, 12:28 a.m. Burtchville, MI