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The 2002 deer season
By
Dave Wolf ©
He stands
like a statue, washed antlers, bleached bone in color. It has come to
this, the meeting of the hunter and the hunted. His body, the color of
dying leaves beneath the driven snow. We have shared the same sector of
the woods for over 40-hours. I have been in pursuit of a buck for over
fifty.
The season’s
circle has come down these final minutes of time. A year of waiting for
the minute we would meet—if in fact we would meet. I the hunter,
standing as still as an oil panting. ‘My’ buck and I in a standoff, my
hands tremble at the site of the taut muscles. We have taken it down to
the “wire.” The last 45-minutes of my final day of hunting—this year,
my mind accepting there would be no buck, as the hours ticked to another
season’s end.
The
wind whispering Karl’s words, “sooner or later a buck will make a
mistake.” But, the mistake is six days into the hunt, and this will be
the one and only mistake, the buck will make in my presence this year.
Truth is, we may never meet again.
Last year, I
had taken the heaviest antlered buck of my hunting life. (See link to
story and photos at the end of this article.) But the truth of what I
had written, “no two bucks are alike,” rings true.
The buck
displays, smaller but more symmetrical antlers. He is younger, but with
a magnificent rack, as all racks tend to be. The seasons have come full
circle, and time is placing the final finishes on the circle, soon to
close.
My buck is
waiting for me to make the first move—I wait for the buck to make his.
The wind slaps against my face, pushing against my orange vest, where
two doe permits, with tags filled, hang. It has been a good
season—there is meat, in various stages of preparation for the freezer.
My hunting
family had found retreat in the cabin, near the top of the hill. They
too hoped that I would tag, my buck. But, they have no idea we are now
looking at one another. The chilled bones, the endless tracking, the
single shots taken to down my two doe are now forgotten.
The deer turns
his head, looking away to some distant location. The brow tines are
visible, the points counted, as I raise the Sako .308 in slow motion.
My 3x9 Leupold is set on 5x and the antlers now are magnified. The
moment seems surreal; I check the antlers again and count beneath my
frozen breath. Yes, he’s a legal and a decent buck.
Wobbling cross
hairs, a full gulp of air, exhaling to leave half out and hold as I
flick off the safety and squeeze the trigger. The shot is
all-important—no messy killing—making the shot is an important element
in taking cleanly and quickly—the animal I love deserves that of me. I
require it.
The world
stands still as the buck collapses without a step. The life ebbing
quickly out of him, I push closer and finish the job with a shot to the
neck. I look at the buck and the antlers, and count them again—10 in
all.
A cabin on the
hill, empties as Karl, Bill, and Rita, come forth. We celebrate the
stealing of the buck, and bring it to the cabin. We fill our stomachs
with the fuel of food, as wood heats the interior. We are all hunters,
of ethical persuasion. Hunter’s that understand one another, who feel
the need to be in the deer woods in pursuit.
Now the
antlers hang on my wall, not too far from last year’s buck. They’re not
trophies, but tangible reminders of seasons past, shared with close
friends—a hunting family. People who never need an explanation of why
we hunt—they understand.
As I touch the
antlers, I think of the buck’s life, of my life, of a beginning and an
end. Of paths we may have crossed—of traditions we continue. And I
look back to the last hunts and ahead to the new. No two bucks are ever
alike, but of equals they are.
To view a picture of
the 2002 buck, click HERE, Hit the back
button to return.
To read about Dave’s
2001 hunt click here:
http://expage.com/wolfslines
Check out
Dave's Book by linking here.
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