The Fever!

      I settled back, comfortable in my perch...Higher than I normally hunt, easily 20 plus feet, but I'm safely strapped to the tree. My view is perfectly framed through the boughs of the cedar. A standing yellow cornfield to my front, an overgrown, clear cut pasture that hasn't seen cows in years behind me and a beat down deer trail to my right connecting the two...If all goes as planned, a willing deer will participate in my hunt...

      The evening passes quickly as I'm rocked almost asleep by the movement of the huge cedar tree in the breeze. I watch as the rows of corn sway back and forth, almost hypnotic...The weather is ideal, cool enough for my wool jacket and long johns, but warm enough for comfort. This is the perfect spot to be in early October...birds singing and squirrels chattering and skittering around in the leaves.

      The sun has dropped low, that magic time for deer hunters...the witching hour when the deer are up and on their feet. I take a look around and something is out of place in the pasture. As I concentrate on the spot 75 yards away, the twitch of an ear. Then I catch the glint of an antler in the fading sunlight...The shine of the buck's wet, black nose reveals itself. My heart pounds and the familiar excitement takes over...The old buck had been bedded right under my nose for the last 2 hours! I grunt the deer to his feet, but still only able to see his head and neck due to the tangle of brush he calls his bedroom. For 10 minutes, he teases me, gradually moving closer, then easing back, never getting closer than 50 yards from my hide...A big 9 pointer, no doubt a trophy deer. I'd never seen the old guy on the hoof, but have a couple of trail camera photos of him after hours. By the looks of him, he's seen his share of seasons...fat, pot bellied and sway backed like an old horse. The size of his body more impressive than his antlers. Try as I might, he doesn't fall for any of my tricks as he disappears into the brush and vanishes over the hill...

      Spent, I slump back against my tree and rest from the encounter. I think to myself that I'll have a good story to tell and a memory made...It's late now, time to climb down. I peel my face mask off and just about to lower the longbow to the ground...Movement across the way and I see a deer's leg. It's the old boy sneaking back for a second look. He has circled downwind to try and smell the source of the grunting and ready for a fight! I quickly nock an arrow to the bowstring and wait. I glance ahead and pick my spot...In seconds, the buck is there...15 yards quartering away exactly where I want him...

      I'd like to be able to tell you that my arrow sped to its mark. I'd like to be able to tell you that I recovered the prize at the end of a short trail and that he provided many meals and his antlers now grace the walls of my hunting shack...I'd love to tell you all of that, but if I did, it would be untrue...

                                                                        

      What I can tell you is that I was a victim...A victim of a horrible case of “Buck Fever”! A condition all deer hunters are familiar with...I don't know how it happened, but it happened! The last thing I recall is seeing my arrow dribble its way towards the buck and fall harmlessly in the high grass, 5 yards from his feet...I don't even remember drawing my bow or hitting my anchor point or releasing, but the brightly colored feathers of my arrow burying in the grass are etched in my mind...The big buck jumped and trotted back to the safety of the pasture and tromped and snorted for the next 5 minutes as I pouted in my treestand and wondered what just happened...feeling almost ill.

      Yep, even after 30 years of hunting, I am still afflicted by buck fever and if I ever become immune to it, that will be the day I sell my longbow and buy some new golf clubs...

A Day on the Range

      Focus behind the shoulder, 10 ring...The recurve bow holding all of the energy he puts into it. His draw is smooth as he hits anchor, holds for a split second and the cedar arrow is released. It's flight fast, but still a graceful arch as the solid thump of arrow striking foam follows 20 yards distant...He turns and the grin he wears says it all. The older fellas in the group congratulate the boy on another great shot as we make our way to the target.

      We pull the arrows and call out the scores, his reads two 10's and the smile returns to his face as more back slapping and “good shots” and accolades are tossed his direction. The kid is meek, quiet, reserved...but with his recurve in hand and arrows launched, his 6 foot frame is a little straighter, his shoulders a little more broad. His whole demeanor changes and the quiet kid in the shadows stands out, even among the more experienced archers at the competition. He is developing a reputation among the ranks of traditionalists and his Dad's pride swells as the once little boy finds his own niche.

      His skills on the target range have far surpassed the old man's and his 20/20 vision bests his Dad's by far...What used to be a kid in awe of his pop has now turned into a game of peers. The boy launching arrows down range and hitting the 8's and 10's with regularity and his Dad trying to keep up and even the score. From pats on the head and encouragement after missed shots to joking and ribbing one another as the relationship matures and changes...I knew it was bound to happen, whether on range or the basketball court where he both beats his Dad...

      The time on the range passes quickly...Time to load up and head back home. The kid wolfs down a couple of burgers on the drive and then dozes off in the passenger seat, still revealing a fragment of childhood left in him. He looks peaceful at rest...As I drop him off at his mom's house and drive away, I think about how much he has grown. I think about how I used to drag him to the 3D shoots, a kid sized longbow and shortened arrows in his hands and a Fred Bear Fedora on his head. I recall watching the tiny shafts bouncing off the targets and the smile that would come across his face when an arrow would actually stick in the side of the foam deer, elk or bear. How he would soak in the conversation from the other shooters and how he was always made to feel included by the guys at the range. I think about him now and how his shooting skills and manner has earned him the respect of that same group. I think about him being a young man and finding his own way...The time on the range has passed quickly...too quickly and I wonder where it has went and how to get it back...

     A quote from a friend of mine compared the growing up of children to arrows...both are meant to fly.

End of the Season...

    Last day of turkey season and the morning broke gray, cool and rainy...This was it, the last hoorah, now or never, do or die...It was a greasy, dark, slog along the two track trail next to the clover field. I looked forward to the relative dryness of the pop-up blind. Decoys set, I shake off the rain and settle back into my hide and wait for daylight.

     Out the front window, fresh cut clover and a view of the woods beyond, fog rolling off the hollers like smoke. Behind me, the roar of rain swollen Grant's Creek as it tumbles along towards the Ohio and points further South and West. An hour into my watch and no turkeys...I don't blame them...no one in their right mind ought to be out in weather like this. Aside from the pouring rain and the rushing water, all is quiet. The rain has found the blind's weak points as I watch water trickle down the interior walls and eventually pool under my feet. The constant "pitter, patter" of the rain against the roof of my hiding spot lulls me into a trance and I'm certain I've dozed a time or two. I flinch myself awake and a quick peek out the window reveals nothing but more of the same...

     My mind drifts away from turkey hunting and I think to myself "It's Mother's Day"...and I'm grateful to still have my mom around when so many others I know have lost theirs. I'm grateful for a mom that always encouraged my love of the outdoors, hunting and fishing and was always eager to hear my tales, even if she wasn't interested. I think about her words of wisdom and how I didn't always understand them at the time, but now as a parent of teenagers, they ring true...I daydreamed and thought and head nodded and napped...

     Snapped back awake, a distant yelp across the creek. Three hours in and still no birds...As much as I hate to admit it, it's time to pack it in and call it a season. The rain continues to pound down and the sky is still thick with no let up in sight...It's over. Time to slip and slide back to the truck and dry clothes. So, was my turkey hunting season a success? In terms of meat on the table and a tail fan and beard for the wall, it was an abject failure...But, I saw the colors of an early morning sunrise painted by my Creator, I heard the calling of barred owls in the pre-dawn morning, I was serenaded each day by songbirds, I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle as it hung thick in the air, I experienced the anticipation and excitement of hunting new spots thanks to inviting friends. I saw deer and turkeys and felt my heart race with a few close encounters. I heard Tom's thunder their calls up and down the valley, from one hilltop to another. I watched a barren field transform almost overnight into a lush green carpet of soybeans. But best of all, I shared time in the woods with a boy that is growing up all to fast. To have taken a turkey with my bow would have been the chocolate icing on top of an already sweet cake! So...Was my season a success? I'll let you decide...

The Opener...

     My internal alarm clock goes off at 5 am despite the one next to my bed being set at 5:30…my mind’s way of telling my body not to over sleep on opening day. I wipe my eyes open and force my contacts under the swollen lids, burning with saline solution as I squint my way into the kitchen. The boy is already up and moving and dressed to go…I rummage through the fridge, find a piece of cheese and grab an oatmeal cookie as I slam down a diet coke for my morning caffeine fix and we’re out the door…

     Racing out SR250 like a couple of vampires running from the break of dawn, we make it to the farm just in time as the sun barely cracks the purple sky.  We beat tracks across the no till field to the safety of our dark, hidden little blind tucked away in the shadows at the edge of the trees…Organized we’re not, but everything, including us seems to find its place as we elbow and jockey one another for position in the cramp quarters.

     Finally settled in, we wait for day time’s return and an accommodating turkey to show up within range of our arrows…We’re shoe horned in the blind and I can’t help but wonder where the time has went. Just a couple years ago, we had room to spare in our hiding spot, I thought to myself as I happen to glance down at the kid’s Frankenstein sized 14 boot dwarfing my size 9’s…I still have a difficult time remembering that there’s not much “kid” left in the 6 feet of lanky teen to my right…where has the time went?

     The woods are waking up as the sun at our back creeps its way across the open field in front of us…eating away inch by inch, minute by minute the grayness of dawn. The boy spots a doe coming across the field 200 yards straight away, heading right to us…She puts on the skids at 50 yards, head bobbing trying to figure out what we are and why we’re here…She’s safe for now and continues on her way, followed in short order by two others heading for their bedrooms after night of dining. Songbirds fill the air along with the ever present noise of crows…A gang of four of the black birds making non-stop racket. A redtail glides over and is immediately bullied by the leader of the pack…I’ve never understood why a bird as strong and graceful as a hawk puts up with a crow…one grab by the hawk’s talon would be instant death. As I watch the dive bombing, aerial dog fight, I’m quietly rooting for the crow’s demise…

     Blue jays, woodpeckers and nuthatches talk back and forth…But my son and I quiet for the most part, listening for another bird. A yelp, a “cut”, a purr…hopefully a gobble? Two hours into our vigil and nothing heard. No turkeys to be found…The hunt will be over soon as I have to be responsible and get the boy to school…I think to myself that I probably should’ve made him go on time, but tomorrows aren’t guaranteed and the way I see it, we only get to be part of so many sunrises and I’m determined to share as many of them with my kids as possible, so any guilt at missing a period or two of studies is quickly washed away…Besides, some things learned aren’t taught in the classroom.

   

   “What time is it Dad?” he whispers… “15 more minutes Bud, then we’ll have to go” I reply, wishing it was hours…We manage to hear a distant yelp from a hen and call to her, but she’s not interested in our attempt to talk and we finally concede it’s time to go…Not much conversation was had, but we didn’t need to speak…In the stillness of the morning, in the coolness of the air, lost in our own thoughts, in our facial expressions, we spoke volumes…we didn’t need words.

     The turkeys might have won this round, but my success this morning wasn’t decided by an arrow launched or measured by the length of Tom’s beard or the hook of his spurs…