Can you hear it? I can...faint,
barely audible, but calling out to me, ghostly. You can feel it on
the breeze and hear it in the rattle of the leaves and see it in the
vivid azure sky and star filled night. The calendar says late July,
but Mother Nature is teasing us with early Autumn. Just a taste, just
a hint, for we know that sticky, dull days of August lie ahead...but
every bowhunter hears the same voice calling, the same whisper in his
ear that accompanies the first cool morning and chill of night...
Turkey season is a distant
memory as the time between seasons is too long and the hunter has to
be idle and wait for his turn again. We long for the coolness of
fall, the crisp air, the sting of our lungs as we inhale that first
breath of a frosty, pre-dawn morning. The sharpness of the changing
colors, that time when the whole world is set ablaze. The lemon
yellows, the watermelon reds of the maples and poplars. The
tangerine, ambers and auburn of the oaks and hickories as the leaves
wither and the trees ready themselves for the cold of winter...
We pass the time preparing.
Scouting trips in the heat, swatting mosquitoes and biting flies,
wiping sweat from our eyes. We spy on the deer from a far, spotting
scopes and binoculars at the ready. Hidden cameras are placed at
likely spots, some heavily used trail deep in the shaded woods or a
well worn corner at the edge of the bean field. Food plots tilled and
planted, feeding stations checked and re-checked. Evenings are spent
driving the back roads, watching the fields, hoping to catch a
glimpses of velvet covered antlers and big bucks in their orange
coats of summer.
August arrives, muggy, damp and
warm...Squirrel season rings in and helps take the edge off with a
few mornings spent under a stand of hickory or walnuts waiting for a
gray or fox squirrel to make his mistake and show himself. But
fighting through poison ivy and dew covered spider webs in the heat
of late summer chasing rodents is no comparison to the freshness of
October and the majesty and grace of a whitetail deer...
Arrows are shot and shot again.
Shoulders and back strong from repetition...The targets are worn and
tattered from repeated hits and being baked in the summer sun.
Equipment is examined...knives sharpened to a razor's edge,
broadheads keen and honed, ready to do their job went the time comes.
The hunter compares notes with like-minded, when and where the big
boys are moving, discussion about spread and points and inches of
antler, typical and non-typical. Tree stands are placed and shooting
lanes trimmed, all for that one moment.
August is barely here and
plenty of summer is left, but we've been tempted by the weather, a
cruel tease, a bad joke. The hunter's heart has been piqued by the
snap in the air, the clean, clear skies...Two months out, but the
bowhunter knows his time is coming, days spent in the trees, among
the wildlife, breathing in deep...So we anxiously wait for our turn,
all the while listening to the whisper on the wind calling us to
Autumn, calling us to October.
