5am comes too early as the alarm
clock jolts me awake. I shake the cobwebs out of my head and listen
to my knees pop as I throw on my hunting clothes for the morning's
hunt. I head out the door and I'm greeted by a cool, damp September
day. “Should be a perfect morning for the kids” goes through my
mind as I drive to the spot...
All the youth hunters are ready
and the camp is buzzing with excitement. Too much energy for this
early in the morning...Five kids in total. Ohio, Kentucky, New
Jersey, Mississippi and Indiana are all represented. A couple of real
pistols in the bunch as I size up the youngsters. Before I give them
the safety speech, the group draws numbers for stand sights and each
of them are paired up with a guide to chaperon the hunt.
I'm secretly crossing my
fingers and hoping for the young man from Kentucky. He and I have
shared a hunting blind in the past and I'd enjoyed spending time in
the woods with him. “Yes!”, my mind yells as it's decided my
little friend from across the river and I will hunt together. The
hunting spots are divided up and our plan for the morning is set.
We make our way under the cover
of darkness to our hiding spot, a large comfortable blind tucked back
in the edge of the woods along the base of a steep hill. Before us is
a small patch of clover and with any luck, a buck will stop by for a
quick bite on his way back to his bedroom. We settle in and wait for
the sun to come...
Daylight is a long time coming
up the Grant's Creek valley. The first sign of sunlight hits the
opposite hill on the far side of the creek. A barred owl fires off
its last call of the gray morning and sets off a fierce howl and
barrage of barking from a pack of coyotes somewhere further down the
holler...My young partner and I exchange a glance at each other,
acknowledging the coyote's presence and the eeriness of their
howling. We focus our gaze back out to the field and wait for light.
The air is thick, cool and
heavy. As the sun creeps higher, a breeze begins to blow, swirling a
fog bank from side to side, back and forth across the valley. We sit
in silence, waiting for a buck to emerge from the fog, laying low
across the clover. I shake off the chill as my buddy tucks his chin
further into the top of his coat. We wait and we watch...
Each minute brings with it more
daylight and I'm rooting for the sun to win and burn off the fog. The
damp coolness and my stiff joints don't mix well. I peek out the
windows of the blind as does my Kentucky friend. We pass the time
whispering and talking about hunting, friends, school and the like.
All the things a 12 year old, country boy would talk about. I listen
hard as his thick, Appalachian accent almost sounds like a different
language at times. We talk for a few minutes and then minutes of
silence. My mind subconsciously tries to distinguish all the sounds
coming from the woods around us. The bird calls blend together into
one song, but my brain somehow sorts them out, dissects them into
individuals. Cardinals, nuthatches, titmouse, wrens, sapsuckers and
woodpeckers can all be heard in the chorus.
Minutes turn into hours and I
can't help but recall past youth hunts. Hunts where I've sat with my
own kids, grown too fast. Memories of my now adult daughter and my
near 16 year old son, good memories. The kind of memories that put a
lump in your throat and a smile to your lips.
Finally, movement as a buck
glides into the clover from our left. A nice buck from his profile
view. I do my best impression of a deer and grunt the fella to a
stop, 40 yards in front of my partner's muzzle loader. The deer stops
on a dime, just as planned and looks directly at us. He's carrying a
solid four point rack on one side of his head and a spindly two point
antler on the opposite side. My pal looks at me for some guidance and
without saying a word, he lowers his gun and gives the strange
antlered buck a free pass to continue on his way...Had it been any of
the other kids in the group, I'd have given them the green light to
take th shot, but this young man is quite an accomplished hunter and
has several deer to his credit and to be honest, he wasn't ready for
his hunt to end and the more I thought about it, neither was I...
We spent the rest of the
morning watching and listening. Joking and smiling, whittling sticks
and dozing off a time or two and creating memories. No Ethan isn't my
own son, but I am grateful for the time we shared out in the woods,
grateful for jogging my own memory, evoking thoughts of my children,
grateful for giving me a reason to get out there and grateful for the
opportunity to share and enjoy the outdoors and to pass on a
tradition that hopefully he'll carry on.
