Reprinted
with permission by the Birmingham News
You try to blame the
unexpected rush of emotion on the cold that’s stinging your checks, but you
know the real culprit is the faint hint of light finally visible on the eastern
horizon.
Back
in July and August, when the humid heat sucked the enthusiasm right out of your
soul, this is all you thought about – being in the woods again, being in this
tree again, being here for the show too few know about.
You,
your deer hunting buddies, the owls and crows are the only ones awake at this
hour in this small part of the world. The owls signal the end of their night
shift with final deep-throated calls that rumble through the morning stillness.
The crows, already upset at something at this early hour, shriek their anger.
Minutes
later, the sun peeks through the trees and the eastern sky turns from buttermilk
to eerie amber. The new light silhouettes the ramshackle old camp house a
half-mile away. The dwelling that a kind person might politely call livable is
suddenly a mansion surrounded by God’s creation.
You
shudder from the cold. Those who sleep late will never know that it gets the
coldest just after the sun rises. They will sleep through a lot of wonders in
their life, you think to yourself.
Suddenly,
Mother Nature flips the morning switch. You had forgotten how intense it could
be. In every direction – and all at once – the still woods come alive with
animal life. A mocking bird seems upset about the cold. A host of squirrels
noisily sashay through dry leaves. Off in the distance, a woodpecker rattles off
his machinegun – like cadence as he pounds the bark of a tree for his
breakfast.
A
squirrel late for work scurries down the tree that is his home and comes
face-to-face with a human badly out of place. He’s so close that you can’t
help but laugh at his nasty orange teeth. The old squirrel pauses for a second
in confusion, then nearly jumps out of his skin. The rain you’ve been
expecting finally comes. It’s not a rain that will show up on some TV radar
screen, but the rain that comes every frosty morning. The warming sun is melting
the frost from the tree leaves and your tree stand. It’s steady drizzle,
albeit brief.
The
sun, now clear of the horizon, makes you sleepy. Your mind drifts back to the
night before to opening-night-eve at the hunting camp. Few things excite you as
much these days as this once-a-year reunion. It’s a middle-aged man’s
Christmas Eve. Everyone has new toys – guns. Binoculars, camouflaged clothes.
And
of course, there are stories, embellished by years of repetition but fun
nevertheless. Having hunting buddies always guarantees that the otherwise
unimportant events in your life will be saved for posterity.
There’s
the story of your buddy who always sneaks out of the woods and back into camp on
Saturdays to catch Baywatch on TV. There’s the story of your buddy who bet his
wife’s dog on four queens – and lost. There’s the story of your buddy who
placed his bow across the buck’s antlers for the photo and the deer came to
and leaped to his feet and carted off your buddy’s weapon.
No
one seems to remember that none of those stories happened anything like they are
being told.
The
want for sleep is unbearable. The opening-night-eve reunion, as well as the
hours you lay awake like a kid on Christmas Eve, are taking its toll.
Suddenly,
a movement jolts your droopy eyelids to attention. A doe and her two prancing
fawns are walking through the woods, stopping briefly on occasion to munch on
honeysuckle and other greenery.
Minutes
later, two small bucks follow in the same tracks. After stepping into the field,
they stand on their hind legs and begin walking upright. It's like a Far Side
cartoon. They flail their front legs at one another in playful motions.
Those
who are sleeping on this Saturday morning have no idea this world exists.
Except
for the armadillo still rooting the ground in the middle of the field, the show
finally ends. The deer have meandered back into the woods, the squirrels have
returned to their nests. You glance at your watch and it’s almost 10:30 a.m.
You
start counting. In five hours, you’ve seen six deer, six squirrels, two
armadillos, a bobcat and a pileated woodpecker.
Better
yet, you haven’t seen another human being or heard a phone ring. You think
back. You haven’t seen such quiet in more than nine months since you last
climbed this tree.
The
thought of cathead biscuits, scrambled eggs, homemade sausage and gravy on the
table back at camp puts a spring in your step on the walk back. Finally inside
the door, you are bombarded with the usual questions.
Like
everyone else, you didn’t see anything. Like everyone else, you saw it all.
Thanks,
Lord, for allowing me to see another hunting season.