Seated next to the tiny creek I can imagine I would have appeared like a bit of a simpleton to a passing onlooker; I was dumbfounded by that before me… Everything was picturesque. Have you ever met someone so nice that you asked yourself in leaving if they could possibly, really, be that nice? This was a similar phenomenon. Real, however, as the small bite of the wind added just enough human discomfort to the scene to keep me from slipping too far into the spell of this place. It seemed I’d been dropped on the cover of a 1930’s Field & Stream for this one last hunt, complete with the tiny ashen songbird an arrow’s length away singing with remarkable endurance. So much so that I thought there might be a rumpled Tom Waits’ hat in front of him where it would be polite to place a tip.
The creek ran from behind me, to my west, to the northeastern corner of this painting. A large cedar elm tree at the left third of the composition stood at the ebb of the slope down to the water. This would be the edge of my personal limitation for shooting. The sun was low where a neighbor across the street might sit in a chair on the front porch, tinting everything in rich Technicolor. In front of me was a steep embankment, densely populated with trees eager to be near the water. The assortment of leaves, fallen sticks, and rock below them would reveal anything approaching.
It wasn’t deer that would first descend the hill, but a trio of large turkey. All confident, but clearly a leader among them too. In this light they were strutting kaleidoscopes that would be the envy of Janis Joplin’s Porsche. These diplomats were followed by a deer, however, a tiny yearling buck. Light was now dabbing some things, and not others, as it filtered through the low vegetation in a painterly application. Behind this young fellow were some mature blue does, including mom no doubt, as if late to the scene slowed by gossip among friends. It occurred to me, having a seven-year-old daughter, that this all looked very much like seven dwarves returning home for a warm supper should be soon to follow.
The largest member of this book club on cloven hoof would come near enough for me to send an arrow her way. Wrapped and fletched in a beautiful vermillion red, it disappeared within her, and from this place the same color would instantly emerge; a promising oxygen-rich blood. The sound of splitting bone initiated a disbursement of fleeing life in any available direction, even up. Birds flew, deer ran, and a turkey struggled to pick one in suspended animation. A splash into the blanket of leaves was heard that could very well be my doe. It was a splash reminiscent of a Honda Accord being fully engulfed in a curbside mountain of neatly raked leaves. Leaves accrued over several months, awaiting the six teenagers within the Honda, one with newly minted license for driving through just such leaves. I should point out that this accurate description was not based on actual experience…
Things were quiet again. The tiny bird was back, though not quite as close, and it wasn’t singing anymore. I looked the direction the doe had gone, but everything was now a variety of grey, the color of a deer for that matter. I grabbed my binoculars and surveyed the opposite side of the creek, noticing nothing of particular interest. I wasn’t discouraged, though, as it was so thick she could very well be nearby. I resumed glassing again, and spotted some members of her envoy collecting themselves. Then there was the bit of white underbelly amongst the grey that I was looking for; the bank would prove a climb too steep. She was down at about 70 yards. An impressive distance considering the terrain, and the wound I would later inspect, but she was down. A fitting capstone to a marvelous hunt immersed in all He has created.
First deer taken with this special bow...
Topic: One last doe. (Read 984 times)
