The Kindred Spirit by George D. Stout
I had just laid my longbow on the top of the log and stepped one leg across to the other side when the buck exploded out of the leaf litter next to the top of the blow-down. It startled me into just sitting down on the top of the log and watching the whitetail disappear into the witch hazel brush. It was a nice buck, as Pennsylvania whitetails go, and it was playing whitetail games for sure. It’s not the first time I got busted in mid- stride.
As I sat there collecting my thoughts I heard a rustle in the leaves from the direction the buck ran. Taking my binoculars from the fanny pack I scanned the hazel brush and to my amazement saw a set of antlers looking back at me. The buck had apparently stopped and was walking back to see what the commotion was all about. It appeared to be waiting for my next move before it decided where it was going to go. I just stayed perched on that log for about fifteen minutes. The whole time the buck would look around, then back at me. After a few more minutes it walked away on down the mountain.
I decided to work my way along the buck’s path to see where it was going. As I passed through the witch hazel I was amazed to see it once again; about seventy yards down the hollow, looking over its back trail. The whitetail wasn’t in a hurry, nor did it show any signs of concern at all. It flicked its tail a few times, picked up a morsel from the leaves, and began to walk away once more. The cussed deer actually appeared to be teasing me, ‘come on, follow me....I’ll show you something.
I stayed on the buck for a few hundred yards, never closing any nearer than about fifty or so yards until it disappeared for good into some jack pine. I moved on over to where I last saw the deer and scanned the woods to the right and left. Where the pines met the hardwoods, there was an evident trail.... well-used, with several large oak trees along its path. It looked like a perfect place to ambush a whitetail by perching on one of the big limbs of one of those two hundred-year-old white oaks.
I walked over to the biggest of the trees and turned and looked back at the trail. It was only about ten yards from the limb to the trail and the wind would be perfect as the deer left the jack pine and headed toward the distant farm fields to the west. I leaned my bow against the oak and pulled myself up through the lower limbs and on to the big limb that grew parallel to the trail. It was surprisingly comfortable as I stood there looking back at the path.
As I looked around I noticed something black lying on the ground on the far side of the trail. At first I thought it to be just a dead stick until I got down and walked over to where it lay. When I reached down to pick it up I found it to be the end of an old wooden arrow that contained a rusted three-blade broadhead. I picked it up and rubbed my fingers across the pitted blades. It appeared to be an old Hill’s Hornet and was probably there for more than thirty years. Apparently someone else thought the old tree limb would make a great ambush spot.
I looked the head over begging it to talk to me and tell me a story. What happened here? Did the old archer miss the big buck here? Or, was it an errant shot at a gray squirrel or chipmunk? Maybe it was just a practice shot to get the proper distance just in case a deer walked by. Maybe it was just left there to make me guess of its escapades, who knows for sure. Then I wondered who really led me to that spot. Was there a kindred spirit leading that buck, showing me the way to the piece of history that lay along an old deer trail. I put the treasure in my quiver and walked back to the truck. As I left I thought I heard some whispering from the jack pines. Guess it was just my imagination.
Topic: The Kindred Spirit - by George D. Stout (Read 1929 times)
