The wind came up during the night. I wondered how the cookshack would do, it being the untried member of the enclave. The awning was up, and I was curious how it would handle the gusts. I figured if it got real noisy than I would have to go out and fix something.
Now, there is something of a coward in me. Wind brings that out. The trees, with the wind blasting about their limbs, put the fear of God in me. Their crashings and gnashings, with the wood coming down, well, I would rather be in the relative safety of a semi-open area. I pitch my tent with a wary eye toward an old friend, an aged maple that has drawn me to it for 25 years. It is likely at least 77 years old, and even likelier to be older. It is hollow, so, like an old-fashioned woman, will never reveal its true age.
This spring it lost a major upright trunk, which came down on an oak picnic table and destroyed it. I respect wood!
So, all that to say this, in the case of high winds, and these were moderate, at 35-40 mph, I stay out of the forest. What a grand excuse for a big breakfast! I ate, did the dishes, packed a lunch, and waited for the wind to die down. Brushed my hair, cleaned and organized the tent, read a book. Still windy.Broke out another book, there in front of the cookshack. The day was cool and clear, the sky a deep, intense blue.Four trainer jets played overhead, then left. I gave up on hunting. Broke out a growler of ale, read some more, dozed in the sun, daydreaming. Had some hot tea.
Then it happened. I heard footsteps. Four-legged footfalls in the leaves near the shack. It's not a squirrel. AH!
Bambi delivers!
(No matter how old we get, there is a naive child inside who believes in the kindness of the Fates.)
I set down my tea, and arose from the chair. Hanging from the center of the shack was my bow, quiver of arrows attached. Soundlessly, I took it down and nocked an arrow. I eased my nose outside, hoping to see the deer before it saw me.
Yes, I would slay any bambi in a heartbeat, even under such decadent conditions. Buck, doe, or ol' milk-lip, I have not killed one in so long, and straps is straps!
Well, I couldn't see it. I listened through my ringing ears into the silence...
A step. Another. I popped an eyeball out of the socket and cast it around the corner. It was not a deer. Broadside and oblivious, a black bear snuffled in the leaves ten yards away.
Cub. Would it make the weight? Remember, Kat, black is slimming. It took a couple of steps, looking just like the targets I have shot all summer. Tasty!! Hate to shoot it and have it come up five pounds short. (tasty!) Not a real hunt. (tasty!) Couple more steps, now it is twelve yards or so. It notices me as I lower the bow. I stare at it, it squints at me. It decides to angle off to its right, at a 45 degree angle to its original course, and it carefully moseys up the Shelter Ridge. It was then that I thought of my camera. DOH! It always seems that I have the wrong instrument in my hands when the opportunity arises to collect a specimen.
I had never seen a bear in camp (here) before, at least not of its own accord. It occurred to me that I should have scared it some, to keep it and future campers safe. But it did not seem to be the thing to do when it was happening, my spirit did not move in that direction.
No glory, no meat, but a good amount of diversion for an afternoon spent in camp. And I SO want to take a bear!
Killdeer
Topic: About to go (Read 3377 times)
