The tree he had picked out for “us” that evening was the same one he’d been in when I broke the silence last hunt. It had been the perfect tree for observing the sorghum field, and the trail that surrounded had shown good sign. The only problem was that it was a natural stand, and there were to be no comfortable seats. There was an upside though; if I did happen to be knocked out of the tree there’d be plenty of branches to slow my descent.
My father had always been physically strong. I watched as he pulled himself up to the first branch using only his arms, and upper body. Once he got a foothold, he reached for my hand and my feet effortlessly left the forest floor. Before I knew it, I was in the tree following him up through the branches to where we’d make camp for the evening. Just as I had expected my seat was a branch that was only about 5 inches around, and almost immediately after I straddled it my lower half began to numb. It was going to be a long sit, but so far this hunt was going better than my other 3 excursions.
My father and I whispered back and forth, talking about the wind, corridors, and all things hunting. He wasn’t an expert hunter, but the deer he had taken in the past were more than just lucking on to an unsuspecting deer. What he lacked in experience he made up for in unwavering stillness, and patience.
I had somewhat gotten used to my seat, and had quickly learned to shift my weight quietly and with little movement. This allowed the desperately needed blood to flow to my feet and my nether region of which I could feel neither. Any time I that I began to squirm around, my father would nudge me, reminding me of his promise. The active woods that we had entered into were starting to quiet down. I could hear the crickets waking up, and again a cool breeze moved the leaves. It was almost here, and I could feel it.
I had been looking out across the field when the sound of movement behind us called my attention. My stomach dropped and my heart raced. There was something here, something wild, and it was close. My peripheral vision had not yet caught the animal, but it was moving around us now, closer than just a minute before. Then, there it was, the first wild animal I had actually seen in its own environment. I could not believe it, he didn’t know we were there. At just a couple feet below us at the base of the tree, his beautiful orange red fur caught the rays of the dipping sun. A Red Fox had found his way to our tree, so close he could have rubbed the base of the tree with his side. I was in awe. I had heard how weary these animals were, easily spooked, and a formidable adversary of the trapper, and he was 12-15 ft below me. Eventually the breeze must have blown right or wrong depending on whose perspective, and he looked straight up the tree. Our eyes met and although he showed no fear, he knew something was up. With that, he confidently moved down the path looking for his own meal.
Life was good; and I thought to myself “how it could get better?” I had completely forgotten about whitetail deer and was hoping the fox would come back. I listened intently for his padded footsteps. I was so intent on him that I hadn’t realized until my father pointed out, that the other creatures bigger, and tastier, were on the move.
My father, always alert had noticed movement coming across the field. He almost had to point them out with his finger. The farmer had not cut his field of sorghum, and just the head of the doe poked out like a periscope. We watched as it slowly moved across the field, and then there was another. I only counted three or so, but that’s three more deer than I’d ever seen before that day. Up to now, I had only seen a fox; things were starting to add up. Once they made it to the trail that we sat along we lost site. Overhanging branches down the woods edge obscured our line of site. We waited, hoping they would work there way down the edge toward our position. Then as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world turned grey, there was a glimpse of white. The distinct branch shape of an antler hovering over the field just as the doe had done earlier. Majestic with his crown, he walked cautiously, ever alert. He wasn’t huge by any means, at least 3 points on one side, the darkness and distance making them harder and harder to make out with each minute. Then he was gone. He had followed the same path as the does had done earlier, another route through the woods, unmolested, undisturbed. I looked at my father, a smile on his face; he mouthed the words “Prime Time”.
That, my friends was my first bow season. I am sure I will hear their versions of it in a few weeks after we get our fill of thanksgiving turkey. It’s all welcomed. It was one of the most memorable years of my life to date. My father doesn’t hunt anymore, his bout with Polio as a child has caught up with him once again. Over the last few years, the deterioration has left him unable to walk any real distance without pain, or stand for any period of time. As much as I’d like to get him out there he’s perfectly content talking about hunting, inspecting my new bows, and hearing my about my seasons. We had a few more seasons hunting together after that one, but none quite as comical. The good news is that I have two sons that are looking forward to there first hunts, and things will be different for them. They will get to spend years studying the hunting shows with there dad on Saturday mornings, they will have the ability to read forums full of information, access satellite maps, and new improved stands. Most importantly, they will get to hear about their dads first season.
Thanks for letting me share.
Tim
Topic: Prime Time.....Stories fromearly seasons....updated. (Read 699 times)
