Just got done with work - you'd think they missed me, I must have been gone too long. Oh well, on to the story...
If you recall, I packed most of my life into the bed of that Dodge in full preparation for the worst. I had not banked on staying in the "Chateau de Luxury", so I was more than content to pop open my -20 deg down bag on to the lush double cushion. My opinion began to change around 0200, as I arose gasping from cooking myself alive - my hunting partner blissfully asleep under his bedroll, thermostat on the heater turned up to 78deg F. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm cheap. The only time our house sees temps above 75degs is when the sun hits us squarely in the summer. Our winter setting on the thermostat is 65 when we're home - but I digress...
Five o'clock came earlier than expected, but other than the usual fumbling of socks and curses from lack of life giving caffine (no coffee machine..) we plodded out in to nature's garden. I'll be 100% honest - in my uncertainty I packed along a set of training wheels in addition to my Gamemaster, but in honor of opening morning for the trip, the recurve got the nod. Hefting it and doning my Arrowmaster quiver, I began to appreciate the simple mechanics and weight of an honored past time.
As the sun slowly began to change the mornings sky from a deep ocean blue to the hazy gray of a mall Santa's beard, snow began to drop in large, looping flakes. The bare north hardwoods hadn't yet woken up, and the crisp feel of the air almost dared those overly plump tree rats to begin their "bull in the china shop" romp for food. Like any fiesty woodland mammal, they accepted - heartily.
I smirked to myself, almost having to kick the mental conversation with myself in capslock to get over the ruckass - then I saw it. The odd flash of moving brown among the pencil thin lines of the slashings. I readied myself, and saw two does weaving their way along my right side. Nikon lifted, 32yrds - out of range for me. Instead I was gifted to watch them both approach and depart. That's a good start I told myself. The evening proved uneventful, but I was still riding high from the morning's encounter.
The next morning the cycle repeated itself: socks, cursing, deciding - recurve, plodding. I decided that the tree I had picked the previous morning should be a smidge closer to the trail I had witnessed, so 15yrds closer we went. As the sun greeted the sky, again the clouds overhead hastened to block the warmth of the rays to the world. Darker, I said to myself, this could be bad. I'd hate to think about getting my nice new Tradgang acquired woolen's wet, but nows as good a time as ever to see how wool does in the rain. I hate rain. More than that, I hate being wet in the rain. Goes hand in hand I suppose.
The loud snap of a branch next to me brought me back to reality. Which side of the stand did that come from? Doing my best impression of a barn owl (reminder to self - call local quack to get neck looked at) I peered over to see a monster tracking the path of the two does from the day before. Holy moly he's got horns - first thing in my head. Where's my bow, does it have an arrow on it?! - second thing in my head. Oh crap I've got to turn! Silently I rose to my feet, fingers fumbling around the tab. I watched as the buck, semi alert, glanced from the doe's trail to my stand, and back. My eyes were draw to those ten beautiful points much like my first youthful glance at a Playboy. Get ahold of yourself, man, it's just a deer - nope, that didn't work. 25yrds, 22yrds, 18yrds broadside. I had to do it, pick a spot, pick a spot, pick a spot - NOT THE HORNS.
I remember the dull hum of the string, the beautiful spin of my neon pink and chartreuss fletchings dancing again, the 2 blade Magnus gleaming for an instant. The deer tensed, head reared at the sound of the string, body falling to coil those powerful legs. The arrow passed cleanly through the air, missing the low canopy of the surrounding trees. And then, just as quickly as chance provides, fate takes away. The arrow ricochets off a low branch of a sapling in the slashings, casting the arrow down between the coiled legs of the buck. In a flash he was gone, my disbelief and cold toes remaining.
Dejected and dare I say it - mad - I slumped back to my seat. Bah. That makes two now I silently cursed. I've never seen one that big running around up here, I wonder if he'll be back. Nope - you educated him good now, dummy - my how the inner demons love to poke and prod.
In my current state I completely neglicted to reload, bow laying across my lap, quiver neatly hung from the side of the stand, fletching cap on tight incase of the impending weather. Looking down at my toes, I was startled to notice a brown rump beneath them. Shifting my feet to the side, low and behold a buck had wandered in. Curiously he bounced back and forth the trail the larger and older buck had been following, stopping now and then to thrash the bushes fiercly. Oh if he only knew who passed eariler I thought, school would be in. His goofy expression, young face and strange rack (the two rear tines went straight up in the air like a TV antenna, with two nubbin kickers on the front) made him look more like a very lost speedgoat than a Wisconsin whitetail. Long in the back, short in the front - just like a mullet I mused. By this point he was so thick in the slashings a shot was out of the question. I'll see you again I told myself, and suffered out the rest of the day watching reruns of Chris's Biggest Ooopsies playing center stage in my head.
That night around the campfire, I related my story to my hunting partner. While I didn't recieve quite the consoling I was hoping for, plans were hatched - devious trickery that only the twisted minds of desperate men can appreciate.
What they were, and what became of them, are a good start for tomorrow....
Topic: Snow, rain, 9 days of bliss, and a deer called Mullet (Read 527 times)
