So, anyway, I was sitting there on the log, tucked between these spruces, in a state of impure optimism, waiting for the deer to become temporarily deranged, sufficient to encourage acts of sheer stupidity. All was still, a gentle breeze blowing from my left front and coursing to my right and behind me. I finally felt welcomed into a productive place. Two squirrels came out to feed about fifty yards away to my right. I leaned against the dead trunk behind me and savored the solitude.
Nudge nudge.
Nudge nudge.
Nudgenudgenudgenudge.
NUDGE. Back pocket.
I skooched my butt right and looked down to my left, to see a bugeyed vole do the "oh spit!" shuffle and scuttle down the log the other way. I watched him turn gray in a moment.
It got darker, and the squirrels kept feeding, and I fell prey to their allure. Skulking slowly toward them, the distance closed as they fed unaware. The leaves rustled as they rummaged and I could smell red oak acorns on their breath. Oooh, this was gonna be good!
One of them yawned, which made the other one yawn, and they both meandered to the home tree, holding hands. Climbing up to the porch, they sat and talked for a while, had a glass of red oak wine, and razzed me before going inside. Squirrels 2, Killdeer 0. I wandered the trail back toward the road.
Reaching my truck, I found a truck-camper parked alongside. A man came out and introduced himself, someone who had been hunting this place for years. He put into words what I have felt for a long time: That even if the game populations are down, and even if he cannot logically expect to bring the venison or his beloved turkeys to bag, that he will still come here. It is a special place. It is where he goes.
We talked as the darkness settled solidly around us, and the chill grew, of coyotes and the bear and coonhounds, the years past and the changes we'd seen. I bid him good hunting, and left for camp. Tomorrow was Friday, the ninth of November, and the last day of purely archery season.
That night, a car came into camp, turned right around and left. Then the hounds sang through the hills and hollows, intent on their canine mission, tracing their way through the maze of scents and knowing far more than any man what had been where, and when. All went quiet.
I awoke, and two men came down through the brush, from the hill behind the outhouse, lamps flashing, West Virginia voices laughing and talking of the hunt. They walked up the road out of camp. Five minutes later, a lone, high voice called plaintively, following their path.
I drifted off, dreaming of shadows coursing through the forest.
Killdeer
Topic: Killdeer in the Wood (Read 15588 times)
