I feel a bit like a hypocrite to be posting this, but the following poem got my attention. It calls into question our motives in some decisions we make. I personally have advocated QDM as a legitimate tool in managing our ballooning deer herds. But I have often wondered about the cost of following the principles with the wrong motives in mind. Although it was written with gun hunting in mind, it applies equally as well to any form of deer hunting. It certainly is food for thought, and I thought I would pass it along.
From the deer stand
by Robert Crikelair, Jr.
When I was young, the gun hunt
Was the highlight of my year.
At the end of the day the standard greeting was
"hey, did you get your deer?"
We'd gather together up in the barn
Where we hung each of our kills.
And we'd swap our stories of the hunts
And share each other's thrills.
Though we all admired the biggest ones
The small ones didn't count less.
And every successful hunter
Considered himself blessed.
To the older generation
The horns didn't mean so much.
It was about getting some meat, and having some fun
And shooting straight and such.
Through the years the old guys left
For that woods up in the sky.
But they took with them the essence
Of how we hunt, and why.
Something changed in deer camp
It was sneaky as a thief.
Till gradually it became about antlers
And not about the meat.
We cut back sharing stories
Out of a stupid jealous fear
That those who were listening might end up
Going out and killing OUR deer.
Our group was once friends and family
But then we figured it out
The friends had to go 'cause they shot some big bucks
It really was their fault.
My heart used to race when I'd see a deer
And I'd hope that it was a buck
But now I just sit and study it
To see if he's big enough.
More than once when showing my kill
My excitement would quickly dim
When a brother or neighbor looked with disgust and said
"Yea, I passed on him!"
Letting them go makes for bigger deer
But I wonder if it's worth the cost
I sit in my stand now and wonder
Just what it is that we've lost.
And I think to myself as I lower my gun
On another buck . . . too small!
We've gone from building friendships
To hanging dead stuff on the wall.