This is no story with a bloodtrail at the end, nor is it a how-to expose that will make you a better hunter or archer. This is simply the product of a time spent in wild places with a bow in my hand. The Lord often piles a jumble of words there during those times and they spill out onto the keyboard into what some call a story….and some call rambling. Either way, I feel compelled to share.
One of the many things age has taught me is if I can get my ego out of the way and open myself to the fact that I don't, and can't, know it all, I continue to learn from every experience and everyone around me. The good Lord has blessed me with some great traditional bowhunting teachers in my years, and I am fortunate enough to call many friends. Terry, Rob, Charlie, Curtis, Curt, Ray, Biggie, Tippit….the list goes on from those I've shared fires and hunts with. I've learned new things and reinforced knowledge I already had with them in some very special and beautiful places all over the country.
Those places themselves have been teachers also. There in what my son calls "my favorite classroom", I can always count on the places I hunt to teach me something, whether new or a refresher on what I may have forgotten or lost the full meaning of over time. One such moment recently fuels these words, a weekend spent in the swamp at my dear friend Andrew's camp Hunt Wild Things. I hope you enjoy….
Earlier today the clouds hung thick and heavy, as if they were weighted down with the unknown troubles of their grayness. It felt much colder than it really was, a slight spit of rain and the oppressive gloom that kept the sun at bay seemed to faintly murmur of snow even though it was easily 40 degrees.
I had picked a stand overlooking the swamp to sit for the evening. The muted winter light offered not to encourage me with a spring in my step for a long walk, but instead seemed to insist I sit someplace quiet to stay out the way as fall went about the business of relinquishing its gentle hold on the land to the harsher hand of winter.
An owl hooted deep in the swamp, answered a few heartbeats later by its kin deeper still. For a brief moment a ray of sunshine spilled from the canopy, finding the tiniest crack in the dull flint sky. Just enough to reflect a few tones of green that still were displayed proudly by trees and shrubs here and there...seemingly as a defiant finger in the eye to winter. It is so beautiful here, even this time of year. This is the swamp, you cannot keep hostage under this pall for long, your victory will be short lived and in not so very long the buds will give way to bright and deep greens that return as harbingers of the heat that rules throughout the rest of the year.
And then the stupidity of my human-ness breaks like a dirty pane of glass to reveal a clearer view. Maybe this is not the railing I think at all, maybe like so many things we as man have it completely wrong in our short sided view of self absorption. Could it be the swamp welcomes the brief respite from the strangle hold of humidity and it's cloying blanket of sweat? How many times have you traveled the trails in this same swamp in spring or summer praying that your water AND your thermacell will both last until you can get safely ensconced in the artificial womb of insulated climate control.
Chewing on the moment with a fresher perspective, the clouds don't seem quite as encroaching, even as the light continues to fall now that the sun has surely begun to nestle itself behind the treetops. I'm comfortable in my layer of wool, no sweat or shiver, my bow is neither cold nor sticky in my grasp. The squirrels are certainly enjoying the cooler temperature, the fury of their activity would most likely cause heat stroke any other time of year.
The light wind is good, it seems as if it's going to work in my favor for once. All too often fickle and vindictive I welcome any time it decides to not scatter my scent indescriminently. I feel more relaxed now, the woods have begun to sink into my pores, replacing the overload of senses filled by too much concrete and pavement with the deafening calmness of dusk in wilder places. That earthy, musky smell of decomposing leaf litter and the black mud beneath the still swamp is reassuring in a way. I am in a place relatively unchanged in its mechanisms for thousands of years. It tickles a tiny spot deep in the brain that remembers the daily fight for life rather than that for the dollar. And as that portion of who I am awakens from its slumber the other portion slinks to a dark recess, knowing it is neither wanted or needed here. This is one of the moments only those men I call brother can appreciate. Those who may have no blood ties but are bound sometimes even more tightly by their hunger for where I sit and the joy from the simple, perfect flight of a silent arrow.
Splash...plunsch....I'm not far from one of the creeks feeding the greater swamp. Another splash. Yes....they come. I slightly shift in my seat to place myself at a better angle to draw, they should come in from the sounds at the creek to my right crossing in front of my new turned direction to give me a good shot at a range I'm certaInly confident with. I can see the shine on the edge of my broadhead even in the falling light, the tiny individual feathers are all aligned so precisely in the fletching...so perfectly there can be no reasonable doubt to their intelligent design. A design millennia old that we as modern man cannot begin to replicate with all of our plastics and synthetics. Simplicity and infinite complexity in the same form.
A smaller splash and ever so slowly stand. I can imagine seeing the first one as it slides between the tall grass, the water dripping from the course hairs, running down their short legs to dilute the ever present slurry of mud they wear as primal stockings. I can almost see the quick jerky movements followed by instant transitions to absolute statue as they survey their intended path. I can almost hear the constant snuffle and snorting as they root continuously for some small morsel in an ever failing attempt to appease the monster in their belly. I know they're close, all of the plans and preparations are about to be fulfilled. I can't help but smile.
Seconds linger and melt into minutes. I know they are out there, waiting on some unseen signal to step out in the open. I readjust my footing and rest my bow tip into the fold between my pants and rubber boot. It's only a matter of time. I scratch an itch on my cheek under my face mask. THUMP! ...What?... THUMP!
I slowly rotate my head over my left shoulder and out of the corner of my eye I strain to see a form. THUMP! The doe stomps again. She's not so much looking at me as through me, the heavy cover of limbs and the holly that covered much of the tree at my left and back were the main reasons I chose this for a stand location. She looked away and dipped her head slowly....held for a breath and then recoiled it violently back to stare in my direction. How did she get so close walking through dried leaves and twigs carpeting every direction? Did she see me creep to a standing position when I heard the sounds from the creek? Did she see the bow move ever so slightly, or the scratch? My eyeballs ached as they strained in the furthest range of their motion. I didn't move a muscle…it was "only a doe" but the day even a doe does get my heart pumping is hopefully my last day here. I looked back straight ahead to relieve the discomfort in my eyes. Still, so still. I closed my eyes and felt my breathing, listening intently for her to go about her business and forget what she saw. Not a sound but my heartbeat. A squirrel rustled in another direction. Nothing from the creek or behind me.
In the few seconds my eyes had closed I realized as I opened them just how quickly the sun was falling. I could still safely shoot but not for much longer. Well, "a bird in hand" as they say. I had a doe tag and venison would be as welcome in the freezer as pork. She obviously hadn't spooked or blown a warning to the woods, maybe my stillness had convinced her. I rotated my head to look over my shoulder…but no deer was in sight. How could she have moved without me hearing? The slightest rustle directly behind me. I turned my head the other direction to peer around the tree to my right. She was slowly picking a path away. With the tree and the thick holly there was no way to get a good shot in that direction. I silently repositioned and tried to find a clear path for an arrow but there simply was none. I watched her depart like a wraith, seemingly gliding above the crunchy path with only the slightest rustle of the tips of the leaves.
Looking back towards the creek there was no sound, no movement. The squirrels had all begun or completed their climb to the leafy hammocks for the night. The wind was perfectly still. I could hear the faintest gurgle of running water from the creek. WHOOOO....WHO,WHO,WHO,WHOOOO the swamp ominously challenged. I laughed to myself. Yes indeed, who was I, this interloper, this onlooker...who was I to so blindly assume I had anything planned to certainty or figured out the myriad of variables to the riddle of the hunt. WHOOO...WHO,WHO. Yes, old man, I am clear, thus endeth the lesson.
It's not quite too dark to see, the low clouds seem to reflect some of what little light remains. I can barely see a light colored leaf on the other side of the trail, well past where the doe had stood. Focus, concentrate....extend, pull...my hand slides smoothly across my masked jaw....ffffppt. Not quite silent but I am proud of longbow's whisper. It would have been too dark to shoot as I lost the arrow immediately in flight but good practice none the less. I gathered my small pack, lowered my bow and unbuckled from the tree. My boots crunched loudly on the final step off the rungs, I laughed again, how had she done it...how had I seen so many others do it. I pulled the blunt from the rich earth a hair's width above the leaf. It was so quiet, I stood for a few moments unwilling to disrupt the reverence with the noise of my departure. Heading down the long sandy path to the truck it lightened slightly as I left the deep trees. WHOOO....WHO. Yes old man swamp, I'll see you tomorrow and you can show me more. Thank you for the time I spent here today Lord…for my friend who shares it with me…for my son who is here with me...and yes, thank you especially for the lessons learned in this classroom. May class never be "dismissed"…..
Topic: Class is in session…. (Read 920 times)
