Being longer of tooth and grayer of beard, the icy grip of this November morning chilled me deeper than it had in my youth. That same wondrous flame of anticipation burned deep within my soul, as it had without flickering for almost 50 years. But half a century had changed some things. The desire was still there, but the walk through knee-deep snow was harder. My feet felt heavier. I was more aware of numb fingers and the sting of the icy air on my cheeks.
Just being out of the woods wasn’t the same incentive that it had been in days gone by. These woods were as familiar as my living room. I knew them intimately. I wasn’t propelled by the same fuel anymore. Just seeing, or getting a shot at a deer wasn’t the issue. It was the picture framed in my mind that lured me into the forest one more time--the picture of that great, ebony-antlered 10-point buck I had seen last year. I rattled him on the last day of the season. He came in quietly behind my tree and stood stone still for almost a half-hour. By craning my neck, I could look back and see him standing there in the deep snow, only five yards behind me, like a bronze stature of the ultimate whitetail. I scarcely breathed for fear he would hear me. His body was immense and muscular--obviously in his prime--the unmistakable bull of the woods. His heavy 10-point rack was perfectly symmetrical and laid out far beyond his ears; his times rose like swollen daggers. Never had I seen such a whitetail!
Though I hadn’t seen him before that day, I knew he was there. Two years of scouting told me so. Huge aspens, as big around as my thigh, were rubbed raw. Some of his scrapes were as large as pickup truck beds. Finally he was in my sight. My heart labored in my chest. It was the ultimate reward for a lifetime of bowhunting.
I fought for self-control--no linger even daring to look over my shoulder at him. I had to be calm and under control or all would be in vain.
Then I heard the snow crunch under his first step.
Another step.
He was coming out under my left hand! Rolling my eyes left, I waited for him to walk into view. More crunching sounds and he was there--a mere 20 yards out--still slightly behind me. He stopped again, and looked away to his left, allowing me the opportunity to lift my bow and draw. For the first time I noticed that the tip of his right ear was missing. Perhaps he lost it fighting. I couldn’t imagine a deer brave enough to contest him.
Anchoring the top pin in the center of his deep chest, I loosed my arrow, which clipped a tiny spruce bough I hadn’t even noticed. The arrow took a downward dip and stuck deep into the frozen earth below his chest. In two bounds he was gone. My breath came in jerking gasps and my body trembled and felt suddenly warm. Never had I been so close to such a magnificent deer.
Yes, that was the picture that lured me into the woods again. It was the hope of another chance to see that incredible creature that inspired me to trade the warmth of my bed for 20 below zero. I had seen thousands of bucks in my life. All were beautiful, but none like this.
Plodding on in the snow, I was aware of aging bones, less eager for discomfort with each passing year. I could foresee a day when the hunt would make way for easier pursuits. But I had to try again. The buck was still there. His sign betrayed his reclusive nature.
I climbed the trunk of the familiar white spruce, wiped the frost from the seat of my treestand and sat down. Once belted in, I raised my bow, nocked an arrow and hung it on a neighboring limb. Last, I pulled my rattling antlers out of my daypack and secured them in place. Now to wait for dawn.
It was a full half-hour before a rose-colored hue began to silhouette the treetops to the southeast. The air was still and my breath rose as small frosty clouds, turning to silver upon my beard. How many sunrises had I seen from a treestand? Uncountable. Still, it was new and fresh--almost sacred. What a privilege to meet the dawn. A chorus of distant coyotes broke the frigid silence. I closed my eyes and let them sing to me. It stirred something deep within. This was very special. I suppose there really was more to it than just that magnificent buck. The sounds, the smells, the solitude. The rewards poured out before my eyes in deep blue shadows bordered by sunlit diamonds glistening on the snow. How wonderful it was to be alive--to see another sunrise, to breathe the frosty air. How precious, this thing called life. Perhaps even more precious as the beginning fades and the end comes into view.
When I could see well enough to shoot, I picked up the rattling antlers and tickled them together briefly. I was amazed at how the sound sizzled on the cold, still air. Ten minutes later I clicked the antlers together again, and as I did, I heard a crunch in the snow, deep in the dark timber before me.
Laying the antlers aside, I lifted my bow from its hanger. A deer was definitely walking steadily toward me. The dry snow continued to crunch and squeal beneath its feet. Then silence. I could almost picture what it was doing--waiting and listening for another trace of sound--another clue.
Long, silent minutes passed before the snow crunched again. The deer sounded close. My eyes strained into the timber, and I was suddenly conscious of my heart beating loudly. The anticipation was the thing. How incredible. What was life without anticipation? That’s what hunting was--a world of great anticipation. It was the crucial element that so often waned as life slipped into humdrum routines. But in the hunt, it was always there. Every hunt was preceded by great anticipation. That’s why I was there. I had something wonderful to hope for and to anticipate.
Motion caught my eye deep in the green timber. Small streams of golden light, prying through shadowed boughs, fell in stripes upon his back, as his form emerged from the depths of the spruce thicket. He was coming in my direction with his head low. Something was different. With each step his shoulders seemed to sag. He was limping.
I could tell he was a large-bodied buck, but his rack was much smaller than that of the old monarch I was after. Now I had to make a decision. There were still three days of the hunting season left. Should I take this buck or continue to hold out for his superior?
At 30 yards the buck came to the edge of the spruce thicket and stopped again. I could finally see his rack well. He had four stubby points on his left beam, and on his right side the forward third of his main beam was broken off. He appeared to have been in a severe battle. Tufts of hair were ruffled or missing all along his right side, and his right foreleg was obviously injured. He had trouble putting his weight on it. I could see frozen blood on his right shoulder where it appeared that he had been gored by another buck.
Eventually he took a few more steps in my direction and stopped, quartering toward me with his right side. Now, at 20 yards, I could see that he had also lost his right eye in the battle. The poor buck was truly in desperate shape. A raven swooped over the trees above him croaking loudly, as if to prophesy his doom to the scavengers of the forest. I resented the noisy intrusion. The buck lifted his head toward the sound and shifted his weight again to relieve his injured leg.
Then I saw it. Unbelievable! The tip of his right ear was missing. This was my buck! I could hardly believe it. He had gone downhill so dramatically. I was flooded with emotions. Suddenly I felt overwhelming compassion for him, especially knowing what a majestic creature he had been. I had seen him in his prime when he was strong and proud--when he would have sailed into the record books. Now he was a broken down old man, blind in one eye and limping.
I felt a stinging of tears. “What’s happening here? Get a grip on yourself,” I said under my breath. “Since when did you get so soft?”
As I considered his fate, I realized that being partially blind and having a damaged foreleg would spell almost certain death for him that winter. Should I spare him the agony of starving or being ripped apart by wolves, and shoot him while he was standing there offering me a broadside shot?
I raised my bow slowly and put the 20-yard pin on his ribs. He stood there with his blind side toward me, sifting the air for his next bit of information. He was old and tattered; gray in the muzzle. His breath flowed from his half-open mouth in short white puffs; his ears rotating routinely like radar. He looked tired, but still the flame burned within him as he searched for the sounds of the fighting bucks, which I had imitated with my rattling antlers. He was still a warrior at heart. He still believed he could win.
He shifted his weight again, still favoring his damaged right leg and began turning away from me. If I was going to shoot, I had to take my shot now. He stopped again, now quartering away from me, and looked back in my direction.
I felt a strange kinship with the old buck. I wondered if he knew how close the end was for him. Perhaps not. I hoped not. Maybe his world was simpler without the awareness of time and its passing. The end would come for him without anticipation, prolonged fear or dread. One day it would just come.
I eased my bow down and rested it on my knees, no longer wanting to shoot him. In truth I wanted to help him. Perhaps shooting him would have been a kinder act, but I couldn’t do it.
He reminded me of an old prizefighter who had been a great champion, but refused to retire. How sad to watch an old champion sacrifice his dignity. But the old buck had no choice. He was programmed by urges beyond his comprehension. Mother Nature provides no retirement plans for old contenders. She alone would decide his fate.
He dropped his head and walked back on his tracks into the spruce thicket. I wished him peace in his last days. I was glad to have seen him in his prime. That’s how I chose to remember him. That’s how I would choose to be remembered.
A chill ran down my spine, making me realize how long I’d been sitting absolutely still. My fingers were so numb I had to peel them from my bow. It had been an unusual morning. I felt again those urges beyond my comprehension, and experienced anew how wonderful it is to be living--to be alive. No, not just to be alive, but to feel alive. How precious, this thing called life, as the beginning fades and the end comes into view.
