The Birchbark Letters

Last October, the 4th and final week to be exact, the rut commenced.  My brother called me from his cell phone-12 o’clock in the day, “There’s a huge buck in my driveway!”

“Shoot him,” said I.

“Can’t get a shot…he’s chasing a doe, grunting, wheezing…sounds like he’s choking.”

Of course, it was still archery season here on the western slope of the eastern continental divide.  Leaves had just started dropping, nights were getting nippy.  And I was at work and Drew was at home eating lunch, trying to get a shot with his bow at this beast.  Exciting times.

I had hunted in that particular area a couple of evenings before and had missed a doe with my archery tackle.  Shot right under her, my arrow chunking into the soft, loamy soil on the bank behind her.  It happened right at last light and I was particularly lucky to find my arrow.  Thankful I did though as it let me know I had cleanly missed.  No blood, no hair, just dirt.

So two days later, in the middle of the day, here was this great buck, trying to breed the same doe, presumably, that I had missed.  You’re welcome Drew.

As it turned out, Drew never got a shot for the buck wouldn’t stay still where he was supposed to.  The buck chased my doe up the hill behind a neighbor’s house and stayed there pretty much all afternoon, grunting.

Drew called me again and relayed this information and we devised a plan.  A setup was layed out involving rattling and calling and hopes were stilled against the fact that the buck had more than likely chased my doe out of my neighborhood.

When we got home, we threw on some camo, grabbed our stuff, and walked into the woods.  Quietness enshrined the pine forest, the brittle dead sticks on the lower trunks of the pine trees snapped if you walked into them, making your head jerk up to see if you had scared anything with the noise.  I posted below a deer trail where a newly shredded hemlock trunk stood staring back at me.  Drew found a little hiding spot 20 yards to my right.  As darkness gathered I rattled and grunted, trying to coax the buck, if he was still in the vicinity, to show himself.

We heard him.

Slowly at first, cautiously, he raked leaves with hooves.  He rubbed bark with antlers.  He pranced about in place as if to let us know he wanted to come in to the sound but his age and experience with humans just wouldn’t permit him.  He was maybe 40 yards to the right of us, out the hill, up a little draw, surrounded by laurels and rhododendron.

Waiting him out was quickly proving unsuccessful, and as my fear had been, we ran out of time.  No, not time, rather daylight-we ran out of daylight.  It was too dark  to shoot, but light enough to just make out lines and shapes when he decided to trot in before us.  The kingly aura about him was palpable.  Long dark antlers projected from his head and swept backward at an angle accentuated by the tilt of his head, enabling him to sweep through the briars and vines.  Steam left his nostrils, rolling into the night air, almost frozen, appearing then disappearing, looking all the world like a dragon, maybe an angry bull.  His hulking form, backlit by the moonlight exhibited ethereal power and strength, but curiously, he was silent upon the dry leaves of the forest floor.  Ghost-like.   He stopped directly in front of me, my knees quivering, hair on my neck standing.  To say I felt small would not be stretching the truth for I felt as if I was in the presence of something more than a deer.  This buck was regal and he knew it, no doubt.  He stomped the ground, he knew I was there.  He stomped again, trying to make me flinch, react, run.  He snorted a low, menacing wheeze, stomped, twitched, and vanished.

The air had left my lungs and I inhaled sharply.  Coolness descended on the ground.  I heard the wind, saw the stars twinkling now, the pines brushed the blackness.  All was calm.  Something touched my shoulder and I flinched.  It was Drew.

We didn’t say much about what had just happened.  Neither of us had been that close to such a majestic animal.  Indeed it does sound corny but it was a moment that almost transcended the moment.  It was as if time stood still, for me at least, in part maybe, I believe, because of my great love for the woods, and deer, and hunting them.  God had given me this moment.  And looking back, I’m glad I never got a shot at that magnificient stag.  It was better that way.  I like the way that moment fits in my memory.  Of course I’ll hunt this buck again this year.  Don’t know if he’s still around.  But I’d like to think that the doe I missed last year will lure him into my neck of the woods again.  Well, they’re really his woods.  I’m just a guest.