still got a few hours of daylight. First thing I’m going to do is drag all those chunks out of the woods on the west side. All that stuff my dad cut last spring.”
“Last summer,” Dizzy interjected. “And that’s good because it will be dry enough to burn this winter.” He slapped my back, damn near knocking me over. This guy wasn’t losing any strength in the dark days of the world. No sir, Dizzy was in his element.
Almost back to the highway I paused to watch bright yellow leaves drop from the birch tree lining the road. Dizzy was right; fall had come quick and brief. That could only mean winter’s early arrival. Marvelous.
My brother and father drug their hunting stuff back and forth each fall. Neither wanted to leave much at the cabin over the winter, afraid someone would break in and take their belongings. As such, I didn’t have a winter coat or a decent pair of boots. Certainly not what Dizzy called winter boots.
Fred’s feet were too small, as were Dizzy’s. Anything they had would be three sizes tighter than preferred. And, according to both experienced woodsmen, tight boots got cold fast.
Lettie offered me a pair she had lying around. They were only a single size too small. Thus, they might fit the need. Except of course they were pink. Not hers, she claimed. Just something some relative had left behind years back.
So I had a pair of boots that would work in a pinch, but what I really needed to do was scavenge around the area. Who knew, I just might find something my size, and a bit more manly.
Dizzy promised to dig through his back shed and find me a parka that would last the winter. Claiming to have clothes dating back to the 40s, he couldn’t guarantee any coat he found would be fashionable — just warm.
A few more strides and I was on the highway leading home. That’s when I saw it. Standing there on the shoulder, chewing on the last of the green weeds of the season.
The doe was small but vulnerable. Perhaps she’d never seen a human before. It was, after all, possible in these parts. My dad had said once that if a hunter went deep enough into the woods and swamps of this area, you’d set foot on land where man had never trod.
Slowly, trying not to spook the brown animal, I raised the gun. When the explosion sounded, the doe took off for the far side of the road.
Damn it!
Day 50 - continued - WOP
My heart fell when the tiny doe began her dash for the east side of the road. Fifteen shots and ten deer and I was zero-for-10. There had to be a worse hunter than me somewhere in the world. At least I hoped there was.
When I heard the crash just into the woods to my left, I craned my neck to see if the confused animal was coming back. Maybe she’d be closer, and dumber. A second chance at a (hopefully) non-moving target.
A thrashing sound came next. One that made me wonder if I was about to meet my first wolf. Then it died away, slowly, suddenly halting. I stepped into the ditch to investigate.
The first thing I noticed was blood at my feet, on a path the deer had taken in her hasty retreat. There were some on the road, I noticed. Not a lot, but enough to give me hope. And in the ditch just before the tree-line I found more, much more.
Bright red foamy droplets covered the ground near my feet. According to what Dizzy had said, that was a good sign. A double-lunger, as he called it.
Excitement took over once I was inside the forest. There, maybe ten feet in front of me laid the doe on her side, not moving. I noticed the gun tremble as I extended it at the animal, making sure it didn’t jump up suddenly and sprint further into the woods.
By the time I reached it, I knew it was dead. Well, I was pretty sure it was dead. With each step, dead leaves and small twigs cracked under my dirty boots. And with each sound, the deer remaining motionless. So either it was a good faker, or she was dead.
I nudged her hindquarter with the toe of my boot — no response. Slowly, I circled
“Last summer,” Dizzy interjected. “And that’s good because it will be dry enough to burn this winter.” He slapped my back, damn near knocking me over. This guy wasn’t losing any strength in the dark days of the world. No sir, Dizzy was in his element.
Almost back to the highway I paused to watch bright yellow leaves drop from the birch tree lining the road. Dizzy was right; fall had come quick and brief. That could only mean winter’s early arrival. Marvelous.
My brother and father drug their hunting stuff back and forth each fall. Neither wanted to leave much at the cabin over the winter, afraid someone would break in and take their belongings. As such, I didn’t have a winter coat or a decent pair of boots. Certainly not what Dizzy called winter boots.
Fred’s feet were too small, as were Dizzy’s. Anything they had would be three sizes tighter than preferred. And, according to both experienced woodsmen, tight boots got cold fast.
Lettie offered me a pair she had lying around. They were only a single size too small. Thus, they might fit the need. Except of course they were pink. Not hers, she claimed. Just something some relative had left behind years back.
So I had a pair of boots that would work in a pinch, but what I really needed to do was scavenge around the area. Who knew, I just might find something my size, and a bit more manly.
Dizzy promised to dig through his back shed and find me a parka that would last the winter. Claiming to have clothes dating back to the 40s, he couldn’t guarantee any coat he found would be fashionable — just warm.
A few more strides and I was on the highway leading home. That’s when I saw it. Standing there on the shoulder, chewing on the last of the green weeds of the season.
The doe was small but vulnerable. Perhaps she’d never seen a human before. It was, after all, possible in these parts. My dad had said once that if a hunter went deep enough into the woods and swamps of this area, you’d set foot on land where man had never trod.
Slowly, trying not to spook the brown animal, I raised the gun. When the explosion sounded, the doe took off for the far side of the road.
Damn it!
Day 50 - continued - WOP
My heart fell when the tiny doe began her dash for the east side of the road. Fifteen shots and ten deer and I was zero-for-10. There had to be a worse hunter than me somewhere in the world. At least I hoped there was.
When I heard the crash just into the woods to my left, I craned my neck to see if the confused animal was coming back. Maybe she’d be closer, and dumber. A second chance at a (hopefully) non-moving target.
A thrashing sound came next. One that made me wonder if I was about to meet my first wolf. Then it died away, slowly, suddenly halting. I stepped into the ditch to investigate.
The first thing I noticed was blood at my feet, on a path the deer had taken in her hasty retreat. There were some on the road, I noticed. Not a lot, but enough to give me hope. And in the ditch just before the tree-line I found more, much more.
Bright red foamy droplets covered the ground near my feet. According to what Dizzy had said, that was a good sign. A double-lunger, as he called it.
Excitement took over once I was inside the forest. There, maybe ten feet in front of me laid the doe on her side, not moving. I noticed the gun tremble as I extended it at the animal, making sure it didn’t jump up suddenly and sprint further into the woods.
By the time I reached it, I knew it was dead. Well, I was pretty sure it was dead. With each step, dead leaves and small twigs cracked under my dirty boots. And with each sound, the deer remaining motionless. So either it was a good faker, or she was dead.
I nudged her hindquarter with the toe of my boot — no response. Slowly, I circled
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