Hunt long enough, and you’ll eventually wind up on your back with your hat pulled over your eyes. There has always been a humorous notion that old men go to the woods to nap, while monarch whitetails with bone chandeliers stop and stare. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t done it on more than one occasion myself. The fact is, I even have a favorite nap location while hunting. There is a monumental hill behind my childhood home, amidst sloping hay meadows. Sit there in the early afternoon and the native grasses dance in a hypnotizing, golden sway. The small sumac thicket just on top of the hill rustles quietly, all the while providing a bit of cover for the slumbering hunter. Every year I’ll perch on this peak, rifle in hand. It’s an ideal location because you can observe multiple meadows and funnels that consistently produce deer. Yet, my attention never lasts more than a couple hours because the spot is so undeniably comfortable. Pretty soon, the warming rays of sunlight rain down, and the fleece clothing, the soft grass, and the perfect peace becomes too much to bear. I’m dreaming.
Though we’re still a ways from the
late November rifle season that I celebrate in Oklahoma each year, I’ve already
had my annual hunting nap. Now, as a Kansas resident I have the opportunity to
participate in different hunting seasons. In 2013, Kansas began a two-day antlerless
rifle season in October. This is quite a rarity and was certainly an
opportunity that I was not about to pass up. Therefore, with thoughts of
tenderloins in my head, I began scouting several weeks before. Luckily, I found
public land nearby that screamed whitetails. This public hunting area consisted
of cropland (milo) adjacent to a considerable lake, with a good amount of deciduous
timber nearby. After a couple of hours of scouting I found a grassy clearing interspersed
with old trees on a point of timber that jutted out into the cropland. Classic
deer territory! Sure enough, there were a good number of tracks on the edge of
the field. So, I walk around a bit to determine how I would set up and finally
selected a good tree. As I sit at the base of the tree (thinking about shooting
lanes and travel corridors) I see something peculiar: there in a nearby oak is
a dilapidated deer stand, made of 2x4 lumber. I take this as a good sign, and
make a point to hunt here on opening morning.
Fast forward to October 12th—I’m battling sinus problems and a head cold. I feel like doing nothing but sleeping. Nevertheless, I wake early and resign myself to a few hours sitting on the ground. Despite a sunrise at 7:30 AM, by the time that I get on site just before 7:00 the light is already filtering into the fields. I scramble as quickly as I can to my spot, trying dearly to minimize my footfalls and not to sweat (as if that were possible). Once situated, I erect the tang sight on my 1885 Winchester. I’m packing old-school hardware, designed shortly after the American Civil War and firing a cartridge that Theodore Roosevelt made famous in Africa (the .405 Winchester). No doubt, it is an odd choice for the modern deer hunter, but I’m an odd deer hunter. As I sit motionless, I am truly impressed by the game that I hear nearby. Because I am next to a lake, I not only am greeted with the familiar calls of mourning dove, squirrels, and wild turkey, but also with flocks of Canadian geese, mallards, and numerous shorebirds. I enjoy my revelry for about 45 minutes, constantly scanning for any sign of movement. After this though, I’m grumpy. I’ve managed to sit on a broom-handle-thick stick, ants are crawling on me, I can’t breathe well, and my butt hurts. What is a man to do? I lay on my back and look at the yellow-green leaves amid the treetops. Two minutes of sleep—not one more.
When I rise, I recommit to this hunting thing. Maybe I’m not so sick after all. I gaze south on my back-trail, where I can see the farthest. In an instant I catch motion in my peripheral. A little spot of brown soon manifests into a full-fledged deer right before me. A yearling doe now browses on the high grasses just on the edge of the cover, her tail twitching happily as she feeds along. I can hardly believe it. My plans simply don’t work out like this. As she passes in front of a tree I raise my rifle and prepare for the shot. Now she has passed me a bit, but has found something particularly savory and has reoriented herself where she is quartering towards me. This would be a marginal shot with a bow, but I am packing “Big Medicine” and place the gleaming gold bead directly on the shoulder blade. The recoil of the rifle, usually fierce, is not even noticed. In an instant she goes down where she stands and I am awestruck. No doubt, this deer was a gift.
As I dress her out, I remind myself to show thanks and take a few photographs. I attach my tag and make the drag back to the truck. Despite the small deer, it is tough with the congestion and I make a couple stops. Regardless, I can’t seem to wipe the smile off of my face. The days of hunting unsuccessfully, of fighting the wind and cold, seem so far away now. I’m certain to hunt more this season. I’m undeniably hooked, but perhaps I’ll take a few more naps this fall. There is no peace like that which God provides and I find it most frequently on the peak of some hillock or the base of a grand old tree.
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