Song of November

I guess this is what happens when you read 400+ pages of Kipling in two days and think about hunting season....

Hunter’s moon—full of light,

shining amber, radiant bright!

Wheat fields glow the ghostly hue;

whitetails graze in the midnight dew.

Here they low (nocturnal beasts),

shunning daybreak for protected feasts.  

Antlers glisten, no light to bleach

far away from the hunter’s fatal reach.

Secluded revelry, hidden dance—

frolic in moonbeams, autumn romance!

Carefree courting here begun

and ended ‘fore the rise of sun.  

When the blue-grey morn does peek

‘neath the horizon,  salmon pink,

they slip and melt into the shade

and their visage hastily fade.

Brethren hunters, stir not then

for the cold will burn the skin;

all your effort will be in vain

if last night the moon did reign.

Sharpen knives and oil the gun,

bide thy time until set of sun.

If then the lunar face is new

tomorrow’s hunt will be more true.

November 20th

Footfalls on dark-shrouded leaves are muffled.
A trail illuminated only by memory is traversed.
It is 5:30 in the morning and three miles from the nearest road.
Searching feet find more snags than stealth would permit.
Somewhere in the distance comes a snort.
The game has been given away;
nothing can be done now.
Now we sit and wait.

Wait. Wait for the sun to rise.
Look. Peer through the fog.
Listen. Was that a squirrel or a deer?
I’ve done this for years
but it doesn’t get any easier.
The warmth from the walk in is gone.
Cold settles upon me.
It creeps to my toes
and harangues me for getting out of bed.

When the sun finally breaks the horizon
I awake from my sensory stupor.
Not only can I hear the calling of jays,
but I see the swaying of limbs overhead
as grey squirrels bound from tree to tree.
I do my best to sit still and watch.
Now is the time for magic.
The chorus of the woods is at its crescendo.

I check my watch to see how long it’s been
Since my cold hands wrapped a welcoming cup of coffee.
Three hours.
My careless movement disturbs the neighbors
and from a white oak a squirrel curses
my intrusion into the community.
He barks and scolds until I slink down
and let the buck-brush hide my shame.

But when I look up to assess my denigrator
something is not right about the scene.
He is not looking at me.

Deep breaths.
Where is the air?
Not forty yards in front of me
stands a ghost of wheaten brown.
How does an animal just appear
without sound or movement?
The hunted teaches the hunter a lesson.
But if I live for another hundred years
I will never be as at home here.

Her head is down.
Black eyes (like windows to eternity)
seem to meet my gaze.
Yet there is no flagging tail,
just flickering ears at peace with the world.
She takes a mouthful of fallen persimmon—
nature’s autumnal pride.
I’ve eaten many myself
and I think for a moment that it would be
a fitting last meal for me as well.

I came here for a reason.
I donned frosty boots.
I drew shallow breaths
after climbing hill after hill.
I even faced down a boss
who doesn’t understand
what it is to be called
to rejoin the circle of life.

Like many others led astray
he believes that food comes
canned or vacuum-sealed.
Is it naivety or willful ignorance?
In the presence of this sacred animal
I make a solemn oath.
Whoever my children will be
they will know what it is
to do what I am about to do.

Slowly, like an elm
bending under new-fallen snow.
I court the rifle
and we meet cheek-to-cheek.
A dark bead dances
over the greying coat.
In this moment of time
my heart is torn;
joy and regret intertwine.
The report silences the chorus
and nature is shocked at my act.
But I am thankful for her bounty.
With my stricken quarry
I make an honor-bound pact.

The Highwall Speaks!

Today was my best day of hunting in a long, long time. The conditions were terrible this evening. The temperatures were in the 70's, the moon was full, and the wind was howling. I had jumped some deer off of a hillside earlier in the day and decided to set up there this evening. I sat in an unmowed strip of prairie grass and scrub on the side of the hill and watched a hay meadow from 3:00 p.m. to about 5:30 p.m. I had already decided that nothing was going to come by, so I began to fold-up my collapseable shooting sticks. When I looked up there was a doe probably 40 yards away running at full blast. I told myself to not to shoot her yet (I am a meat hunter) and then I realized that now 10 ft. behind her was this brute. I bleated and he paused momentarily and then took off running again. I swung my 1885 and let her rip as the crosshairs passed over the shoulder. He continued up the hill, as did I (all the while jamming a .405 round in the falling-block). Once I crested the hill I saw him roll and kick. Today, like every other day, I am a blessed man.

Autumnal Baptism

The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
Gazing intently, I behold the form.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

I ease up my rifle, my soul is stirred.
My cheek rests on walnut, scratched and warm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I whisper “Quiet!”, though my voice is slurred.
Deep inside my chest there rages a storm.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My heart is aflutter, like some startled bird.
Where once there was control, chaos is the norm.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.

I regain my senses and my confidence gird.
I kiss gently the trigger and death’s rites perform.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

My quarry stricken, my senses are blurred.
To eons of tradition, I willingly conform.
The crunch of leaves underfoot is heard.
I freeze in hope and utter no word.

Jock O'Braidosly, A Hunting Tale

I have made two videos in two days! This has to be some sort of record!

A Perfect Harvest and the Paradox of Hunting's Popularity

November 21st marked a holiday for myself and many of my Oklahoma blood-brothers (great term, Uncle Ted!). I am speaking of course about the opening day of whitetail rifle season. Of course, hunters across our fine state have been pursuing deer since October 1st with archery equipment. I too, have partaken in this fine endeavor. Something remarkable, sacred, and unapologetically American takes place with the firearms opener that no other day can match. The day itself is steeped in tradition, honor, nostalgia and familiarity. In all frankness, I revere it. I should mention now that I absolutely want new hunters and youngsters to participate in this wonderful experience (more on this later).

For myself, this day has always been about three things: God, nature and family. To me, those are the most wholesome and prized things in my life. My great Provider allows me to partake in the cycle of life, my earthly father taught me and introduced me to the sport, and nature bathes me in all her majesty each time I step out. You could say that my deer hunting heritage goes back to a day during muzzleloader season when I was eleven (I believe), but in reality it goes even further than that. I was profoundly influence by my dad, and his deep love for the sport. I watched in my youth as it consumed him---something that it soon did to me. Before long I was not only admiring the beautiful deer that he brought home, but admiring the ones that I had brought to bear myself. Beyond this, I have ties even further back to a hunting heritage. My grandfather, L.D. Bruce was an avid sportsman as well. Each year, I hunt with his rifle; a Remington 760 pump in .30-06 that connects us in a sublime, unbreakable way.

This year's opener was about shared experiences for me; both positive and negative. I was lucky to share my favorite quest with my good friend Dave Gordon in the morning and one of my young relatives, Chris Smith, in the afternoon. The opening morning is always full of anticipation. This was certainly the case this year. Dave and I set up on a finger of brush jutting out into a newly planted wheat field. Generally, this is not the preferred location for me, but the rest of our lease had been burnt due to neighborly negligence. Dave and I were eager to behold a deer and sat quietly, despite the large number of mosquitoes on an abnormally warm November day. Dave was the first to spot a doe making her way through the burnt brush on a distant hill. Soon after, I could have sworn the British were invading---the prodigousness and volume of fire surrounding us was astounding. I was convinced that trespassers were hunting on our lease. The proximity of the shots was such that between 10 and 15 were either directly on our property or on our fenceline. We decided to investigate and in the process spooked four or five deer that were further down the field than we had anticipated. Needless to say, the uncouthness of the surrounding hunters and the degraded state of my lease were sources of frustration for me.

Later that evening, Chris and I sat in an elevated box blind that Dad and I had rebuilt during the summer. Once again, anticipation overcame us and we eagerly awaited the sound of approaching footsteps. As time passed, I craned my neck to check on dad who was in a ladder stand in a large cottonwood tree about 400 yards away. Not only did I see him, but also a pair of riders on horseback, casually conversing and riding up and down our property-line. Their ignorance and disrespect appalled me. Not only did they not have the scruples to regard our endeavor with respect, but they also failed to don blaze-orange, making them likely victims of a hunting accident. Near dusk I caught a movement out of the front window of the blind and quietly told Chris not to move. I saw a buck! In fact, after checking him out, I was certain this the exact buck that we had previously caught on our trail cameras. I quickly readied my rifle on the window and waited for him to approach closer. Unfortunately, the wind was sweeping through the blind and bringing our scent to the deer. I could tell that he knew something was wrong and proceeded to make the shot. Like always, I was considerably shaken. The buck was just in front of a large blackjack tree that I had ranged at 212 yards. I placed the crosshairs just right of his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Knowing that my rifle was sighted in at 200 yards, I had expected the big 180 gr. bullet from my .30-06 to send him tumbling. This, however, was not the case! The buck soon ran about 10 yards and stopped---I was in disbelief! I hastily jacked another round into the chamber for a followup shot, but the buck was blocked by my feeder. I positioned myself in front of Chris' window but the buck broke and began to run down the hill. Once again, I had to switch windows and instinctively placed another round into the buck as he fled down the hill. Emotions drove me. Ethics spurred me. Hunger inspired me. I had to know what happened. Chris and I ran towards the spot where the deer had been and I circled down the hill. There he was! Rejoice! I quickly thanked God! What a beautiful creature! My buck was laying there, bathed in the golden glow of the prairie grass! He was a mainframe 10 pt. with one side broken off. What stories he could tell! I saw my dad approaching and was, in that moment, happier than I had been in a long time. As I walked back to the truck, I said a prayer of thanksgiving. What an experience!

My story ends with a tone of joy, but there are further implications. Despite the happy-ending that I was blessed with, there are things that need to be addressed.

(1) Hunters must have respect for each other. The practice of trespassing on private property and positioning feeders and stands on property-line isn't going to have a happy ending for anyone.

(2) Marksmanship counts. I am a strong advocate of putting enough bullets into a quarry to quickly and ethically kill it. However, the wanton spraying of bullets and screaming (which my parents experienced at the same spot the next day) makes all hunters look bad.

(3) Sharing the sport of hunting with others not only enriches your time, and strengthens the sport as a whole. The time that I spent with Dave, Chris (and my dad, and Andy) over that weekend was just as joyful as the harvest of that buck to me.

In conclusion, I'd like to encourage you to go out and experience the thrill of the hunt, the wonders of nature, and the Glory of God. Better yet, take someone with you when you do it---just make for sure that the time you are spending doing this is quality and respects not only your quarry, but also the people around you who are enjoying the same sport.

Game Recovery and Presidential Ambitions

I came across an interesting news article via Field and Stream's website this morning. Apparently, Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty wounded a whitetail buck but was unable to recover it. Pawlenty now is being criticized by both hunters and anti-hunters for not recovering the deer and instead leaving for a Republican Party fund-raiser in Iowa. I am pulled in opposite directions regarding this event. Here are some observations:

(1) Every good hunter knows that an ethical, lethal shot is an absolute requirement to participate in the sport. If you can't make the shot, don't take the shot.

With that being said, (2) the wilderness is not a laboratory and sometimes things simply go wrong. Animals move, people flinch, branches are not seen, yardage is poorly estimated, and sights shift. Every hunter who spends any time the field is going to have difficulty recovering game at one point or another.

This brings to mind the fact that (3) the art of recovering lost game is as important (if not more so) than the ability to be stealthy, make the shot, and be sportsmanlike. Tracking and game recovery must be something that taught to every single new hunter.

(4) Hunters collectively lack this ability. Far too often I have heard of shooting of numerous deer by a single hunter without the recovery of a single head of game. This is one of the most enraging actions that I can possibly think of and results in the degradation of the image of a hunter---both in the eyes of other hunters and those who oppose hunting altogether.

Finally, (5) it is good to see a politician who actually goes out and hunts. I'm not going to get into this debate about whether Sarah Palin does or not, but John Kerry's publicity romp at the sporting clays range and Joe Biden's unlikely affection for his Beretta shotgun have left me with something to be desired. Here's hoping that Pawlenty gets another chance at a buck and enjoys the full experience of one of America's greatest traditions.

The AP article covering Pawlenty's hunt is here:
http://wcco.com/wireapnewsmn/Gov.Tim.Pawlenty.2.1304292.html

Cold Snap

After a none-too-brief bout with uncharacteristically warm weather it appears that Oklahoma has found her stride. With a high of 45 degrees it appeared to be a wakeup for a lot of folks. How funny it is to see people running to and fro in athletic shorts when the air is barely above freezing. What really strikes me as funny is the cold weather resilience [or lack thereof] of Texans. At Oklahoma State University we are lucky to have a good number of our southern friends and find much in common. However, the Texan reputation for ruggedness and grit doesn't appear to apply to cold temperatures. I am certain the theatrics of these individuals when the temperature drops to the single digits will be even more entertaining.

More importantly, the cold spell is likely to foretell better hunting if it continues. The Indian Summer glow is nice before the first hard bite of winter, but it doesn't exactly equate to fair hunting. In particular, the rut cycle of whitetail deer is of critical importance. Despite the vast research into the antics of the whitetail the subtleties of what determines the ignition of the rut is still up for debate. The most likely factor is the photo-period, or amount of time in daylight for a particular area. Temperature, although perhaps not directly linked to the onset of the rut can have a dramatic influence on levels of deer activity. Such was the case two weeks ago when I had a brief chance to hunt on a Sunday. Typically, I refrain from greeting the dawn in my hunting escapades and prefer to instead begin around 9 a.m. and stalk and still-hunt up until the early afternoon. This provides me with the opportunity to not only see a good range of habitat, but also keeps my legs from falling asleep (I don't know if a tree falling down in the woods makes a sound, but I do know that I certainly do). Unfortunately, my most recent adventure was star-crossed by the weather and after six miles of hiking up hill and dale with a muzzleloader and all the accouterments I had seen zero deer. I did manage to bust two coveys of bobwhites, a mallard, a squirrel, and an alligator snapping turtle. That, my friends, is fate. If I would have had a shotgun and it had been quail season I would have seen every deer in Creek County. I did however, see a good amount of sign. I saw heavy deer traffic next to a small meandering creek bed throughout the property. This creek was bordered by interspersed by persimmon thickets and made its way past several small ponds. The lesson here is that unseasonably warm weather equates to deer activity near water sources with food supplements nearby.

I've got my fingers crossed for more cool weather next weekend but it isn't looking good. The current forecasts have the temperatures hovering in the 60's---I guess I am going to have to bribe (or threaten) the meteorologist if I am going to get a deer!