Hunting Memories - Rain Falling Down

One good thing about a sudden fierce storm, I thought. It sure keeps the mosquitoes down.

I'd not meant to head out this far away from the cabin, planning on setting up a blind within shouting distance of trail or shelter, but sometimes you make that decision, one that every adventurer takes, try that new cave, explore that new trail, put up that blind out where you saw the giant scrape. Let the cowards ponder other things back in the safety of the jeep, it's time to blaze a trail that will either be heartbreak or the profoundly sublime. Acting on intuition and trusting your gut, you risk a new adventure or a 14 point rack.

And a thorough, cold soaking.

But I'd rather watch a CNN marathon than spend time outdoors in a public camping area, such as "Squatters Rights RV Campground", where the closest thing to wildlife is the couple in the Winnebago next door that drank too much Ripple. It's worth it to me to expend the time and effort to get out where the nearest person is miles away. Though it does make packing hunting gear in and out that much more difficult.

The storm wasn't forecast. The ones that effect you deeply never are. First, there was nothing but a congealed sky, the blue turning to dark the color of cold and constant night. From the next ridge line came a rumble, or maybe that was my stomach, breakfast had been some time ago. But I didn't wish to get into the pack for the real provisions, as the sky had just spit in my face, a challenge I wasn't in the mood to take on.

The animals sensed it before I had, the forest going silent. The only whitetail I had sensed all day was there and gone in a blink of an eye. In the instant before he saw me, all the light in the sky remaining gathered on him, then he disappeared into shadow. He was there, then he was only a specter of hide and hair. Then nothing but longing, followed by a clap of thunder that echoed somewhere deep inside.

I should have gone back, but I didn't want to. It was my last day here. I didn't want to pack up the cabin and head back to the city. For a few weeks each year, the woods are my brief moments of time away from the drudgery of bills and mortgages and yard work and meetings. Time away from loss and explanations and time in a biohzard suit that doesn't allow one to breathe. Those moments in the wood, then, are necessary moments stolen and taken back to reside in a cold, windowless place, something I can take back. That unforgettable sense of openness, of hot and wet and cold and warm hands on skin, pulling off clothing, fresh flannel, hot stew, warm coffee, renewal. The profound and brooding woods, that live quietly in me as I bustle around in sterile wear, the look of the hunter in my eye behind the safety glasses, not visible to those around me, the fire hidden deep inside.

So I stayed out longer than I should and getting caught in a cloudburst was my cover charge. It wasn't a dangerous storm, even I knew well not to head out into the tall trees during one of those. It was the short squalling tantrum of a baby cumulus that would throw its fit against a tired Mother earth, then just as quickly cry itself into sleep again.

Even so, any thunderstorm out in the open is dangerous, so I found shelter as best I could, avoiding the tall trees with lightning cracking nearby. The poncho is quickly pulled out of the pack and donned, another to cover my rifle and gear. I settled down to wait, rivulets of water running down my face, thoughts retreating like tide, exposing a bare landscape of fire and blood, rock and water.

I thought of my first whitetail hunt, taught the craft by those that loved me, passing down a tradition of survival and preparedness. I field dressed the animal with coaching but no hands on assistance, there in the fading light, my bloody hands consecrating to us that which was, by God's will and man's patience, accepted as a gift. I grew up that day, in more ways the one, having learned and watched and waited, until I was ready to handle my firearm, ready to use it as a responsible steward of the land, looking at the deer on the ground, the first worthy blood I had been worthy to take. Sacrifice with grace, for which we are both thankful and repentant.

The rainfall soon snubbed that recollection, memories growing quiet in the tears of the heavens.

It would be a brief outburst so I stayed still, and quiet, not wanting to give away my position should there be any chance of a hunt once the storm passed. I simply waited, watching closely the landscape, emerald green branches waving up to the clouds that gallop past, tails flicked up with the movement. I've lived long enough to know that it will pass, learning about weather from hunting, and from flying. Knowledge I wouldn't give up to take myself back there again. For I wouldn't be twenty-something again for the world. I have no desire to relive that time when you've not gotten through all those troubles that will take you to where you can take a few weeks off from work, head outdoors and sit in a tree blind, tasting the peace and savor of freedom.

But Mother Nature is never easy, and I've camped under the open stars watching the fireflies twinkle (holy smoke! Those are BATS!), by choice and sometimes by accident. (Note to self, next time bring professional tent installer or packet of Tent Viagra). You do your best with what you have, and you hope you make the right decisions.

In this case, the "right decision" led me to seeking shelter, semi squatted on the ground on a tarp under the smallest trees I could find, as far away from the tall trees as possible. My non essential gear is wet and I think the bats carried off the horse two days ago. The ground is cold and my food is cold and everything edible may well be soaked except that one last plastic wrapped Hostess Snowball. And you know, I wouldn't trade this for a day of meetings for anything in the world.

There I waited, as the sun slowly reappeared, waiting being my only option, watching a seasons worth of tracks blotted out by the unhurried Sunday shower. So many tracks gone but not forgotten there in the annealing lightning, the silent footprints of ghost deer, my shadow on what was once their bed, my vision on a landscape their eyes had already lost.

From above a growing patch of blue and in the retreating army of cloud, a brief, violent crack. Was that lightning, or a blackpowder rifle there up in the hills? There was no telling, but the sound broke an awkward pause in the day, and the landscape breathed again. A bird twittered, and from below me squirrels argued politics The dome of perfect blue settled back over the earth, the breeze gentle and uninterrupted by moisture. I smiled, and quietly got back up in my blind, slumping back against the tree with the posture of survivors at the end of a crises. The storm has passed.

I pull my firearm out from where it's been kept dry, one of the few things that is, and waited some more, hoping that with the clearing of the air, man's smell washed from the area, a few deer would roust themselves out before dark.

All things come to he who waits. And she.

For there, with the sun just starting to yawn and dip in the sky, a buck passed by. He was young, still with much life ahead of him. Not a fat doe, but a youth, a skinny forest hooligan, tempting fate by being out past his curfew. But I was beginning to shiver, a sign I needed to get back to the cabin, and soon. Yet, this is what I came out for, I told myself and I raised my weapon. The squirrels paused, and for yet another moment that day, the forest missed a breath, my hands coming up, shivering stopped, only blood and desire and life pulsing in my ear, my own breath waiting, trembling, held in as the my finger draws back.

And I gently released it, the little buck bolting off into the shadows. I'm hunting alone. If I taken the shot I'd get a little bit of additional venison to add to the freezer but there is a good chance with the location and the late day, that I won't be able to get help in time to get him out of there before dark. Like the deer, I will run out of life that can be lived long before I've exhausted every possibility of that life. Especially if I get pneumonia from being stupid. It wasn't worth it.

We all take paths that seem exciting at the time, as we travel the wilderness of a heart, of a landscape. Everything is as it seems to be, you're not mindful of the dangers. Yet sometimes, the sky clears, you look carefully at where you're at, and realize the wisest thing to do when you look at it clearly, is to walk away with as little blood as possible.


As I headed back in, I passed the campfire where I'd set up camp a ways downwind of the blind. I'd checked before I left, it only takes a spark to start a forest fire, though it takes an entire box of matches to get a campfire going. But I checked again, anyway. The fire was sodden, but out of habit, I checked it to make sure it was completely out, moving one of the rocks that contained it away. The rock was still warm, not enough to pull my fingers away, but enough that it possessed a luminance heat, not the sort that would burn, but a slow steady warmth that the dying fire may scorn, rain would dilute, but only time could truly deplete. I picked it up and held it in my hand, feeling it cool. Not everything of strength and density is cold. Watching a drip of water fall to the ground I thought, even a stone can weep.

They say that the waters of the Lord can wash away sins, that mountain water cleanses the earth. But what of weakness and regret? What of that one moment of pity for that we are about to diminish, there in that cracking moment when something ceases to live. That moment there between speed and splendor and the casting off of a shell casing. I live off of the land, and as such, by need or necessity, I've taken life to survive or protect. Yet tonight, I could not, for reasons beyond the logical ones.

The trail back to the cabin is long but soon I'm inside, to the warmth of fire and the smell of molasses and bread, kerosene and leather. I peel off my damp clothes and get a new fire started. Another crack of thunder splits the night, and somewhere tonight blood, hot and dense, bringing both pleasure and pain, will soak into the ground, starting the cycle of life again. From the woods a cry of an animal lingered long on the air, leaving on the breeze the thin echo of regret.

I pour a glass of whisky, and raise a quiet toast to the one that got away.

- Brigid