The late John Warmoth hunting deep in the wilds of Parke County in the mid-1980's

When I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to hear the wind rattling the storm windows in their frame, I considered the idea of rolling over and going back to sleep.  That idea was short-lived however.  It was the opening day of deer season.

This column is being written far too early on the first morning of the deer firearms season, a day I have called “one of the holiest in the Hoosier outdoor calendar.”   I say ‘too early’ because by all rights I should still be sitting in a tree, or alternately, dressing out a nice buck at this hour.

Instead, I’m sitting at my desk, swaddled in old sweatpants, a sweatshirt and house slippers while sipping a cup of coffee.  Some will undoubtedly call me weak-spirited but I finally decided to bail out of the morning hunt after the sleet began feeling like birdshot on my nearly-numb face.

Weather conditions were less than optimal.  In fact, if it had been any other day of hunting season, I would have stayed wrapped up in a quilt in bed.  But, since it was opening day, I was determined to greet the dawn as I already had for more than two decades.

A check of the weather radar before heading to the woods showed a massive area of rain extending from Wisconsin to the east coast.  Worse yet, the winds were doing their best to live up to the forecast of gusts to 30 miles per hour.  Outside my office window, I could hear groans of protest as limbs of the huge maple tree swayed in the gale.

I reluctantly dressed and drove in heavy rain to my hunting spot.  The little voice of

temptation inside my head reminded me of the warm bed waiting at home as I wrestled the steering wheel against the wind.  Somehow, I resisted the siren song of a warm down comforter and eventually parked next to the farm gate at my hunting spot.

The rain was coming down even harder.   For the next 20 minutes, I engaged in an internal dialog about the advisability of hunting on this morning.   Like humans, deer don’t particularly enjoy such conditions and would likely be holed up in a deep thicket somewhere, unlikely to move until the weather improved.   It seemed improbable that I would see a deer this morning but showing either supreme motivation or a major lack of common sense, I quickly threw on my parka, grabbed my gun and backpack then headed into the woods.

Once inside the protected edge of the woods it was obvious that climbing into my ladder stand would be a less than relaxing experience.  Even large trees swayed against the wind as the occasional large limb thudded to the forest floor.  After a particularly strong gust set my poncho snapping like a flag, I decided to sit on the ground.

I found a huge oak tree, undoubtedly a couple of hundred years old that stood like a protective sentinel over the entire forest.  Cuddling up against the massive trunk, I was mostly protected against the wind-driven rain and somewhat comfortable between two roots that formed a natural chair.  The thick carpet of oak leaves even formed a padded seat that was relatively dry.  It was a good place to wait out lousy weather.

What I hadn’t counted on was the combination of wind and water.  Soaked everyplace that wasn’t covered by poncho, the wind sent needles of pain into the wet skin of my cheeks, ears and neck.  Shortly thereafter, it got worse.

The wind was roaring over the forest like an angry ocean while sleet began making tiny drumming sounds as it pelted my nylon rainwear.  With ice crystals now sliding down my cheek, I had finally reached the limit of my endurance. The blasting heater in the car felt good on my cherry-red ears as I drove, a bit defeated, down the farm lane.

Regardless, I consoled myself; I had met the dawn of opening day as a hunter.  It wasn’t a good and fine and honorable hunt, as Hemingway might say, but I had at least confronted nature on her terms and tasted some of the wildness that I crave.

It was miserable, but a soul-satisfying kind of miserable.   That feeling was not a pointless, self-despising infliction of pain but rather a celebration of being alive because humans need some adversity to smooth out the peaks and valleys of our psyche.  As hunters, we find those things in the woods, conveyed by both blooming trout lilies in spring and a stung face full of sleet on a November holy morning.

Yeah, opening morning 2008 was miserable, unproductive and even slightly painful.

But as soon as my coveralls dry, I’m going right back out this afternoon.

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