When talking about outdoor activities, it has been said that the worse the weather, the better the adventure.

Thought I would disagree in certain instances, such as when discussing any backpacking trip I’ve ever taken, there are times when this old cliché holds true.  Yesterday was one of those times.

I was alone in the big wood with my Hawkin-style reproduction muzzleloader.  Hunting deer with the charcoal-burner always puts me in a contemplative mood as I slowly stalk through the forest in search of game.  Like fly-fishing, hunting with a muzzleloader forces you to slow down and focus on the small details that can make or break a hunt.  Operating more deliberately, you even notice little things such as silvery drops of water that bead up on the well-oiled brown oxide barrel.

You also feel the palpable connection with the pioneers who used these weapons for real.  It wasn’t simply a diversion or hobby; they depended on their guns for dinner and occasionally defense.  The mystique of a muzzleloader transcends the old-fangled technology.

Hunting with a muzzleloader is relaxing and meditative but it was the weather that set an intense, almost overwhelming mood to yesterday’s stalk.

The temperature was just above freezing, slowly rotting the layer of snow that blanketed the ground.  A warm front had brought drizzle to the Midwest and the clash of warm air against cold earth set the perfect stage for fog.  As I settled against a tree to watch a picked cornfield, the visibility began to lower like a fading star.

There was just the slightest hint of wind, making the breeze a physical presence that tried to carry the dampness down into your bones.  However, I was warm and snug inside camouflage and simply hunkered down into my jacket like a sleeping bag.  In fact, I might have dozed off once or twice, comfortable, content and glad to be sitting outdoors in what most people considered a tremendously lousy day.

An hour later I noticed a fat doe slowly feeding down the edge of the field.  She had appeared like an apparition from the increasing gloom, slowly move down the rows while pawing the snow in search of greenery underneath.

It was a perfect setup.  I was just inside the tree line while she was completely unaware of my presence.  After getting my heart rate back to the normal range, I carefully cocked the iron hammer and set up in my shooting position to wait.  She continued moving, oblivious.

A minute later, I gentle brushed the set trigger and the hammer fell.  The percussion cap popped but there was no kick or blossom of smoke and fire.  As I began to drop the gun from my cheek to re-cap, there was a sudden long “booooom” as smoked filled the air.  I had experienced what is known as a “hang-fire,” most likely because of the dampness.

After reloading, I dejectedly walked into the field just to make sure I hadn’t somehow hit the doe.  Following her tracks, it was obvious that she had suffered nothing worse than a good scare.  Resigned to another day with no venison, I began the slow stalk back to my car.

It was getting towards evening and the fog had started to descend in earnest.  Looking around, I realized that the field and sky had melted into one continuous backdrop of gray while the forest to my right had become a series of stark black lines fading into nothingness.
Stepping back into the woodland was an eerie experience.  Even the tops of the trees were hidden in the deep fog and the familiar landscape took on an unfamiliar feel.  The air hung oppressive, like a cold, wet blanket trying to smother the countryside.

I began to imagine things while swimming through the thickening murk.  Giant stags flitted through the mist like the scene from a Scotch whiskey advertisement, while painted Native American warriors peered from behind trees at steely-eyed long-hunters who were invading their home.  There were pioneers and bears and elk and cougars.  The woods, silent and gloomy as a crypt, were alive with the ghosts of Indiana’s history.

I was tied to all of it by the .54-caliber time machine in my hands.

Finally back at the car, I took off my heavy clothes and unloaded the rifle.  I was going home empty-handed due to the self-imposed limitations of my weapon but there was a full game pole at the hunting camp that solely exists inside the overactive imagination of an outdoor writer who refuses to grow up.

Not bad for a cold, damp day that had commuters squinting through windshield wipers, shoppers scurrying indoors and unhappy people becoming ever more depressed.

However there was one person, crazy perhaps, who was outside and enjoying it all.

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