There is a special magic when snow hunting, especially for deer, especially in December. You move unhurried and thoughtful through inaudible flakes sifting down onto the silent landscape, alone except for your thoughts. Occasionally, an overloaded branch silently spills its burden of snow with a powdery explosion, the last sparkling shrapnel slowly sifting down toward the forest floor. There is no sound other than your own breathing and the quiet hiss of snow sliding over freshly oiled boots.
As the season fades into finality, you are hunting alone now because your partner has already tagged a nice buck a few weeks before. Walking through the silent ermine-coated woods with a muzzleloader, you find your thoughts are more inward than towards the hunt itself.
You ponder the year now in its waning days, replaying all the crucial events and wishing that you could have another shot at a few things. You worry about the future and the things that we are leaving for our children. However, those thoughts are dismissed after a moment because right now is not the time to worry. Right now is time to cautiously stalk over the next ridgeline.
Standing on the crest, you pause for a few moments and survey your domain. The tiny clear creek below is barely audible from this vantage point as it curves around and caresses the sandstone cliffs of the valley. After taking a swig from the icy canteen, you imagine yourself a pioneer finding this land for the first time. You have often had similar thoughts when carrying a front-loader. Feeling the heft of the gun cradled in your arms, it seems at once old-fashioned yet capable enough to win wars and expand national boundaries.
You love everything about these charcoal burners; the greasy feel of the loading patches, the noisy clack of the hammer going to full cock, the sulfurous smell of the exploding double-F blackpowder, the history behind all of it. Using your thumb, you lovingly rub off a bead of melted snow from the oiled octagon barrel and start slipping down toward the creek thinking of Barber’s Adagio.
The next hilltop holds no game and you turn onto the logging road to begin the slow uphill climb toward the car. The sun cuts a window through the low gray overcast and the momentary burst of solar energy makes the icy treetops explode like a trillion diamonds. While fumbling for the small camera in your backpack, you stop with the realization that no picture could reproduce the scene, or more importantly, the mood of this moment. As quickly as it opened, the window shuts, leaving you in the suffused light of early morning.
You are mixture of feelings walking out of the woods. The season is in the final innings and no venison yet resides in the freezer, but you’ve had many adventures with good friends and seen extraordinary things. On the ledger, you are in the red, but just slightly.
The balance sheet suddenly changes when you look ahead into a small opening along the road. Pawing at the snow, three deer are searching intently for grass. Fortunately, you have been stalking so quietly the deer are unaware of your presence
Like a statue, you watch as the deer feed for a few moments. The group is an older doe accompanied by two yearlings, feeding about 60 yards away and slowly quartering towards the left. The wind is in your face and the deer should feed within a few yards if they do not spook.
The deer continue moving, still unconcerned about your presence. As they disappear behind a small clump of trees, you raise the gun to your shoulder in painfully slow motion and wince at the rude click of the hammer locking back the sear. It is just a matter of seconds now.
The biggest deer appears from behind the tree and, after a slight adjustment, the front sight steadies just behind her shoulder. The deer continue moving, pausing, feeding and moving when it suddenly happens. “Merry Christmas”, a loud voice rudely breaks the silence.
The deer look up, startled for a split second then flee, three white flags blazing away through the trees. Slowly lowering the gun, you wonder why you spoke and consider the possibility that the cold has frozen more than a few brain cells.
Nearing the car, a tiny smile hangs on your lips. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he is currently wearing hunter orange.
Besides, you can always tell the guys back at work that you didn’t see anything today.
Happy Holidays.
Photo: Rosendahl
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Snow hunt
Posted by Brent on 10/12/09 • Categorized as Fish/Hunt,Out in the Open columns
As the season fades into finality, you are hunting alone now because your partner has already tagged a nice buck a few weeks before. Walking through the silent ermine-coated woods with a muzzleloader, you find your thoughts are more inward than towards the hunt itself.
You ponder the year now in its waning days, replaying all the crucial events and wishing that you could have another shot at a few things. You worry about the future and the things that we are leaving for our children. However, those thoughts are dismissed after a moment because right now is not the time to worry. Right now is time to cautiously stalk over the next ridgeline.
Standing on the crest, you pause for a few moments and survey your domain. The tiny clear creek below is barely audible from this vantage point as it curves around and caresses the sandstone cliffs of the valley. After taking a swig from the icy canteen, you imagine yourself a pioneer finding this land for the first time. You have often had similar thoughts when carrying a front-loader. Feeling the heft of the gun cradled in your arms, it seems at once old-fashioned yet capable enough to win wars and expand national boundaries.
You love everything about these charcoal burners; the greasy feel of the loading patches, the noisy clack of the hammer going to full cock, the sulfurous smell of the exploding double-F blackpowder, the history behind all of it. Using your thumb, you lovingly rub off a bead of melted snow from the oiled octagon barrel and start slipping down toward the creek thinking of Barber’s Adagio.
The next hilltop holds no game and you turn onto the logging road to begin the slow uphill climb toward the car. The sun cuts a window through the low gray overcast and the momentary burst of solar energy makes the icy treetops explode like a trillion diamonds. While fumbling for the small camera in your backpack, you stop with the realization that no picture could reproduce the scene, or more importantly, the mood of this moment. As quickly as it opened, the window shuts, leaving you in the suffused light of early morning.
You are mixture of feelings walking out of the woods. The season is in the final innings and no venison yet resides in the freezer, but you’ve had many adventures with good friends and seen extraordinary things. On the ledger, you are in the red, but just slightly.
The balance sheet suddenly changes when you look ahead into a small opening along the road. Pawing at the snow, three deer are searching intently for grass. Fortunately, you have been stalking so quietly the deer are unaware of your presence
Like a statue, you watch as the deer feed for a few moments. The group is an older doe accompanied by two yearlings, feeding about 60 yards away and slowly quartering towards the left. The wind is in your face and the deer should feed within a few yards if they do not spook.
The deer continue moving, still unconcerned about your presence. As they disappear behind a small clump of trees, you raise the gun to your shoulder in painfully slow motion and wince at the rude click of the hammer locking back the sear. It is just a matter of seconds now.
The biggest deer appears from behind the tree and, after a slight adjustment, the front sight steadies just behind her shoulder. The deer continue moving, pausing, feeding and moving when it suddenly happens. “Merry Christmas”, a loud voice rudely breaks the silence.
The deer look up, startled for a split second then flee, three white flags blazing away through the trees. Slowly lowering the gun, you wonder why you spoke and consider the possibility that the cold has frozen more than a few brain cells.
Nearing the car, a tiny smile hangs on your lips. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he is currently wearing hunter orange.
Besides, you can always tell the guys back at work that you didn’t see anything today.
Happy Holidays.
Photo: Rosendahl
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