SPIRIT HUNT
It was late for the hunt, when f turned the car onto the cornfield road with its embedded ruts from the deep-grooved tractor tires. Every time I swung out to avoid frequent mud-patches, I'd hear cornstalk-remnants crunching under the tires. The car jarred along in a rutted-rhythm until the wheat field appeared, where I had to drive on a side slope, so as to avoid the new planting. On the grassy road near the marsh, hidden holes dictated first gear. The other option was having all of the hunting gear in back, flung violently upward, when least expected.
Finally, I parked by the pines and began to blacken my face with. the burnt cork. It smelled vaguely pleasant when I held it over the BIC. The southeast wind was just what I had hoped for. I trudged through the field toward the drainage ditch. Water rushing over stones drew me to the right, as this was the easy place to cross. An iron-smell was strong in the dredged marshland. When I reached the top of the hill, looking south toward the marsh pocket between the wooded knoll and the main woods, I stopped and put some fox scent in the upper folds of the rubber-army-boots before entering the deer-trail.
The sky was darkening toward rain and I could feel the reverse afternoon thermal pushing down the slope from the west, against the prevailing wind. Occasionally, arrow-feathers scratched against the bow-case, sounding like a mouse having a meat in a cereal box. The skies were massed with great flocks of Canada geese, circling in a calling frenzy. I used the almost deafening sounds as a cover, pausing when the flocks were out and walked slowly through the marsh trail toward the stand.
The trees had wept at the passing of summer and I picked my way carefully through their dry tears to the oak, with its two by four rungs which led upward to the platform. After pinching the twine under the cam I leaned the bow against the tree and climbed with the least motion that my patience would allow, hugging the acrid smelling trunk. On top, after pulling up the bow, I decided to use the small folding-chair. It was time to stand, but I was tired from the long drive and wanted to watch the circling geese as they played in the wind, dropping so close now that I could see their white cheek patches.
Suddenly, I heard two noises in the leaves- one west near the main deer trail and one somewhere ahead, east, behind the second growth oaks. I heard a stick break. The heavy snap told me: "Big deer." and I felt a thickening in my throat. Heart-pounding, I watched the king worry his antlered crown on a bush an easy thirty yards away. But I was pinned to the chair. I could not get up without motion and the buck would remember. Another buck rushed through the marsh, ran below my stand, clattering through the brush that over hung the trail, toward his rival.
The wind stopped suddenly, as if curtains were quickly drawn for some drama. Long shadows from the west pointed toward us. The stilled trees, hushed forest creatures, and I, were spectators at an ancient ritual. The bucks' swollen necks arched as they lowered antlers. Steam arose from their nostrils. With a sudden lunge they clashed in a flurry of thudding hoofs and thrashed leaves. Antlers ground and cracked. I heard grunts and harsh huffs of breaths. The small bucks hindquarters buckled under the pressure. He turned and ran, driven away by the victors lowered horns. The vanquished deer had gone east and I waited for the winner, who had circled, to trail him for further humiliation.
Suddenly he appeared, head-down, slowly smelling his way to the other buck. At full-draw, my eye blazed though, the peep sight, down the gleaming shaft, at his heart. The twigs in the sight-path had no good opening. I could not risk wounding him with a deflected shot. Relaxing, arrow sliding slowly away on the rest, I put the bow down and waited until the end of dusk. The geese had made their last swing before landing, now so low that I was swept with their shadows. Suddenly, I realized that they were like dark thoughts of pain, leaving me. And then I felt the strength of my unwitting woods-brother flow downtrail, up the oak and into my heart knowing that I could have killed him even as I loved him
-Bob Heimerl