Inspired by the fact that a lot of fantasy stories have (often grossly unrealistic) hunting scenes in them. I wonder how many of those authors have actually gone hunting...
I experimented a little bit with style here, so comments on that in particular would be lovely.
The Quiet Side of Hunting
I sit in the still, December cold, my feet numb and frozen despite the two layers of woolen socks I have donned. The predawn light, though bright enough to see shape and contrast, drowns all but the brightest colors to flat grays, casting the woods in a solemnly frozen light. I glance to the east to measure the time and see, just above the rounded peaks of the Appalachians, a line of greenish blue. The sun will be up in an hour, I surmise, so it must be around seven in the morning. I have been out in the woods for almost an hour. The hot breakfast, heated cabin, and feeling of being warm all seem so distant and long ago.
With a quiet sigh that would fog up my glasses were I wearing them, I give my toes a wiggle to restore circulation, shift my rifle so that it rests more comfortably on my lap, and settle back into the bowl of the three-trunked oak to wait. I had chosen this particular tree to sit in for several reasons: firstly, it had an unobstructed view of a deer trail, one I knew was used quite often because part of it ran through my yard. Secondly, the bowl of the tree where the three trunks merged into one was just large enough and low enough to the ground for one of my size and stature to comfortably sit in. Thirdly, the presence of multiple trunks would give me something to lean on while I waited, something to brace with while aiming, and something to shield most of my motions from view of the trail. I could bring my rifle to bear without alerting my target by the motion. The three trunks would also shield me from the worst of the icy breezes that occasionally blew among the barren trees.
One such breeze blows from an unshielded direction, and, even as bundled as I am with layers of clothes, the brisk wind quickly strips what little warmth I have away. Shivering, I pull my hat and hood tighter around my head and face with clumsy fingers. Other than my feet, my hands are perhaps the coldest part of my body, the thin, cotton gloves I wore for the sake of dexterity doing little to keep heat in.
As I am blowing feeling back into my hands, one at a time, there is a rustling near my feet, just outside the circle of ground I had kicked clear of leaves. A curious chirruping sounds from next to my left boot. I move it aside to find the tapered snout of a mole. I had never before seen a mole, and I had no idea they were active so late in the year, so the sight of one surprises me, though pleasantly so. The mole chirrups again, noses forward slightly, then quickly scuttles back with a frantic rustling of leaves before crawling forward to repeat the entire process again. The poor mole looks quite confused, and I conclude that I must have destroyed part of its tunnel when I was clearing out a place to stand.
By the by, the mole’s repeated rustling and chirruping, chirruping and rustling, keep me amused, and I alternate between watching it and the trail until the mole eventually scuttles back into its tunnel, never to poke its nose out again. By now, the sky above the mountains is considerably brighter, and I estimate that sunup is roughly half an hour away. I wish it were sooner. I can hardly wait to return to the cabin with the rest of the guys for hot drinks and a warm seat by the wood stove.
Just as I am in the middle of deciding whether or not to have tea or hot chocolate, a deer arrives. I hear it long before I see it – crunching snow, crackling leaves, breaking bracken – and forget the cold for a moment as I sit still, muscles tensed, and wait for the beast to come into sight, hoping that the wind will not blow my scent in the deer’s direction. The deer walks leisurely into view, head down as it hopefully nibbles at the stripped branches of various bushes. Through the tangle of a rambling thorn bush, I can just make out a pair of antlers and, as the buck steps forward, a small clearing in the bracken lets me count the points: they number seven, three on the left antler and four on the right, with the fourth point more stub-like than the others.
The deer takes another step into the clearing, and I can see now that it’s a fairly large one, perhaps two-hundred pounds and with a thick neck, marking it as a buck in his prime – and an excellent trophy. Just as I have the buck in my sights, safety off, finger poised on the trigger, the cross-hairs circling around that sweet spot just behind the foreleg, a chill gust bursts through the trees, and the buck freezes, head up and ears out, on full alert. I am sitting upwind. Before I can get a shot off, the buck darts away, white tail sticking up, quickly disappearing among the similarly colored brush.
I scream mentally with frustration. That buck, aside from being impressive, would have been my first indisputable kill. With a wistful sigh, I lower my rifle, set the safety, and resume my waiting, hoping for another shot at a deer. In the far distance, I can hear the whoit of a cardinal, clearly audible against a backdrop of crowcalls, distant breezes, and an occasional, very faint, chicka-dee-dee-dee.
The sun is well above the mountains, no trace of sunrise colors to be found, when my father comes ambling down the deer trail to collect me. I open the bolt, empty the barrel, and remove the clip as swiftly as my cold fingers can manage, carefully reloading the loose bullet into the magazine before pocketing it. My father waits patiently as I check that I have everything I entered the woods with before I sling the rifle, muzzle-down, over my shoulder, the way he taught me. The moment he sees me ready, my father is off again with his long-legged strides as I eagerly shuffle along behind him, the heels of my slightly-too-large rubber boots dragging in the leaves.
I can hardly wait to reach the cabin.
