It's Different In The Woods
Waking before the alarm is easy during deer season, but I still find my enthusiasm for the day ahead in competition with the warmth and comfort of my sleeping bag. My feet find my moccasin slippers as I emerge from the tent, the only predawn noise coming from the almost boiling water I eagerly anticipate for my morning coffee, the only light coming from the flame of the stove. The day's snacks and water rations get stuffed in my pack, then I change into boots, strap down my trekking poles and tripod and make sure the gummy bears are readily accessible from my chest mounted bino harness. Fumbling my front zippered pocket, I mutter "License … Tag," adjust my straps and head lamp and head out. Mornings are different in the woods.
The hike to this morning's glassing spot, like the hike to every other glassing spot, is mostly uphill. The way back will also be uphill, just like the fabled walk to school of our parents' childhood. I crest the ridge as the sun rises and kick up a few doves before I settle in with a snack and get set up behind my binoculars. The last bat of the night flies by as the forest begins to awaken, the silence is destroyed by the knocking of woodpeckers, the scurrying of quail and squirrels, and the occasional cry of a circling vulture. Fumbling my front zippered pocket, I mutter "License … Tag,” slowly put my chair and tripod together and listen. Sound is different in the woods.
Sitting in a place I'd only ever seen on a map, I sift through the trees, shadows, and brush, looking for that shape, color, or movement that doesn't belong there. Hunting is recognizing patterns; it's the minutiae, the gait of different animals, the flick of an ear or the swing of a tail, and staring for hours at stumps and rocks. The light of day reveals more of the surrounding hillsides proving once again that no 3d satellite terrain imaging can prepare you for the treachery and awe that awaits a willing explorer. 400 yards away, a doe with last year's singleton and this year’s twins slowly feed their way out of the brush on top of a sheer drop off, reminding me that I could use a quick lunch myself. Fumbling my front zippered pocket, I mutter "License … Tag,” adjust my straps and water bottle and move to the next spot. Beauty is different in the woods.
The walk back to the tent and the following freeze-dried dinner and cup of instant coffee provide ample opportunity for introspection as the evening paints the sunset across the empty wilderness. The enormous night sky is the perfect backdrop to unwind from the day, but this view of the vastness of the stars from the mountain brings with it a biting loneliness. While I enjoy days by myself like this, I miss my wife and children, but I also miss the deer camps of my childhood: the yearly ceremony and gathering of friends and family, the feasts and the late night pinochle, but mostly I miss my grandparents. My grandfather's advice is dearly missed, not only out here, but back in the real world as well; I’m grateful for all of the time I spent with them. As I searched for tomorrow morning’s spot, I could imagine him saying “a fella ought to go and sit out there just to see what walks by,” raising his eyebrows high enough to lift the Stetson on his head. He’d be as proud of the seemingly impassable and miserable spot I picked out, as he would of my plans to take the kids out next trip. Grandma would be proud that I'm taking them fishing too. Fumbling my front zippered pocket, I mutter "License … Tag,” zip up the tent and make sure my phone is charging and go to sleep. Priorities are different in the woods.
The minutes manage to creep by, mimicking the pace of the feeding deer I've been watching, while the trip itself seems to be coming to a rapid end. Though I don't want to leave empty handed, secretly I’m ready to be home. Sometimes sitting still can be just as agonizing as the last half mile of a couple thousand foot ascent, yet somehow I will manage to forget the misery and fondly remember these moments while optimistically looking forward to being right back here: tired, hungry, thirsty, and talking to myself. Fumbling my front zippered pocket, I mutter "License … Tag,” adjust my straps and take a drink as I head towards the truck. Time is different in the woods.