We had hunted hard, and were back at the van. The weapons were unloaded and cased, the equipment stored, and I semi collapsed into the driver's seat, my back a mass of outraged pain receptors.
My hunting partner was already slumped in the seat, hat over eyes. I started the Dodge and fumbled out some aspirin, washing them down with the remnants of a cup of coffee I had left 6 hours before. I felt the little tremors in my thigh muscles that presaged massive cramping, and knew I'd pushed it harder than prudence called for.
As I got into gear and headed for Rt 213, I asked myself why I still hunted at an age when most men of my age or less found the woods just too far from the TV or barstool. Some memories came flooding back.....
One of Pop's great Shorthairs working up a gully in a field, every fiber of her being announcing, "Bird near, bird near", then "Bird HERE"! The rooster cackled pheasant obscenities as it clawed for altitude, rising, rising. In that familiar compression of time, the shot was postscript.
Another time, a crystal clear and frigid dawn, I stood under a white oak while a huge V of geese set their wings and glided just over the treetop headed into Zepp's pond just past the woods.They sang their Hymn. I felt much the same thing I had one time standing in Canterbury Cathedral, bathed in rare sunlight through the stained glass while the organ played notes so deep I felt them through the soles of my feet. In both places, I prayed and thanked the Master Architect of All for the experience.
Coming off stand one time, encountering a good buck at maybe 12 feet in the brush.For a brief flash of time, Predator and Prey looked into the other's soul and knew each for what they were. I lost the staredown.
And near there were two small trees growing so close they looked like they were slowly wrestling for the light, or dancing, depending on viewpoint. I often stopped to look at them, and it took a few visits to note they grew from the same stump.
Or the deep and pleasant ache of knowing I'd hunted hard and well, the objective of my hunting though not its ostensible goal.
Or the time I stillhunted in waders up a small tributary of the Patuxent, bow in hand, while searching the brush nearby. Where the bank had crumbled a bit there was a gleam, and I picked up the back half of an exquisitely crafted arrowhead, with a little little organic material still in the notches showing how it had been fastened to the shaft.
I shivered though warm, knowing I was tracing the footsteps of other hunters, and wondering if that maker and hunter had contributed to my personal DNA. I carefully returned the relic to where it had been, for it belonged there...
As I turned onto 301, my partner lifted the hat from her head and said, "Dad, I'm hungry, can we get some burgers"?
As I glanced into eyes the same hue as my father's, I knew why I still hunted....
My hunting partner was already slumped in the seat, hat over eyes. I started the Dodge and fumbled out some aspirin, washing them down with the remnants of a cup of coffee I had left 6 hours before. I felt the little tremors in my thigh muscles that presaged massive cramping, and knew I'd pushed it harder than prudence called for.
As I got into gear and headed for Rt 213, I asked myself why I still hunted at an age when most men of my age or less found the woods just too far from the TV or barstool. Some memories came flooding back.....
One of Pop's great Shorthairs working up a gully in a field, every fiber of her being announcing, "Bird near, bird near", then "Bird HERE"! The rooster cackled pheasant obscenities as it clawed for altitude, rising, rising. In that familiar compression of time, the shot was postscript.
Another time, a crystal clear and frigid dawn, I stood under a white oak while a huge V of geese set their wings and glided just over the treetop headed into Zepp's pond just past the woods.They sang their Hymn. I felt much the same thing I had one time standing in Canterbury Cathedral, bathed in rare sunlight through the stained glass while the organ played notes so deep I felt them through the soles of my feet. In both places, I prayed and thanked the Master Architect of All for the experience.
Coming off stand one time, encountering a good buck at maybe 12 feet in the brush.For a brief flash of time, Predator and Prey looked into the other's soul and knew each for what they were. I lost the staredown.
And near there were two small trees growing so close they looked like they were slowly wrestling for the light, or dancing, depending on viewpoint. I often stopped to look at them, and it took a few visits to note they grew from the same stump.
Or the deep and pleasant ache of knowing I'd hunted hard and well, the objective of my hunting though not its ostensible goal.
Or the time I stillhunted in waders up a small tributary of the Patuxent, bow in hand, while searching the brush nearby. Where the bank had crumbled a bit there was a gleam, and I picked up the back half of an exquisitely crafted arrowhead, with a little little organic material still in the notches showing how it had been fastened to the shaft.
I shivered though warm, knowing I was tracing the footsteps of other hunters, and wondering if that maker and hunter had contributed to my personal DNA. I carefully returned the relic to where it had been, for it belonged there...
As I turned onto 301, my partner lifted the hat from her head and said, "Dad, I'm hungry, can we get some burgers"?
As I glanced into eyes the same hue as my father's, I knew why I still hunted....
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