It's been a slow season. The weather has sucked. It's been too warm and when it isn't windy it's raining. And it's a full moon. All of this has led me to look at the kitten when the alarm goes off for some indication of whether or not I should get up. This morning in my dreamy state he had his paws wrapped around my beard and his moist little nose right up against my.....I think it was his nose. By the time I turned off the alarm he had righted himself, and was yawning, sitting on the pillow. This morning I didn't even ask. 30 degrees and calm. I was getting in the stand.
I'm hunting Mr. X's Mystery Farm and headed for the high stand. All the sign was on the low side, but this stand had paid off in the past in the morning, so that was my choice. I was a little late getting in, but didn't kick anything out on the way. The sun was already up by the time I settled in. Around 7:00 I heard crunching. A doe crossed behind me and headed into the hemlocks. A good start. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned back. All the bullshit of real life started to drift away. The previous day I had dealt with my lousy bank, put on my storm windows, swept out the shul, cleaned the litter box....then I heard crunching again. This time it was coming right in and was close. I stood up. By the time I had my bow in my hand I saw horns. I clipped the release and realized this was a shooter. He was a big mature whitetail with a heavy, chocolate brown rack with 4 inch brown tines. 8 or 10-it didn't matter. He was in front of me before I knew it. He looked right at me and stopped. I froze. He did the head bob, sizing me up. If he continued I could draw. He did. I drew. At least I tried. This is where it gets tragic.
Hunting from a tree stand one has to always wear a safety harness. And the leg straps have a tendency to slip down. When I drew back on the string the twisting torque of my body was arrested by the strap on my right leg, cinched in my pant. Had my arms shrunk? Was the bow fucked up? I struggled. And in this struggle the buck caught all the movement, spooked, spun and was gone, leaving me holding my.....bow.
I know I talk plenty about the beauty of failure in hunting and the parallels it has with art, etc., etc. Well it's all bullshit. I had the biggest deer I've ever seen 20 yards broadside and I could not get the bow string back in order to make the shot. I'm sick of failing. I seem to come up with new ways of fucking up nobody has ever heard of. "Your leg stopped you from pulling the string with your arm? Huh?" Don't worry. I get it. I'm way more disgusted with myself than you could ever be. My old man would've been philosophical about it all. "It just wasn't meant to be." Well he's dead and I have a long season ahead of me. The good news is I saw another, smaller 8, from the same stand this afternoon. The rut's kicking in. I'll be in the stand from now until just before Xmas, or until I put my hands on that big rack. Now if I can just figure out which end of the cat is hugging me during the night......
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