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It began on a frosty fall morning. I woke up in the cabin to the sight of a burned out fire and the sight of my breath. “Mornin’ Lane,” I groaned to my cousin. “How’d you sleep?”
We both knew it was a rhetorical question. No one ever sleeps well in that cabin in the fall. The windows have holes in the frames and there is a constant draft under the door. The wood burning fireplace is a weak defense to the onset of autumn.
I managed to get dressed in my sleeping bag, as the cold air brought the notion I would not be able to breathe. I crawled out of bed as Lane handed me a cup of black coffee, which I despise. Black coffee makes me feel extremely old, and being seventeen at that time, it is a thought I would rather not pursue. While managing to drink the coffee, I had a simple breakfast of two pieces of bread. “I’m gonna walk to the coulee today; see if I can bump a deer or two,” I stated to Lane.
“That sounds good to me,” he spoke softly. “If you manage to get one down, give me a call and I’ll come help you out.”
The thought of bagging my first deer had my heart pumping warm blood through my frozen veins.
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| Lane’s cabin. It made a great place to sleep for the weekend. |
I stepped out the rickety door onto the porch and let out a silent shiver. My breath was in clear sight. I questioned whether the air was warmer or colder inside the cabin, chuckling at the thought.
I made the trek to the coulee’s edge, seeing some good sign of deer in the area, but not seeing any deer. Arriving at the coulee’s edge, I chose a spot leaning against a fence post and pulled out the spotting scope. Upon glassing the coulee, I spotted a white rabbit. The poor guy stuck out like a sore thumb—he was white and no snow had fallen in this area. Immediately after spotting the white rabbit, I spotted a rather hungry looking coyote. It didn’t take long before they spotted each other.
The coyote gave chase, pushing the rabbit defensively into a thicket that was no bigger than a swimming pool. The coyote circled around, trying to spot the potential snack. The rabbit burst out of the brush with no notice and escaped the hungry mind of the mangy beast.
I followed the rabbit with the spotting scope, and what I saw was an image I would not soon forget. A hawk began to dive-bomb at the rabbit. The rabbit ran pattern’s I’ve never seen any football player run. After four or five dives, the hawk must have been frustrated. On its last attempt, the hawk dove and the rabbit must have jumped five feet into the air, over the hawk. The hawk flew away defeated, and I would imagine it was as hungry as the coyote was. I lost sight of the rabbit and decided now was the time to head back to the cabin for lunch.
The previously frost-hardened grass had been melted by the gradually warming sun. My boots got wet and the moisture soon soaked through to my socks. I looked forward to the warm lunch that would soon fill the gaping hole in my stomach. I cherished moments like these, being with nature and no sounds of the city. It is what I live for, being completely at one with nature.
I arrived at the cabin just after noon. Lane was expecting me, as there was plenty of wood on the fire and an endless supply of soup. I set my bow down on the floor, removed my parka and pulled up a chair to the smooth table where there was a bowl, a spoon and a cribbage board. We passed the time by playing crib. It was a game loved by us both. We were around equal skill levels and we each had our turn at winning.
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| Group of mule deer spotted on the first piece of land. |
I took a big spoonful of hot soup, slurped it up and sighed. No success for the morning, but I still had the afternoon. Lane and I discussed a plan. We had some access southeast of Donalda; we would head there.
The drive felt like an eternity, rumbling down the gravel road in the old Chevy. We arrived at the first property, called the landowner, informed him that we would be on his land and confirmed that it was acceptable to him. We entered on the southeast corner and did a perimeter check.
While walking in the dew soaked grass, we heard a crash from the bushes on our right. Out ran a nice five by five mule deer. He was a gorgeous buck, but there was one problem, no tag. We were after the elusive whitetail, which only seems to be elusive during hunting season.
We continued to walk for the rest of the day with no luck, but plenty of beautiful scenery. We did hear shots of what is assumed to be success by others down the road, but today was their day, not ours.
On the walk back, we spotted a group of mule deer hiding in the brush, seeming to be fearless as we inched closer, trying to snap a few pictures. That was all we shot that day, a few pictures of a group of mule deer does. We were discouraged by the lack of success, but we knew tomorrow would be a better day.
We arrived back at the truck, unloaded our gear and hopped into the cab, heat blasting. The windows began to fog as we drove back to the cabin, defeated. As “Murphy’s Law” would have it, we passed multiple whitetails on the drive home, taunting us with their big black eyes. I’m sure my hopes were set too high for my first hunting season, but to be successful, you must dream big.
We arrived back at the cabin, unloaded our gear yet again and stoked the fire. Its flames danced as it warmed the cabin. I loved the day that preceded the night. I don’t need to be successful to enjoy the hunt. Living in the city, I’m thankful I can even get out.
I turned to Lane and asked “your deal or mine?" ■
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