Welcome to December, the month when non-hunting folks are primarily worried about excessive eggnog ingestion or inadvertently giving their checking account a hernia. However, for hunters who are hopelessly romantic, this month’s muzzleloader hunting season for deer is the most sublime two weeks of the year.
Though I have happily “graduated” to one of the new-fangled inline blackpowder rifles, more lately I find myself wondering about the wisdom of my choice. The inline guns are certainly slick, convenient and accurate but there is definitely more charm to hunting with a Kentucky Long Rifle or Hawken reproduction. As the calendar draws to close, I am seldom happier than when the forest is robed in white and there is a charcoal-burning anachronism is in my hands.
There is a special magic during a snow hunt for deer in December. You move unhurried and contemplative through inaudible flakes sifting down onto the silent landscape, alone except for your thoughts. Occasionally an overloaded branch silently spills its burden with a powdery explosion, the last sparkling shrapnel slowly sifting toward the forest floor. There is no sound aside from your own breathing and the quiet hiss of snow sliding over freshly oiled boots.
Walking through the silent black-and-white world, your thoughts are more inward than towards the hunt itself.
You ponder the waning year, replaying crucial events and wishing for another shot at a few things that might have turned out differently. You worry about the future, the things that we are leaving for our children and all those other big thoughts that require wide open spaces to adequately ponder. However, the trepidations are dismissed after a moment because right now is not the time to fret; right now is time to cautiously stalk over the next ridgeline.
Standing on the crest overlooking a wooded valley, you pause for a few moments and survey your domain. The tiny clear creek below is barely audible as it slides over a stone bed to curve around and caress the wooded points that descend into the lowland.
After taking a swig from the icy canteen, you imagine yourself as one of the first white men to discover this panorama. It is not the first time you’ve had such thoughts while carrying a front-loader. Feeling the heft of the gun cradled in your arms, it seems at once old-fashioned yet capable enough to win wars and expand national boundaries.
You love everything about these charcoal burners; the buttery feel of the mattress-ticking loading patches, the noisy clack of the hammer going to full cock, the sulfurous smell of exploding double-F blackpowder and the history behind all of it. Using your thumb, you lovingly rub off a bead of melted snow from the oiled octagon barrel and start slipping down toward the creek while mentally humming Barber’s Adagio for Strings.
The next hilltop holds no game and you turn onto an old logging road to begin the slow uphill climb toward the car. The sun briefly cuts a window through the low gray overcast and the momentary burst of solar energy makes the icy treetops explode like a trillion diamonds. While fumbling for the small camera in your backpack, you stop with the realization that no picture could reproduce the scene, or more importantly, the mood of this moment. As quickly as they opened, the heavens shut to leave you alone in the suffused light of early morning.
You are mixture of feelings walking out of the woods. The season is in the final innings and no venison yet resides in the freezer. On the other hand you’ve had many adventures with good friends and seen some extraordinary things. After momentary consideration, you decide that your account is still in the red for the season, but just slightly.
The balance sheet suddenly changes when you look ahead into a small opening along the road. Pawing at the snow, three deer are searching intently for grass. Fortunately, you have been stalking so quietly in the powder that the animals are unaware of your presence
Like a statue, you watch as the deer feed for a few moments. The group is an older doe accompanied by two yearlings, feeding about 60 yards away and slowly quartering towards the left. The slight wind is in your face and the deer seem wholly intent on filling their bellies.
The deer move, pause-stop-pause, unaware of your looming presence. As they disappear behind a small clump of trees, you raise the gun to your shoulder in a painfully slow motion and wince at the rude click of the hammer locking back the sear. It is just a matter of seconds.
The biggest deer appears from behind the tree and, after a slight adjustment, the front sight steadies just behind her shoulder. Abruptly, all three deer notice something is amiss and freeze, heads up, staring intently. The tension is unbearable when it suddenly happens: “Merry Christmas,” a loud voice breaks through the silence.
The deer instantly flee in panic, three white flags bounding away through the trees. Slowly lowering the gun, you wonder why you spoke and consider the possibility that the cold has frozen more than a few brain cells.
Nearing the car, a tiny smile hangs on your lips. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he is currently wearing hunter orange.
Besides, you can always beg a few venison roasts from your buddy