Hunting is the sport for those that are incredibly optimistic, those that are not afraid to fail (over and over) and those that are just plain hard-headed. I'm not sure what it was that came over me this past hunting season. Perhaps it was telling my six children for the past decade that I can't means I won't, and the words I quit should be banished from their vocabulary. That advice finally took root in myself and produced-not fruit-but meat this past season. Through dedication and hard work I had overcome what had previously seemed like insurmountable feats in other areas of my life. Coming into this past hunting season I looked over my dismal 'harvest' record and reminisced over what had been a few sporadic whole-hearted attempts at the sport, along with many feeble-hearted efforts. I compared this to the energy and passion I put into other areas of my life: loving my husband and children, working (oh so hard) toward my master's degree, building a business and honing my archery skills. It was like looking at one of those "Which object doesn't fit in this picture" exercises and the answer was blaringly obvious to me. I was going to bag my first buck this year. After all, I had been successful (and incredibly blessed) in all my other endeavors, so how hard could it be to shoot a deer? How naïve.
My husband sweetly told me that hunting is not all about the harvest; it's about the whole experience. I'm convinced that is just something hunters say to make themselves and others feel better about the countless hours, days, weeks and yes, months we all spend pursuing that illusive brown four-legged ghost in the woods. Let's be real. I'm sorry, but to hunt for years without pulling something out of the woods is mildly satisfying even at its best. It makes you cuss the sport when your sitting in your stand and when the day is over, you walk out of the dimly lit woods feeling empty, slightly consoled by the fact that you witnessed an awesome sunset, had a humming bird briefly light on your shoulder, or patterned a pair of raccoons berry hunting adventures down to the exact route and minute. And then there are those agonizing 'missed opportunities' that have the potential to rock you to your very core.
The days turned to weeks. There were bucks that were begging me to shoot them and I choked. My 48 pound draw weight became my biggest enemy on a chilly evening after exhaustingly coxing a climber stand up a skinny maple when the colors were peaking. That would have been a beautiful night to shoot a deer. Unaware of my presence, the big-bodied 6 point walked away with my pride. I told myself there was no crying in hunting. Another morning, a strategically placed safety strap under my armpit stopped me mid-draw on a sharp right-angled shot from my stand at a lop-sided five point. And of course another time, I missed a doe when my arrow deflected off a branch, after sailing through a narrow shot window.
The time I stalked a doe and two fawns across an old over grown cow pasture with a strong wind in my face was exciting. I closed the gap to just less than about 45 yards as I watched her nuzzle her babies on their butts to keep them moving, perhaps sensing my presence. I contemplated a shot before she moved up the hill into the bushes, but didn't feel confident at that distance. Compassion wasn't an issue, I can assure you. Yet another evening, my husband and I were heading into our stands. As the two track opened up into a field, my husband's keen eyes picked up a buck to our left on a ridge that rolled down into a river bed. We actually crawled up on that buck on our hands and knees, bows in hand. Curious, the young five point came in closer to check us out. At thirty yards he stood quartered to me, as I knelt at full-draw, waiting for him to turn broadside. Suddenly the buck turned on a dime and was gone in a flash, my arrow still on the rest.
Later that evening, my husband harvested a buck that I immediately recognized as the nice six point I hadn't been able to pull back my bow on a week earlier. Feeling like a pretty incompetent hunter, I consoled myself with the thought that I now have the life experience to play a very credible role in the movie Escanaba in Da Moonlight--if Jeff Daniels ever makes a sequel to it.
The weeks rolled in to months and it was now November. Gun season was closing in and I had only missed about three days in the woods for the whole month of October. I had shivered and I had sweated. I had endured swaths of mosquitoes attacking the eyeholes in my head net and trying to penetrate every other possible chink in my mossy oak armor. I had sat in rain, fingers like prunes, and had endured hail pelting my hat and stinging my cheeks. Still no deer, just knowledge and experience gained. My husband encouraged me by telling me that these were learning experiences, but I retorted that I hadn't planned on learning every lesson twice.
Opening morning of gun season was rough as I sat there with my Mossberg 500, hoping things would start hopping as they usually do about an hour after sun-rise as the deer came in from the fields. The wind was good and I knew the routine well. I watched a rise through the bushes that seemed to funnel the deer. It was just out of my bow range, but countless times I had seen deer flow through that opening, pausing on either side before passing through. However, that morning was uneventful. The rest of the day was even more depressing as I was knocked off my feet by the most incredible migraine I've had ever had. I was no doubt stressing over mounting piles of homework and feeling regretful over not spending more time with my children.
But the next morning, driven by something I don't totally understand, I got out of bed extra early and donned my hunting clothes like a robot, not even needing a light to find anything. Perhaps there was an aligning of the stars the night before, or the hunting Gods were no longer angry at me for some mysterious offense, but it was time for everything to come together like clockwork.
My six point was right on time as he came be-bopping through the rise I had eagerly watched so many mornings before. Clearly, he had an agenda that morning, judging by his swollen neck, but a 20-gauge Winchester Supreme whizzing through the November air at 1900 feet per second was about to cancel all his appointments. I brought my shotgun barrel down and put his bouncing body in my scope as he was coming right toward me. I clicked off my safety and shot as he turned broadside. To my dismay, I had missed. Still broadside, the bold six point stopped. He was fully alert and watched me as I racked another shell. This startled him, but I kept him in my scope as he bolted about 10 yards and paused on the other side of a scrawny bush. I seized what I knew was my last opportunity as I squeezed off my second shot. I watched him make that tell-tale kick and a bee-line for a grove of wild apple trees about 60 yards east. His white tail disappeared in a mass of black branches. My husband and his friend helped me track the blood, but I knew right where the deer ran. I looked up ahead into a circle of apple trees and immediately spotted his brown body. My husband says it was priceless to see me jumping and yelling like a giddy school girl when I ran up on the deer.
I may feel differently this May as I walk across that stage to receive my Master's degree, but bagging that buck on the 16th of November has by far brought me a greater sense of accomplishment than any experience since the birth of my sixth child. It proves the theory that the more you put into something, the more you will get out of it. It has been said that victory is sweetest when you've experienced defeat. I now see that my husband was right (yup, I said it); hunting is more than harvesting a deer; it's the entire hunting experience that enriches your life. Hunting is about determination and patience. It tests your character and your limits, your fortitude and your strength. It brings you in touch with yourself and with nature. It can change your life--if you let it. As spoken by Oscar Wilde, "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." Well, I feel alive.


January 16, 2009 Jennifer Brozek
 

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