If only old tree stands could talk, imagine the stories they could tell. Stories about opening days, big bucks, little bucks, deer killed, deer missed. Maybe even stories about what thoughts pass through a hunter’s mind as time goes by sitting in a deer stand.
The other day I was sitting next to somebody’s old deer stand. It was pretty dilapidated. It was obvious nobody had sat up there for a long time and now nobody ever would. Yet you wonder who built it and you wonder where is that hunter now. Still hunting somewhere? Deceased? Why was it abandoned?
There were no answers.
A few minutes before legal shooting hour on opening day, one loud crack of a deer rifle echoed through the cold air. Me and the old deer stand weren’t far away. What was that dude shooting at in the morning darkness? Deer shadows in the moonlight? Oh wait, there wasn’t any moonlight.
There were no answers.
More time passed; more thoughts. Any moment now, there’s gonna be a deer appear in the brush or at the end of the field. Me and the old deer stand will be in easy rifle range. How many deer have died within view of the old stand, I wondered? Any giant whitetails take their last steps? Did a youngster shoot his first deer here? Do fond hunting memories linger in this spot for some unknown hunter?
There were no answers.
Dang, a cold east wind is beating on me and the old deer stand. Hanging out in a deer stand stops being fun when you’re fighting to stay warm. You also know you’ll eventually lose the battle.
Gotta hang on, I thought to myself, you just never know when a world record buck might step out into the open.
Deer show up on their own time. So do other creatures of the woods.
At dawn, flocks of wild turkeys were raising a ruckus in the distance. Whatever those turkeys were clucking and fussing about, the issue was soon settled. Later a deer rifle cracked and a gobbler gobbled in reply. I wondered if wild turkeys were around this part of Minnesota when the old deer stand was new. Not likely.
Late one morning I saw something on the ground that looked like a chipmunk or a baby red squirrel. It moved so quickly my eyes could barely follow. Must be a squirrel, I figured. If I was a chipmunk, I’d be sleeping for the winter by now.
Not many birds were hanging around either. Two blue jays were flitting in the tree above the old deer stand. One blue jay spotted me and started complaining. A friendly chickadee stopped by but didn’t stay. Where is everybody I wondered.
There were no answers.
We’ve been hanging together now for many hours, the old treestand and me. Not much excitement to share.
Late in the afternoon a small whitetail doe appeared like a ghost on the field edge. I raised my binoculars and looked her over. A yearling, I figured, and all by herself. She fed for a brief time and then moseyed back into the brush. While I watched, she laid down and all but disappeared in the grass. Just to play with her mind, I grunted like a horny buck to see her reaction. She looked back at me for a moment and then ignored more of my sexy deer talk.
What’s going on? Where are the deer? Are they not moving? Why can’t I see or at least hear a buck harassing a doe not far from the old deer stand and me? I think I’m in a good spot. A long time ago another hunter thought the same thing and built the old deer stand.
Maybe it’s time for a reality check. We’ve spent a total of eight hours together, the old stand and me. And the day’s deer count total is one. One deer. One is a lonely number. How can that be?
There were no answers.
There’s something about the deer-hunting experience, indefinable yet undeniable, which lends itself to the telling of exciting tales. This book offers abundant examples of the manner in which the quest for whitetails extends beyond the field to the comfort of the fireside. It includes more than 40 sagas which stir the soul, tickle the funny bone, or transport the reader to scenes of grandeur and moments of glory. Buy Now
