So far this fall, I’ve spent approximately 75 hours in the woods of Maine trying to kill a deer.
I spent at least that much time hunting during Maine’s rifle season last year and I came home empty-handed.
Starting this week, I’ll spend time in my local woods with my shotgun, a deer slug in the chamber, hoping against hope that a big old buck will cross my path within 40 yards. I haven’t hunted in Massachusetts in recent years, but the woods are loaded with deer this season. A sense of opportunity gnaws at me.
I’ve seen a lot of deer while hunting this year — 28, to be precise. I had my rifle scope on about half of them. My heart pounded hard several times when I spotted big-bodied whitetails that — ay, caramba! — lacked the requisite horns to allow its lawful harvest.
I’ve also seen one coyote — my buddies in deer camp taunted me all night for not pulling the trigger when I had it momentarily in the crosshairs — one bald eagle, one mink, two hares, a porcupine, seven pileated woodpeckers, 11 red squirrels and 19 partridge. I don’t bother keeping track of crows, blue jays and chickadees, but I do take note of most tracks, which this year includes one set of bear tracks, one set of big cat tracks, probably a bobcat, and three sets of moose tracks — a lone bull and a cow with her calf.
And, of course, deer tracks beyond count.
As I’ve been sitting in the woods waiting for my quarry, often shivering or with my bladder begging for relief, I’ve had plenty of time to think about why I hunt. Lord knows I’ve been asked that question more than a few times by people who don’t hunt. Even if they don’t ask directly, I often see a look of wonderment — sometimes amused, sometimes laced with disapproval — crossing the faces of people when they learn I’m a hunter.
In some ways, the people who look amused are the worst, sending the message that hunting is an atavistic and low-brow activity practiced by a foolishly anti-modern cult of camouflage-clad white men. It’s interesting to note that the reaction to my passion for fishing, while similarly comprising amusement, seems qualitatively different: the harvesting of cold-blooded creatures has a level of social acceptability, or at least tolerance — that hunting prey with fur and even feathers doesn’t.
I’m excited not only by the slim possibility of bagging a trophy, but by the entirety of the process, from planning and packing, picking a spot, to the ritual epilogue of cleaning guns, stowing away gear, and, sometimes, butchering game we were successful in killing.
No doubt, my passion for hunting and other outdoor pursuits has a strong social component. Since I was a kid, I’ve found a sense of community in hunting. I know that most people tend to judge a group by the worst behavior of its members, and surely the hunting community doesn’t always project the best image, whether it’s Dick Cheney shooting his hunting partner or Ted Nugent yammering about killin’ it and grillin’ it. Still, I have found it easy to be friends with hunters. In part, that’s because we tend to have a lot of other similar interests. In my experience, most hunters also fish and are likely to have dogs. They often have vegetable gardens and like to cook — at least over an open fire.
But it is also about values, which for hunters, I think, tend to be shaped by a particular kind of connection to the natural world.
Some might call that connection sentimental or nostalgic. There is a view that hunting for sport shows a childlike unwillingness to let go of the past. But I’d call it a participatory connection — a way of relating to the natural world by being part of it. Over the years, I’ve taken many lessons from what I’ve learned in the field, none more important than the humility instilled by spending long hours in nature.
While often they seem interminable when my hands and feet are numb with cold and my shoulders ache from carrying a pack and a gun, the hours I spend in the field are fleeting. When I’m out there, I feel a 10- or 12-hour day in the woods going by quickly. Even when the conditions are harsh and the game is scarce, I feel time passing relentlessly. The most productive times of day for most fish and game, deer included, are short. There’s a few hours around dawn and dusk that always go by in a blink.
To kill a deer — any animal, really, but particularly a whitetail deer — requires some blessed combination of skill, determination and luck. Of all the skills I’ve worked to acquire, none has been as valuable as stealth, the ability to disappear in the woods. Moving quietly enough not to alert a squirrel or a crow, let alone a deer, is next to impossible, at least for me.
But if I stop moving, maybe sit with my back against a tree and get quiet, I can feel the woods begin to forget that I’m there. That’s when the show starts.
True, this year it’s been more show than results. And I’d love to put some meat in my freezer. But it is in those quiet moments, when I feel accepted by the woods, that I know why I hunt.•
