By Bryan West
I ’m a part of a special group of deer hunters in Michigan. No other group is as full of hope and optimism and no other group has that hopefulness beaten out of them so savagely.
I Hunt Public Land.
I know… it’s sad and pitiful. Every November I descend on the few acres of public hunting land near my suburban home and try as hard as I can to find deer. Last year I woke up long before the crack of dawn and headed to a spot I had scouted all summer. I hadn’t seen a car within miles of the land and was sure this year would be different. I turned onto the two-track leading to my spot with a light heart. As I rounded the last turn leading into the state game area I was greeted by a group of cars that would put a grin on a used car salesman’s face. A quick look at my map confirmed I hadn’t made a wrong turn into a grocery store parking lot. I saw a young boy in an orange vest and before I could grin at the thought of a youngster’s first hunt he approached me and told me that parking was three dollars an hour. Another year was upon me.
Thirty minutes later I was in my stand. The sun was peeking up and casting a pleasant glow on the guy snoring in his pop-up blind, 40 yards away. A slight fog of cigar smoke wafted up from the gentleman behind me and the music from his iPad lent a touch of ambiance to the morning. Venturing a guess that this may not be the most ideal situation to bag mister whitetail, I collected my small bag and headed deep into the cedar swamp at the center of the game area.
In just under an hour I had left the throngs of hunters behind and was deep in the swamp. I had made it pretty much unscathed and had only been whipped with branches across my face and neck about 30 times. I was pretty sure the sight would come back to my left eye by the time the deer started moving and it turned out that all the time I spent worrying about getting my feet wet was time wasted. The asthmatic way I was gasping for air allowed me to really get a good whiff of all that cedar. More importantly, no other hunters were anywhere near me.
As I settled into my spot between a bunch of cedars and my breathing returned to normal, I marveled at the beauty all around me. Without a platoon of guys and gals in hunter’s orange on all sides, the woods came alive. A red squirrel approached warily and then ran for his life when I scratched my nose. Nearby a ruffled grouse drummed his warning to all of the other “pats” that this was his house. As I relaxed and drank in the great outdoors I remembers why I braved the crowds every year and a contented smile painted itself across my face.
A short time later I heard a shot. It seemed like someone had gotten lucky. Then, I heard another shot. And another. Reports echoed through the woods and I worried I might have fallen asleep and woken up back in Iraq. I soon realized this wasn’t the case. There were fewer guns in Iraq. As I listened, the shots seemed to follow a pattern. Like a living being they seemed to follow a path through the woods. I pictured a deer running for his life through the state game area as every licensed (and some unlicensed) hunter in the county threw a shot at him. My reverie broken, I decided to enjoy what I could until three or four hours after the sun went down and it was safe to leave.
A broken branch drew my attention and I turned my head slightly to see a haggard buck with a six-point rack the size of a basketball. I slowly raised my gun and placed my sight right below and to the rear of the shoulder. As my finger slowly took up the trigger slack I looked closely at the little guy. He was breathing like an Olympic sprinter and looked as if he had been whipped with branches across the face and neck about 30 times. Our eyes met and I saw fear tempered with hope and resolution. He had the 1,000-yard stare of a seasoned veteran three times his age. I clicked on my safety and lowered my gun as he bounded off. Twenty minutes later the woods erupted with the cracks of rifle and shotgun reports as the deer made his dash from the swamp to the private land bordering the game area.
I hoped he made it. He had earned it running the gauntlet. As I thought wistfully of the little buck grown into a giant 140-class monster, I zipped my orange jacket up as far as it would go and snugged my orange cap down on my ears as I prepared to make a dash for the parking area. It was dangerous but I had to pay that kid for a few more hours before they towed my truck.
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