The Wisconsin forest, on this November 21st, was by no definition a warm place, no matter how one looks at it. Twenty-two degrees simply has to be appreciated as being chilly, not bone cold but crisp as old man winter reaches out extending his frosty fingers. Walking out there in the early morning all encumbered with mounds of clothing, may feel even momentarily hot but once sitting motionless, that cold seems to have a way of working its ugly hand into every button hole and fold.
The path to the stand had numerous obstacles put there by the meandering deer who in their desire to harm hunters, have left no rock unturned. Those erratics left over from the last ice age appeared to have been ever-so-slightly lifted an additional couple inches out of the soil. The blackberry canes have somehow been planted on both ends making a tripping lanyard suitable for taking down older hunters as they shuffle out. It is a tough life being a hunter and that frost-kissed, lonesome morning walk was a reminder of the ageless struggle my Neanderthal brethren had to endure---oh wait, they were Cro-Magnon and they only had spears. Well, there is a similarity.
Having struggled early-man-style to establish my stand, the next issue was concealment which involves not only blending in with the natural terrain but also eliminating all signs of human scent, either by having none or by covering up those natural fragrances with the odors of the forest. Eliminating all odors is cumbersome in my world in that I like soaps that make me smell like a French prostitute (just kidding) but I do like to smell “good”, not too musty, or organic, or overworked, but tolerable. The idea of covering up my scent is also problematic because that would require sopping oneself with various deer extracts, fungal exudates, or obnoxious fecal aromas commonly found scattered on the forest floor.
My choice was to sit on the ground, face into the breeze hoping my human odors would not be able to travel upwind. Hunting while sitting on the ground has its disadvantages from those hiding in trees---like scent dispersal. I justify this ground dwelling by claiming being high in the forest is unmanly because I don’t “do” trees---I’m scared. Cro-Magnons didn’t do trees. The concept of only hunting into the wind does have limitations in that one’s field of vision is only about 180 degrees which for me is fine because if I turn quickly to consider a backward shot, this will involve flopping on the ground in a day-glow orange heap.
Initially, a proper site had to be chosen, one that will give some concealment and also accommodate my three-legged chair, the one given to me by my wife after she learned of the Lazyboy incident. This would be the episode when a cheap deep-seated Chinese chair was used to turkey hunt. For reasons still discussed, I was not able to extract myself from the comfort of the seating enough to blast a turkey five miserable yards away--behind me. The three-legged outfit (her solution) is fine but has the tendency to tip if not soundly stabilized on the ground, or f I do not anticipate the blast from my giant, antiquated buffalo gun.
The site chosen was behind a few branches and fallen logs but still very exposed considering the fact I was entirely clad in orange of the most obnoxious sort. My face was completely visible to every half blind rampaging rodent. So once in place, the forest now had this clump of day-glow orange, and a fully visible Lincolnesque face. My running nose was also being attended to with a flopping white tissue. Downwind of my position was a huge wedge of scent found only in France and big cities. Yes, the scene was set for the harvest.
A few minutes into the hunt and well adjusted, life in the forest was starting to come alive, indicating my efforts had been well thought out. The morning started off by checking my clothing for ticks forgetting it was now 23 degrees---but I have seen them walking toward me while I was sitting in snow. No insect life on this day.
Settled in, comfortable, and tick free, nature began to reveal itself. Above me in the morning light, unimaginable amounts of Seagulls quietly jetted over either looking to simply circle in the morning light, or to scout out a hot lunch so frequently provided by the spreaders of manure. They came in waves, quietly, almost reverently, maybe searching, maybe just holding a communal flight looking for Jonathon Livingston .
While the forest initially offered no sounds, in time a Nuthatch begin busying itself on the tree in front of me, probably looking for that one special grub, the one which would power him for another hour. The bird was like me, a hunter---not that I was busy. I was an ambusher. The ambivalence of the Nuthatch indicated my act was working well, really.
A Downey Woodpecker joined the early morning crowd banging on a distant tree. The gulls continued their flights and I found myself contemplating the soaring bird’s goals in life almost forgetting they had a pack with the deer to distract hunters. I drifted in thought seeing myself as a lone hunter hundreds of years ago struggling to bring home food.
Unlike the earlier Paleolithic hunters, after two hours alone in the forest, a frozen forest, the warmth of the fire called. Not disappointed, appreciative of the trees and this reality, I stretched and rose knowing two-hundred yards away was a leather sofa next to a warm stove.
As I drifted off, face to the warmth, a quiet sleep gained the day. I later learned a large flock of elegant swans whispered over the tree tops.
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