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[keith bellinger <bartermn AT epix.net>]

12/10/2008

Yesterday I saw the tail end of a big deer that saw, heard or smelled me 
first. I’ll go out on a limb and say it was a buck.

Today I got wet, soaking wet. And, I didn’t see anything but a squirrel. 
But the temperature is in the forties; not sure what’s worse, cold or wet.

When I came out of the woods this morning to a cold house I just sat 
here for a few minutes, wondering why I do it. When I’m outdoors, 
especially while hunting, my senses can reach out a thousand yards. I 
feel bigger.

The chimney is cleaned, fire lit and floors vacuumed, coffee is dripping 
and I feel small. The rain is still coming down but the weather-people 
swear it will turn to snow before my hunting season is over. Good, 
because those deer are hard to see in a brown woods.

12/11/2008

The rain didn’t turn to snow but ice. I was in it all day, got soaked 
and frozen and didn’t see even a white tail. I did see what I thought at 
the time was a fox, but now believe was a fisher or martin. It was 
darker than a fox and larger than a squirrel. Other than that I saw 
several squirrels, both red and gray, and some birds. Was it worth it?

12/13/2008

Yesterday as I was readying to go, I glanced out the window and said to 
Gin, “it’s foggy out there.”

I walked out the back door and found the fog was actually snow. Too late 
to turn back now, I hurried to the pines below Hawthorn Ridge and 
hunkered down. I was quickly coated and invisible, that big buck won’t 
know he’s died.

I didn’t see a thing except tweetybirds.

Today, the last day of our season, was cold! My thermometer read eleven 
degrees when I got up. At two o’clock this afternoon the thermometer at 
Rene and Ellie’s showed twenty-two. That was when I left my tree for the 
first time all day. I was absolutely frozen. The owners of my hunting 
range made me coffee, which combined with their woodstove warmed me 
enough to get back out there.

Deer! I heard them coming but couldn’t pick them out for a minute. There 
they are! The first one’s a doe. I hadn’t raised my rifle yet. That 
second one looks like a … buck! I raised my rifle and looked into the 
scope. I saw fog. Must have breathed on it.

Oh man! Quickly rubbing each lens I tried again and could just make out 
the buck through a still foggy circle. I pulled the trigger. The deer 
flinched, jumped and bounded into the thickest pines and laurel. Oh no! 
I listened. Crashing sounds. He’s been hit good. There he goes! Man, he 
doesn’t look wounded to me! Oh no!

I listened while loading my pack—thermos and carpet scrap. Another 
crash, he’s heading right toward my truck! But that path is through the 
nastiest stuff in the woods. I climbed down very slowly. The ladder 
rungs were coated in an inch of ice. One slip and that buck gets away. 
Whew, solid ground.

Walking directly toward the last heard noises I didn’t find his trail. I 
returned to my tree and started again, this time to where he was first 
shot. I found a single drop of blood. Two more steps revealed heavier 
splatter. There’s another, and another…

I kicked him up several times during the trek but only caught glimpses 
of the stubborn, brave, noble deer; until, willing himself to his hooves 
one last time, he started hobbling away. I fired again. He dropped onto 
the white ground eighty yards ahead. As I neared I could see he was 
still breathing and staring defiantly in my direction. I walked close, 
fired my last bullet and ended my season with his life. My watch showed 
three-fifteen but tonight I learned it was running thirty-minutes slow. 
I won’t change the tag.

I was kneeling, filling out the ear tag when I heard, “Did you get him, 
Keith?” I knew by the sound of his voice it was my friend’s neighbor, 
Jack. He stood between two trees a hundred feet to my right. I said, 
“Yes I did, Sir.” Jack said good job and walked away, perhaps thinking I 
was saying a prayer of thanks. I was. I also drank my last cup of coffee 
and smoked half a cigarette before getting off my knees.

I had brought a camera and took a few less painful shots before field 
dressing the buck—an eight-point. The latex gloves I carried in my pack 
saved me from scrubbing my hands with snow. I saved the heart in a 
plastic baggy; will pickle it in memory of Grandpa Whalen.

I dragged the buck to the front yard of my friends and visited a few 
moments. Rene helped load it into my truck. I thanked him for allowing 
me once again to harvest food for my family and another fine memory from 
his land. I will return with a more proper expression of my gratitude 
after butchering.