Whose Woods Are These?

Actually, I do know whose woods these are and his house isn't in the village, it's on the property. It's the place I've deer hunted every year for the past fourteen seasons. The land is comprised of several hundred acres with a large pasture, plenty of woods, a pond, creeks, springs and very inviting deer habitat. Not that I am able to fill my tag every year or even see deer every year. That's not the point. I enjoy venison, but getting a deer is just a bonus. The true pleasure is derived from witnessing the woods' reawakening after a night's slumber.

I arrive well before first light so I can wrestle my climbing tree stand into position and set it up before morning breaks. I haul up my backpack, heavy with binoculars, snacks, lunch, a thermos of coffee, extra hat and gloves should the weather turn nasty, and my camera.

Then I wait. In silence. And watch. Silence. A hoot owl in the distance momentarily breaks the calm. Then quiet again. The gentle crunch of a deer hoof on snow. Silence. A snort. Just checking, testing the woods. I answer. Silence. Then a reply as she snorts back. The gentle crunch continues. The deer I spoke to but could not see ambles off, content. Slowly, cautiously, dawn steps on stage and the flutter of birds' wings in flight hushes through the departing stillness. Juncos and chickadees begin to sound and take to the air. Soon the grey squirrels ramble about, looking for breakfast. Finding a nut, they sit back, admiring it like some precious gem before taking a bite or burying the prize where they'll never find it again. More birds arrive - bluebirds, cardinals, downy woodpeckers. The air fills with activity. Everyone's hungry and in search of an easy meal. I pour a cup of coffee and munch on some fig bars myself. Finally, the fox squirrels arise - late as usual - almost yawning as they they scurry up and down trees.

Every year it's the same, yet every year brings something different, too. Sometimes a flock of geese or ducks overhead, or a red fox upset because he detected my scent but did not consider looking up to find me in my stand, or dozens of raccoons perched in trees as I meander the woods in the dark then watching, silent, as they wander off at the crack of dawn.

Last year, a couple inches of wet snow covered the ground during the second rifle season. That made tracks easy to spot and there were lots of them. All sizes, too, from delicate fawns to buck prints four inches long. Sign was easy to spot and so were deer, at least the few that braved the morning commute.

I was able to get my bonus last year, but I am most thankful for being there several mornings this fall as the woods woke up to a rhythm set in motion long before my arrival and destined to repeat itself well after my departure.