Deer hunting had been "my life" for most of my life but now somehow is an obligation that must be met. And so, my obsession with grouse and woodcock is interrupted for a couple of weeks each November while I get back into a different mode of hunting. Deer hunting for me is so visceral - it is an act that transforms me to a completely different level of humanity - one which comparatively few people on this continent can understand. I am driven - or, I should say, I drive myself relentlessly to be in the deer woods while the stars are still twinkling brightly and to come out of the woods when they begin to twinkle again as nightfall approaches. It exhausts me yet it fulfills me. The perfect deer hunt for me is to kill my buck early enough that I can again become a foot-loose bird hunter walking almost aimlessly through the same deer woods hoping to scare up a grouse or two and feel the freedom - feel the draining away of the self-imposed stress of the deer hunt. I am two different hunters, or should I say three. . . "the tiny, almost elfin hoofprints of a new fawn pressed into the semi-soft black mud rimming a puddle in the old tote road - he wanders curiously to each weed and wildflower." Each day in these woods are filled with such memories and for these, as well, I go there.
