Deer Hunters Epistle
A Short Story by Forum Member: JB Man

I wake from a restless night, hours before the alarm sounds the glorious call to the frost laden morning woods. I adorn my clothing and carefully prepared hunting gear. My Father and Grandfather wait to join me in an annual ritual. ... a predawn breakfast fit for humble kings. The aroma of eggs, bacon, burnt toast, and coffee percolate throughout the machine shed. The whisper of the Coleman stove sets a mellowing back drop for camaraderie.

 
The tin walls speak of years past... old photos, animal hides; rusted traps and small sets of basket rack antlers adorn the walls... a tribute to the hunter and his quarry. The wood stove radiates soothing heat, driving the cold from the four walls of our sanctuary. Soon other trucks pull up, filled with more friends. One by one they file in, bringing with them a proud heritages of past seasons. Benches are pulled from their annual resting spots, as the dust is blown off it creates a nebula that shimmers on its way to the floor. The shed is alive with stories and laughter. Plates of years past are handed down to all. The meal is offered to all, and all participate in this holy communion of hunting tradition. 

With our hungers satisfied, we march triumphantly into the moonlight. The soft crush of frost and leaves guides us to the glimmering wood line. We part our separate ways with a prayer of luck riding on our shoulders.

 
I follow an ancient path to my stand, using only my knowledge of its location as my guiding light. Down a ravine, I sneak through heavy brush, silent as a wolf, with rifle at hand, ready for an unexpected encounter with my quarry. The entanglement suddenly opens to a lush frost covered field. As I watch the gray silhouettes fade in and out of the wood line,  I know I have reached my hallowed ground. The moon light fades from glinting silver to a predawn gray. I slowly climb into my stand. Upon reaching the final rung, I stand up triumphant in my throne atop an ancient oak. I admire the voice of God echoing through the timbers. I feel alive and well as the world comes awake. 

First, the song birds herald in the glorious rays of the morning sun only to be followed by a multitude of red and grey squirrels, which run about their playground of leaves and limbs. Congregations of stately turkeys talk amongst themselves as they scratch through the leaves, picking at acorns along the way. A sly bobcat sneaks along the edge of the field, searching for the unwary field mouse. As a gentle wind picks up, I hear it whisper promised words in my ear. I am alone and at peace. I feel blessed in this congregation of a wilderness church. 

The gentle breeze brings with it good fortune. I turn my head at the snap of a twig. There, just inside the edge of the wood lines stands the regal buck. With antlers polished, and stout in body, he stands proud to survey his court room. The chilled air exposes our breaths, which swirl above in a mystical cloud of magic. My heart races as I shoulder my rifle. My pulse rises and all I hear is the deafening pounding of my heart in my ears. My steady grip falls apart in anticipation to the shot. I collectively gather my senses as he presents to me a "perfect shot" as if to offer himself to me. A gracious sacrifice, made holy by a clean kill. He falls to rest his self on a soft alter of clover.

 
The resounding crack of thunder from my rifle draws the curiosity of other deer. Almost as if others come to pay homage to the fallen prince. His legacy will be passed on. In years to come, they to shall inherit the woods, and expand their sire's empire.

For now, I rush to him, and admire him in his prime state of being. I kneel beside him and offer a prayer of thanks. As if old friends, I sit with him, pat him on the broad shoulders, and thank him. Time stands still as my father soon joins me in celebration. We carry the exalted buck out of the woods to the truck. The crisp air and bright daylight reveal my good fortune to everyone else. We soon rejoice with others as they come out of the woods. Photos sear the blessed memories to film. 

Then the traditional ride to the check-in station ensues. My pride gleams as we traverse the gravels roads in route to the bait shop. Others arrive with us to exhibit their fine trophies. Congratulations fill the autumn air. The conservation agent gleams with admiration as he checks in my deer. I proudly present my tag to the agent. With my trophy now officially registered, we head back to the farm. 

Upon arrival, beer is passed out in celebration as the hunt is retold over and over, as a bedtime story is read to anxious children. As night capitulates on the waning daylight, fresh tenderloin adorns the dinner plate; sealing another season in the blessed tradition of deer hunting.