Continued from redneckus haud.
With the lessons on sight, smell and sound under my belt and digested along with the last slim jim (not impressed), I went back out with confidence. I was so confident this time, that I took a knife and ice chest. Actually I had hardly even considered that I needed that before, and in fact, I didn’t.
Up well before dawn, I parked the old jeep a half mile or so away from my spot, got out, shut the door ever so quietly, took my exterior layers out of the smell proof tub, sprayed them to obliviate any residue of the stench of modern society, threw a dash of doe urine in the air and lunged through it just to make myself alluring to the correct specie, and quietly – dare I boast, silently even – walked into the pitch dark woods to be fully enveloped in the sinews and strings and gauze of a gargantuan web of a spider whose location I then tried to determine in a fit of panic. I made so much noise and had so much webbing on my face and in my hair, and was so overcome with the thought of this eight hairy-legged creature with thousands of beady little evil eyes and tiny little pincers moving like a ninja through the dark folds of my clothing to find a warm tender spot to inject some venom, that I just got in the jeep and drove back home.
On my next trip, I did all the same as above, but used the old “wave a stick in front to catch the spider webs” trick and made it to the stand without incident or excess noise.
So there I was. The first light of dawn coming from the east; a slight breeze from the south, and knowing that any scent I haven’t extinguished would be traveling north, I set my self up to watch and be able to draw pointed west. Just as I got my bearings on all this, I heard a leaf crunch to the south west and my pulse quickened. I already had my left hand on the bow and was careful not to make a sound as I leaned forward just a hair to peek around the tree and see one doe with a few trailing behind. I resolved to wait. I wondered if they could smell adrenaline, or feel the vibrations of my irregular heart beat. (Doc says I have a slight arrhythmia, which I assume is detectable to the deer) They took their sweet time strolling in, stopping to check the neighborhood for rednecks (no need to check for non-rednecks – no threat involved), taste testing leaves, shrubs and nuts and berries along the way. They finally arrived at the pile of manna-corn – one then two, and lastly, a reluctant third. My pulse was equal to Motley Crue’s “Kickstart my Heart,” but my hands were more like “Chariots of Fire.” The voice in my head said, “don’t screw it up this time, dingleberry” so I drew the bow. They didn’t notice. Thank ya Jesus. I peered through the sight to put the vitals of the biggest doe in the proverbial “cross hairs.”
Now for you who don’t hunt or have never shot a bow, there are no cross hairs. You look through a little round plastic piece on your string and line it up with the correct pin on your bow frame, which is determined by the distance from you to your target, accounting of course for any drop in elevation and for wind speed and direction. This is done in mere seconds.
As I looked through, I noticed everything was fuzzy. “What the Heck!? I’m going blind? Now? Really?” Thank goodness the deer could not hear my silent screams at my sudden failure of vision. “What does God in Heaven have against me?!”
That’s when He corrected me, as He so often does: “Remember, son, you wear bifocals.” Well crap. Because I was looking down at the deer, I was gazing through the bottom of my glasses, which are set to a reading prescription. So I had to look down through the top of my glasses, which had me contorting my neck to the point that when I released an arrow, the deer never even felt a breeze from it. They did notice when it hit the ground a few yards away, and chuckled as they wandered off, continuing their taste testing of shrubs and feeling secure in the safety of the Hogue woods.
to be continued