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Opening day. The latest of the many the man had seen
through his life. Probably the last one he would ever see.
He woke up well before daybreak and tried to regain
some of the enthusiasm he had felt in years past. God, it was hard to get up and
start rolling anymore. It seemed like just yesterday when he would bounce out
and be in the woods well before daybreak.
Still, he felt that this was the only place to be on
such a day. In the woods, hunting deer, life's other worries left behind while
all focus was on the four-legged quarry. Of all the outdoor activities he used
to do, this was the only one he still participated in. Fishing, bird hunting,
canoeing; these had fallen by the wayside along with his health. Now deer
hunting was his sole interest, the one activity that never diminished.
He had never really been a trophy hunter. When he had
grown up, and through much of his adult life, for that matter, meat had been the
object of the hunt. Now that he was alone most of the meat went to Hunters for
the Hungry, and this was even more rewarding.
Today was different. Today he hunted a buck so huge
that it had become a legend in the small town where it lived. It stayed in the
swamp behind the four corners that comprised the town center. The man had seen
it on a dreary afternoon in the previous year, and he had though the poor light
made it loom larger than it was. Since then he had heard the comments from the
old hunters of the town.
"I thought is was a steer that got loose from
some farm. He was gone by the time I saw he was a deer."
"I tell you, the ground shook when he up and ran
off. He's as big as two regular bucks put together."
"I've weighed a lot of deer here at the store,
and I'll tell you this - that deer will dress out over three hundred pounds.
Guarantee it."
There had been others. Usually he would have discarded
such stories as being just that, but these men were all old timers with years of
experience behind them. If they all agreed there must be something to it.
The man had decided to make this buck the feather in
his cap, the one that topped off his many years in the woods. His health was
failing fast, now, and he knew he would probably not be around for the next
season. What a deer this would be for his last one!
He was not heading out blind. He had done his scouting
and found out just what the habits of the big deer were. The swamp made it
immune to regular methods. The rut was the one thing that could change its
habits just a little bit, staying out just a little later in the morning or
going into an unfamiliar forest.
As the sun came up the man walked the brook at the
edge of the swamp. He had to know if the deer had left the mire last night, and
if he had; his probable location at this time.
Yes! In the mud were the unmistakable footprints made
by the huge buck. The man continued to the end of the brook to look for a return
trail but found none. There was a low spot in the swale that would be the
logical place for the deer to travel when he returned. It was just deep enough
to cover his movements and it was a cinch he knew it was there. A deer that old
knew every tree limb and leaf in his home territory.
The man found a good hiding place and was soon asleep.
He woke with a grin. This was not good procedure, but his disease made him very
tired and he commonly nodded off. He could only hope he had not snored and
alerted his prey. He ate his lunch and managed to stay awake for the rest of the
day. A chickadee flew up and landed on his head. The man stayed immobile and the
bird was not alarmed. An hour before the sunset a rabbit moved through the
swale, a few hops one way and then the other. It seemed to be just poking
around, but all of a sudden its ears came up and it took off on a run. Faintly
the man heard footsteps coming down the ravine.
Deer! Well at least three does. The man's interested
drooped, but then the last doe looked back. Hardly breathing now, he got his
rifle ready and waited.
There he was! Walking heavily along after the does.
His feet dragged and his body swayed, for he was even bigger than the men in
town had said. When he was close to the hunter he simple stopped and waited. He
looked at the man, as if accepting his fate, and the man looked back. The deer
was not young, but he was not old either. He had years of breeding in front of
him, years in which he could better the gene pool to produce bigger and better
deer.
The man did a strange thing then. With his finger on
the trigger, he simply said, "Bang," and then swiftly swung his 30-06
and shot the smallest doe through the neck. He had come to get meat, not put an
end to a legend.
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