Cooperative Living October 2014 - 18

MR. CRABS
T
he perfect morning. Zero moonlight, twinkling
stars covering the sky and a chill that would
make Jack Frost bite his lip. Alarm banging
away at half past 4, I slide out from under the covers.
Cam slung over the holly, hair still damp from a
scent-free shower, I crunch through the frozen grass
in my underwear and try to hold my breath at the
slap of the air. Pop-tart in mouth, boots tied and bow
in hand, the golf cart starts to rumble and we head
for ground zero.
Now to most people there is just cold. But to
someone who spends close to ninety percent of his
life outdoors, I have felt, or not felt ... the reality of it.
Driving down the road on Ol' Reliable is the second
coldest I've ever been in my life. From then on, I
believed that being able to feel one's face is a luxury.
4:50, all is well. There is no sound except that of
my boots crossing into the wood line. I slide in and
out of the gurgling brook and pause on the other
side. Here begins the fun part. I pull the rag and
string out of my pocket, soak it in Golden Estrus and
start the scent drag to my stand. Hopefully later on,
this line will be crisscrossed and smelled on by
numerous other brown-bodied animals.
5:00 sharp, perfection. It's been one of those
days where everything clicks; no hiccups or mistakes.
I always aim to be in the stand an hour before first
light so as not to disturb the natural flow of the
deer's patterns. This is the time that is the most
difficult of every hunt. Sitting for an hour in the dark
running on four hours of sleep and a belly full of pop
tart is a test that determines success or failure. But
this morning, this morning was different.
6:00, God begins to paint the sky and the birds
and squirrels decide it's time to come ruin my nerves.
I think of squirrels as deer's little helpers. They
sound exactly like a deer sifting through the leaves,
and they constantly spot me. After an hour or so of
constantly shifting my sight to see another darn
squirrel tearing through the leaves, I am about as
far off the end of my seat enraged as possible.
After another five minutes of this pandemonium I
have no option but to end it. I nock an arrow and
my worries are soon over. The squirrel is no longer
a problem.
7:30, go time. Brown bodies and white tails
flicker through the trees; does and spikes, button
bucks and basket racks. None of these are shooters.
What I'm looking for is called a wall-hanger. Hunting
is pretty realistic. There may be an eerie quiet before
the storm, but not always. Every situation can happen;
it's not all Hollywood. In this case, Mr. Crabs
made it easier on me.
16
by Victor Harangozo
Movement, coupled with sound, is what wakes
me from my open-eyed and dreary slumber. Senses
are reborn and the red begins to flow. Upon recognition
of species, the red rushes to my ears and throat
with a throbbing sensation. Well, right after this pack
slid past me unknowingly, there he was.
7:50, prime time. The sun is beaming through
the trees and casting shadows all around. Chocolate
sways left to right in the distance. A flicker of white
and my heart is in my throat. The hog that evaded
me last time is back. The moment I see maturity
ready to hit the dinner table, I stand up, bow in
hand, ready for as little movement as possible. A
deer's senses are very acute, so even if the deer is
still a hundred yards off, I prepare for him like he's
at five. Lightly stepping along, nose in the leaves, he
makes a beeline for my scent-drag trail. Eighty yards,
then 70, then right when he enters the range of my
Mathews, he knows something is up.
Crown raised to the sky, he is untangling the
mess of scents he detects - acorns, squirrels, doe in
estrus and worst of all, human. When a deer knows
something is amiss he will stomp his hoof and flicker
his tail. Well there it went, the thump of the hoof and
the sway of the tail. After what seems like an eternity,
sitting 50 yards apart, I can thank that holly bush
for keeping my camo scent-free for the last week it
had been sitting outside.
Nose to the earth once again, he gets inside of
20 yards. Head behind a tree so his eyes are hidden
from view, I stretch my string. Out he comes from
behind the oak at a grand total of 15 yards; almost
too close for comfort. He was still shielded under a
small sapling that disrupted my shooting lane. When
a deer is this close, your mind is as focused as it can
possibly be; time slows down, you can hear your
heart in the back of your mouth, it is just the two of
you. Bow still drawn, I can start to feel the strain in
my back. Out he steps from under the tree, but a
problem presents itself.
He is facing head-on. A head shot being unethical,
I am left with only one option, which is still very
risky; chest. All of a sudden, I remember the damn
squirrel. I look down at my arrowhead and realize
that I had used the wrong arrow. I had shot my only
broadhead before. I have a field point on now, which
has no blades. To this day, I have only God to thank
for this luck. An entry wound with this arrow would
leave a hole practically unnoticeable on a mount.
With a quick prayer and a final look, I squeeze
the trigger. My arrow flies in a timeless line and hits,
true to its mark.
The red flows. It is done. n
Cooperative Living/October 2014
Cooperative Living October 2014

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