Bowhunt America

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Powdery snow squeaked underfoot as I made my way across the pasture to my evening stand. A bleak winter sun glared out of a blue-bird sky, but it was apparent that the air temperature wasn’t allowing the ultraviolet rays to make a dent in the powder. It was cold, face-hurting cold.

I hadn’t been able to summon the courage to check just how low the mercury was in the rusty thermometer on the old farmhouse porch, but it was cold enough to make me pause when I stepped out of my truck a half hour later and just a few hundred yards from my stand.

As I struck out across the pasture with my breath crystallizing in the air, I began to wonder if the next three hours would even be worth the effort. After all, I’d already had a pretty good season as far as punched tags were concerned. Bowhunts in Colorado, Oklahoma and Kansas had delivered ample venison steaks and ground for the grill. Looking at things that way it would have been easy to convince myself to do an about-face and reenter the warmth of my truck. But when I came over the small rise in the pasture and could see the dense ribbon of trees along the creek that held my stand, I was drawn to what would be the last three hours of that year’s bowhunting season.

I’ll be the first to admit that opening days are the first thing I mark on my calendar when a new year rolls around. Spring turkeys are the first to get penciled in, followed by black bears in late May if I’m able to nail down a hunt somewhere in the Great White North. Then along comes antelope season in August, as well as mule deer and elk. Whitetails are close behind with most of November designated as prime time, with a dose of ducks and pheasants mixed in for good measure. I can’t say that I’ve made all of the openers, but if I can fit it in somehow, I usually give it the old college try. I even remember ditching school a few times as I prepared for opening days. And even though I think my parents suspected something was up, they never brought it to my attention. I guess they figured that some things were just better left unsaid when it pertains to young boys and woods and water.

It would be fair to say that nothing much has changed for me over the years when it comes to season openers. They still bring a child-like sense of urgency. But what I’ve also learned is that the last day of the season can be just as meaningful.

Sure, there are plenty of solid reasons to snub the last cold hours of the season, not the least of which are ignored honey-do’s and the fact that Old Man Winter has begun to make your long underwear feel a little thin. Those 4:30 a.m. wakeup calls have also gotten a little old by then. And if the season has gone half as well as expected, the freezer is usually topped and there’s no need to kill again.

But when I’m about to convince myself that my time can be better spent tying flies or catching up on domestic responsibilities, the reality of a season’s end begins to sink in. When it comes down to it, I guess the thought of such a travesty is more than I can bear.

The stand seemed to squeak a little louder in the cold air as I climbed in. But as I settled back against the tree and studied the fresh tracks in the snow, my body seemed to warm up a bit. To be honest, I really wasn’t expecting much, maybe some turkeys scurrying to their roost before the fading light, a coyote nosing in the snow trying to find his next bite of protein or the unmistakable cackle of a handsome pheasant in the nearby CRP, but sometimes it’s those few extra hours in the whitetail woods that can make a season.

The deer appeared suddenly. Full of enthusiasm, twin yearlings popped out first but were quickly followed by three does. Seeing the little guys frolicking around, throwing powder in all directions, caused me to pause and think of my own kids for a brief moment. Then my mind inched back to the final doe tag in my pocket. The largest of the three does stood just 20 yards away and broadside. The mother of the yearlings was off to my right. I inched my hand toward my bow trying to keep my stand from squeaking.

I’d like to say that the next few moments went as planned and the still evening was interrupted with the sound of a released bowstring. But as I was starting to draw on the old doe, one of the others spotted me, stomped, snorted and then bolted for the trees, dragging the others with her.

As I watched them disappear into the thicket, I concluded that it really didn’t matter. Just seeing them made the final hour worth it. I guess sometimes it’s good to sip that last drop, even if it is a little cold.

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