All We've Got are Stories- Reportage Essay

All We’ve Got are Stories

            Fall is my favorite time of the year. The leaves are changing, the air is cooler and there is so much to look forward to! Everyone’s favorite holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, are upon us, and then finally the New Year is steadily approaching. But the season of fall is that time of year that I hold near and dear to my heart. Putting aside the beautiful colors, the inviting smell of butternut squash, and the coziness of a warm home there is, above all those things, whitetail deer hunting season.

            My dad and I always anxiously await the first of October, the first weekend that we can get out in the woods with our bows and anticipate that moment when the perfect deer will come close enough and present that perfect shot. This has been the one thing we always love to do together from the time I was six years old. At that age I was old enough to tag along with him while he set the tree stands in the best possible locations. Even then I admired his passion for then sport.

            Now that I’m in college and beginning to start my own life, two hours away from home, we both miss those days when we both could hang out in the woods together, scouting and hunting every weekend in October through December. Nowadays, when I can only come home a few weekends a month he puts special care in deciding what spots would be best for me to sit in so that I can see the most deer and hopefully have more chances to take one with my bow.

            On this particular weekend, November 8, I was able to take some time off from my job and school to come home and spend some time in the woods. If you’re a deer hunter you know that the second week in November is the best week to be in the woods. The rut is in full swing. Meaning the bucks are up and literally chasing the does in hot pursuit of what they all live for.

            There are three kinds of hunters in this world: tag fillers, meat hunters, and trophy hunters. My dad and I primarily fall under the trophy hunter category, although Dad started out as a meat hunter for sure. We don’t just go out there and shoot at anything with legs, but rather go after the mature deer in the herd that are four years old or older. You can immediately tell when you see a buck or a doe that is fully mature. The clearest way to tell is when a buck just has a massive set of antlers, but both mature bucks and does have defining characteristics that make them mature. They have sagging backs and larger bodies then the immature deer. They also have a sort of authoritative presence in the woods that makes your heart start to pound out of your chest and your legs shake like crazy. These are not always the animals with the best quality meat but they are the best to remove from the herd so that the younger animals can thrive and not fight till the death for territory.

            I am pretty excited about this hunt in particular. It’s a Sunday morning hunt in my favorite spot. This is my last hunt for the weekend because I have to go back to Indianapolis this afternoon. Getting up at 4:00 AM is a lot easier to do when you’re heading to the woods.

            The stand sits near the edge of a field with the rest of the wooded lot to the back. Behind the woods is a commercial hog farm. Dad works for a milling company and they provide feed to all the local hog and dairy farms. Dad has worked there for a number of years so he has gotten to know many of the farm owners. His company actually owns this particular pig farm and they gave us permission to hunt the section of woods they own.  Dad pulls up and parks in the lot associated with the pig farm and we get out and get our gear on as we have done a thousand and one times. “I’m feeling good about today,” I say with a grin.

“Yeah the wind is in our favor, right in our face, and it’s not nearly as cold as yesterday so we’ll be able to sit longer,” Dad replies. Having the wind in our favor is important so that the deer don’t smell us. Naturally, the deer come in from the field this time of year because the field isn’t chisel plowed and the leftover corn is still on the ground, free for the eating. With the wind in our face, it is blowing our scent back into the woods where the deer are less likely to venture.

 I go around to the back of Dad’s dusty suburban and take my bow out of its case. It’s a Mission Craze by Mathew’s decked out in Lost Camo AT, lightweight at only 3.6 pounds, and is only 28 inches axel to axel. It’s a perfect bow for women because it’s versatile, easily adjustable and even when shooting low poundage, it is fast and packs a punch. I take my release and put it in my front chest pocket for safe keeping. “Let me get the Chippewa and then we’ll head out,” Dad whispers. A Chippewa is a brand name for an extremely lightweight and portable tree stand. It has two forks that rest in a chain that is attached around the tree and then just simply folds out for you to sit in. That is the stand that Dad will be setting for me to sit in. We will be sitting together in the same tree but there is already a stand set for him. We start walking down the gravel road in silence both anticipating the fact that we will see deer tonight. We almost always see deer out of this stand.

            Finally, with the farm to our backs we enter the field. I look down as I’m walking because the freshly cut corn stalks lay crisscrossed making the dips and valleys of the plowed rows hard to see and feel. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I turned an ankle trying to walk across this stuff. When we reach the base of the tree Dad climbs up first. The ladder sticks reach about twenty feet up in the white oak tree. They are nothing more than squared metal poles, one running up and several shorter ones across for the steps. Ratchet straps hook on each five foot section or so and secure it to the tree. Dad starts up the tree first but disappears about halfway up because it is still super dark outside at 5:00 in the morning. Once he reaches the top, he sets my stand on the opposite side of his so I will face the field and he will face the woods that butt up against the farm. He starts to pull up his own bow and that’s my signal to head up. I attach my retractable bow string to one of the axels on my bow and make my way up. Once I get to the top I very carefully climb into my own stand.  Dad still grabs the back of my jacket like he did when I was six. If I actually did fall I really doubt that that would really be able to save me; it would probably only cause him to go down with me, but it adds a little extra security. It’s been said time and time again that the most hunting accidents happen while getting in and out of the tree stand. It’s dangerous I’ll admit, and you have to be cautious.

Despite the danger, there is a reason that people, like us, deer hunt. Hunters, like my dad (who loves the adrenaline rush of seeing that monster whitetail and getting that “television worthy” shot at a giant) consider hunting his living passion. Then there are hunters like me, who do it because it means something even more than that. Its memories. Like I always say to Dad after a disappointing day in the field “at least we’ve got a good story.” Of course these are by far not the only reasons we love this hobby and Dad treasures the memories we make just as much, if not more, than I do. It’s our thing that is never as much fun with anyone else. Hunting together is something that we’ve always done. We have our best conversations whispering in the tree. Our best memories are the classic “the ones that got away,” or the even more awesome stories of when we are successful.

            Once in my stand, I attach my safety harness to the tree so I know that I can’t fall out. I pull up my bow just like Dad did and hang it on a bow hanger that Dad has already screwed into a steady branch for me.

            I sit there just waiting for the sun to rise and poke through the branches. At 6:30 I can see all the way to a cow pasture where a ton of brown beef cows are grazing. We’ve got good shooting light now. I can see the gravel road and the edge of another patch of woods. I crane my neck to see even more of the road, thinking that the deer are going to cross it and come into the field. I keep my eyes peeled for any movements and my ears sharp for any cracking twigs.

            “Linz,” Dad nudges my side just slightly and I jump a little in surprise because it has been so quiet, “I see something there to your left.”

            “Ok” I whisper. I stare off to the left at the edge where the woods meets the field. My eyes start to dry out a little, so I blink a couple times. Then I see them. Two does’ heads appear into the field. The first one, clearly a nice one to take, starts walking down the line straight to our tree. Dad holds the range finder to his eye and whispers, “She’s about 35 yards… 33…32…”

            “OK,” I mumble. I have my bow in hand and release on the string. The doe stops and looks up right at me. She starts to get a little nervous but takes a few steps closer and turns broadside. Perfect.

            “30 yards.”

            “OK, I can do this.” My heart is racing as I draw my bow back as smoothly as I can but my knees buckle slightly from my nerves. I close my left eye and set the tip of the release in my anchor spot in corner of my mouth. I put my second sight that is ranged for 25 yards right behind the does’ shoulder and hold a little high to compensate. And then I let it fly. Thump. I hear the arrow hit, but I let my bow follow though just like you would do when shooting a basketball. I see the two deer bounding away with tails held high.

            “Nice shot Lindsey! I saw the arrow. It looked good.”

            “Sweet!” We do a victory fist bump and a little air punch. “Man that felt good. I hope it’s not too far forward.” That is my one weakness. I tend to put my arrows a little far forward and because I have to shoot a low poundage, I can’t always take shots that are too far away. Thirty yard shots are my limit. The after effects of the adenine rush kick in a little bit and my once stable body temperature feels like its dropping and I start to shiver.

            “We’ll sit here a while longer, it’s only 7:20, then we’ll get down and look for blood.”

            “Ok, good idea.” We sat there for another two hours and saw several other groups of does come across the road I had been so intently watching. None of the other does we saw came close enough for any kind of shot but that was fine because I had already filled my tag.

Off and on Dad and I would carry on a whispered conversation about how Mom could make lasagna with the meat from my deer and how I couldn’t wait to show off my mad bow skills to my roommates back at school. I also made the comment, “You know, I’ve never lost one before.”

            At around 9:30 we pack up our gear and get down from the tree. Almost immediately, we pick up the blood trail of my doe. We follow it back into the woods through the heart of the property, all the way to the fence border, where my bloodied arrow is laying helplessly on the brown and yellow leaves. Almost half of my arrow is smeared with the unmistakable evidence of a good shot.

            Hunting to me has never been about the kill or the trophy, but about the time I get to spend making memories with my dad that no one else can make. There has never been, and will never be, a dull moment in the woods. To me it makes no difference if I shoot a giant or not see even a single deer, and I remind myself of that every time we go out. I am looking forward to sharing this same kind of excitement and knowledge with my own children and keeping the traditions and values my dad has taught me alive. We will always have our stories.