Shootin' It Straight- Whitetails and Whatnot

With only days remaining between the mundane workday grind and the glory days of fall deer season, the countdown is on. While on paper it may be just another season and another opportunity to chase an animal through the woods, in reality, it holds something special for many of us. Some of my best fall memories were made chasing whitetails through the thickets. Deer season isn't exactly a secret around here. In rural America, it's generally celebrated with about as much enthusiasm as a national holiday. The experiences may vary between individuals, families, and friends, but one thing remains consistent: it's an experience that will leave you with stories to tell.

For my clan and me, it's always been a family affair. Part of my childhood responsibility was preparing the night before opening morning. Preparation consisted of laying out thermal underwear, a mishmash of BDU and modern-pattern camouflage, and the mandatory orange wear. The firearms were split up and designated ahead of time. The elders generally received first selection, with the less desirable choices being offloaded as the picking made its way down the line. There was always the possibility you might pack a desirable bolt action rifle into the chilly morning or end up with a Norinco SKS, which has ironically shifted from being the ugly duckling of the gun cabinet to a sought after firearm in modern times.

We'd down a snack, chug some coffee, and make our way out the door. Often, we'd pile into the cab of a weathered S-10, crammed together simply to make the short drive to the backside of the farm and escape the dogs that were sure to trail us. Trampling through a heavy frost in the pre dawn darkness, we'd eventually take up our positions. I can still remember sitting at the base of an oak overlooking the smaller pond, eagerly straining my eyes and almost willing a deer to materialize out of the undergrowth. Every rustle and unexplained movement had the potential to be something worth getting excited about. Hours could pass with nothing more than cold toes, a stiff back, and the occasional squirrel to break the silence.

After enough time sitting without any luck, Dad would eventually retrieve us with a change of plans. A deer drive would consist of one or more of us holding a position for shooting while the others pushed through briar thickets and brush, hoping to spook a deer in the direction of the waiting hunters. It wasn't always an organized operation, and I'm sure the deer weren't nearly as impressed with our strategy as we were. Nevertheless, it gave everyone something to do and another opportunity to come home with a story.

I don't recall any of us ever tagging a trophy buck. In fact, I can't confirm that any of us actually laid eyes on one. What I can verify with certainty is that we made a lifetime of memories. Those mornings weren't about expensive equipment, elaborate hunting setups, or comparing antler measurements. They were about getting up before daylight, spending time together, and making the most of what we had. Nobody needed a cellular trail camera, a subscription service, or a sophisticated collection of gear to make the season worthwhile. We had a few rifles, some hand me down clothing, a farm full of woods, and enough enthusiasm to get everybody out of bed before the coffee was even finished brewing.

As the years pass, the faces and circumstances around the hunting tradition inevitably change. The old S-10 has likely long since moved on, the firearms have changed hands, and those of us who once eagerly followed the elders now find ourselves in the position of passing along the tradition. Eventually, the excitement of a child's first deer, the stories of a missed shot, or the occasional argument over who saw what will become somebody else's favorite memories. That's the beauty of it. Deer season has a way of bringing generations together, even when they don't necessarily agree on the best rifle, the best hunting spot, or how the morning's events actually unfolded.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to hang a big set of antlers on the wall. I certainly wouldn't turn one down. But I've come to realize that the biggest reward of deer season isn't always something you can drag out of the woods. Sometimes it's the people sitting beside you in the cold, the familiar voices in the darkness, and the stories that get better every time they're told. One day, those old hunting rifles may be somebody else's responsibility, and the memories of those mornings may be all that's left of a particular season.

So, as another opening morning approaches, I'll be looking forward to more than just the possibility of a successful hunt. I'll be looking forward to another round of cold mornings, familiar faces, and the kind of experiences that don't require a trophy to be remembered. After all, a deer season without a deer may still be a pretty good deer season. Some of the best trophies never make it to the wall.