Deer Season is Over

The buck I shot on Opening Day was ready at the processor. Angus and I showed up around noontime Saturday to pick it up. The guy at Meyers in Lennoxburg went into the freezer and came out tray after tray of frozen wrapped venison. It was a LOT of dead deer. We did what we could to get it packed into the cooler, but we could not get the lid on. I had estimated that we would get 60-70 pounds out of the buck, but this felt much heavier—well over eighty.

“Son,” I said. “I know I promised you a chance to watch me shoot a deer this year . . . “ The thought trailed off. “That was a LOT of venison. I’m not sure if we’re going to have room in the freezer.”

Angus could see where I was going with it. “That’s okay.” He replied.

“We can still go hunting today, but I don’t think I want to take my gun along.” I added. “You okay with that?”

“Sure.”

Jeff and John, a father/son team from up the road came by. I had given young Jeff permission to hunt one of the creek bottoms, so that he could get away from the orange army on the adjoining properties. They had experienced an exciting season, but still had no venison to show for it. They were pulling up stakes to move on to another part of the county, and they caught me as they were pulling out their stands.

So Saturday afternoon, after I got the deer stuffed in the freezer, Angus and I went out and sat in the Jagendehutte, our best ground blind. It’s a luxurious thing, made from a massive plywood packing crate. It has a wood floor, a shingled saltbox roof, and windows on every side that fold down into shooting rests. I fell asleep for the better part of an hour until the wind stiffened and woke me. Angus peered out the window the whole time, anxiously awaiting the deer.



We sat and watched the sun go down without seeing a thing. The sunset was spectacular, pink on purple lighting up the farm house and tobacco barns in the distance. I would have thought it would feel odd not having a rifle with me, but it was quite pleasant. We waited until dark before locking up and going home. When we got home, I retired to the back yard and tried to listen for the coyotes. Well after moonrise, I heard one pack, but it was far off on another ridge. The others that had been providing a chorus for us every morning and evening had packed up and moved on.

It is hard to let go of a deer season, even after you are successful. There are only so many buck tags, only so many days to hunt, and only so much room in the freezer. I got up in the morning and went out and sat at another ground blind for a while, I don’t know why for sure. It just felt like I had to. I brought the 7600 along too. I told myself that maybe a coyote might come in, but I really knew better. As it was, the sunrise was one of those icy cold numbers that come up on a cloudless sky behind barren trees. The day was nearly soundless, except for a new flock of turkeys that have moved into the head of Hootin Holler. They have a young gobbler still amongst them that was gobbling up a storm, along with several mature hens that I have not heard before. I tried to spot them with the binoculars, but they were hidden by one of the folds in the pasture. Another flock, came up the hill behind me and started scratching for acorns. Eventually, I shucked a round out of the pump, removed the magazine, and headed in.


I had a bunch of jobs to do. I had electrical outlets to wire in my sons’ room. The cistern’s outlet needed to be hooked up to the breaker. I had to measure for building furniture for the guest room. All too soon, it was time to pack up and drive back to town. I didn’t even think about it again until all the venison was marked “05B” and stuffed into the freezer, the laundry was downstairs and I was home working feverishly on the boat and the mower, getting them winterized, and pulling out the snowblower. There were the rifle cases still in the front hall. I nearly stumbled on them, as I was on my way to get a measuring cup, trying to turn 40:1 gas into 50:1 gas.

I stopped, and stared at them for a moment, and it felt like I was in line at a visitation, looking down at a casket.--not one of those tear jerkers either—more like when your insurance agent dies, or the cousin of one of your in-laws. I was trying to make something of it before the line behind me started to back up, but I could not. It was just two gun cases in my front hall, and I made a mental note of getting them to the safe before we left for Sunday dinner with the folks. My Dad agreed to hold some of the ground venison that would not fit in my freezer.

Later, after the Bengals were walking off the field after the loss to Indianapolis, and I was bloated from a good meal of prime rib, I headed downstairs, and realized too late that I had forgotten the rifle cases yet again. I turned off the lights next to the freezer, turned off the lights by the loading bench, and before I threw the lights in my study, I noticed the small pile of old licenses and unused deer tags up on a shelf. It hit me then that life was good, and when I got around to tossing the family’s one unused doe tag on the pile, it would be out of choice. Yes, it had been a season. Yes, it was over, and it had been better than many. I had a couple loads of laundry to do, but I was tired. It was all going to have to wait.