We all have acquaintances and know people who we enjoy being around.  We’re blessed to gain true friends in life; those who are always there no matter what, ready to listen or help in whatever way.  My hope is that all of you are as fortunate as I.  The “entertaining” story that follows is one I wrote thirteen years ago to such a friend, a friend in need of a smile.

To my friend, Andrew William Ayoub, with whom I have
had the pleasure of knowing thirty nine years.
Andrew, thank you for your encouragement, your sterling
example afield, and most of all, for your friendship.
You are the Benchmark of the American Sportsman.

The fall of 1993 was a tough one for Andrew.  He never got out on a full blown hunt, not even for doves.  He took Chief, his lab, out to run a few times on Uncle Mike’s farm. He took his shotgun along just in case he came across a covey of quail feeding on the wild millet growing along the two-track, but it just didn’t satisfy his strong desire to truly participate in the field.  His active lifestyle both professionally and in the great outdoors came to a screeching halt.  The curse which brought this tough man down came to be known as “The Rocks,” kidney stones, half the size of Texas .

I called Andy every Friday afternoon to inquire about the progress of his treatments, particularly the one in which the hospital literally pummelled his sides with tens of thousands of ultra sonic kidney punches.  About the time the blood began to clear from his urine at the end of the week, another visit was due.  Although he never complained, nothing Andy said could hide his pain or the frustration of not knowing when it would all end.  Until “The Rocks” were broken up and flushed from his system, it wouldn’t end. 

On most calls I tried to humor him with exaggerated stories of my bowhunting experiences for deer that week.  Sometimes I would write them down and drop them in the mail for his enjoyment and hopefully, a few laughs.  I remember during one conversation late in the season I was feeling very frustrated after blowing a perfect 11- yard chip shot on a magnificent buck.  As I began my journey into self pity, Andy broke in and asked, “Zan, how many times have you been out this year?”  After some thought I answered, “About thirty times, why?” His reply, “Poor baby,” hit hard when I realized how foolish I sounded.

Since that day, I have made it a point to enjoy every outdoor excursion as an adventure; looking for even the little things I once took for granted.  Today, those blessings are truly appreciated, large and small.  Andy, I guess that makes you an XL.  No pun intended.  With that said, this story is for you.

THE VISION

Saturday, December 18, 4:30 a.m.   I arose anxious for the hunt to begin, but the boisterous arrival of a Texas Blue Norther put a halt to that notion with 35 mph winds and raging thunderstorms.  Wishing my coffee tasted better, all I could do was work in the shop and hope the weather decided to cooperate later in the day. 

2:00 p.m.   With the cold front passing, the afternoon turned brisk and breezy, 48 degrees, the temperature dropping, a light drizzle and a diminishing wind.  Without a doubt it was a great time to hunt my opponent, that master of illusion, stealth and speed; the cagey Texas Whitetail buck.  Utilizing these skills and more, this crafty creature and his bag of tricks had thus far eluded my razor sharp shafts.  I can’t explain the feeling I was having, all I knew was I had to succumb to the “Call of The Hunt.”  I vividly remember confidence and expectation filled the air.

The season was drawing to a close.  Unsuccessful so far, I had only five more hunts, if I was lucky.  During the time that I changed clothes and while driving to the ranch, my thoughts sifted through possible stand options.  With a northeast wind, I narrowed my selection to three choices.

1.  The Fenceline stand located in a travel zone for rutting bucks tests my patience from the lack of game movement beyond the boundaries of the rut.  Yet, it has presented three bucks in three seasons, one of which was a monster ten-point sporting a solid two- foot spread. 

2.  The Meadowgrove stand was my newest stand nestled in a large old oak tree hidden within an oak grove along the edge of a meadow roughly shaped like an hourglass.  Placed in the waist of the meadow, this ambush site offered excellent visibility of feeding deer and of those travelling between bedding areas.  In six hunts I have seen two deer, a doe and a 16” ten-point buck.

3.  The Highline stand without a doubt offered the best opportunity to see game and maybe even get the drop on a vagabond buck.  This feeding station attracts deer like a magnet during lean years and this was one of them; acorns were hard to come by.  The only problem with this permanent stand was that resident bucks knew to look up into the tree on their way down and through the funnel.  They always lay back out of range and waited for the veil of darkness before heading down to enjoy the generous buffet.  Although built for the novice bowhunter, many does have filled our larder from this stand.

As I pondered these choices, something deep within my soul struck hard the bell of decision.  Its note rang loud and clear, I HAD to hunt the Meadowgrove.  At that moment, a vision of a noble and majestic creature, with antlers piercing heaven itself, called my name.  Startled, I excitedly turned toward the Meadowgrove.

THE HUNT THAT WAS

Upon parking, I quietly exit my pickup.  Immediately I am overwhelmed with the fully charged atmosphere of an expectant afternoon.  Anxiously, yet cautiously, I trek the half mile to this secluded site.  Upon climbing in, the platform beneath my feet provides a comfortable perch above the earth below.  The view is magnificent.  Many creatures have entertained me during the quiet hours spent waiting for my quarry.  I especially enjoy watching the honeybees as they perform their aerobatic antics while navigating their way into the hollow cavity of this old oak.  Today, they are still within their sanctuary.

My plan for the afternoon is simple; to alternate sitting and standing in thirty minute intervals, and wait.  I prefer to still hunt; that is to trek slowly, spot, and then stalk my prey.  Today was the perfect day to do so for the wind and wetness would hide both the movements and sounds of my prowling.  Yet, the calling said no, simply wait.  On cherished stalking days like this, sitting a few hours in a tree compares to a child’s anxious wait during the week before Christmas.

After settling in, the only entertainment I am blessed with are the sounds of large water drops shaken from the great live oak’s canopy above.  Their impact on the leaves below adds to the melody of them beating on my head.  Rhythmic gusts of wind urge the leaf laden branches into beautifully choreographed dances against the backdrop of the dark, gray, wet sky. 

By 5:00 p.m. my feet are numb.  Isometric exercises do not help to ward off the deep chill that has invaded my body, but drawing my bow on ground spots would provide some warmth.  Reluctantly I do so after carefully scanning the area, worried that a wary buck might be close by.   I hope it was worth the risk.

My bow is my companion.  Its warm and comfortable grip builds confidence with every shot.  Twelve years we have chased game together and it has never let me down.  Yet, it is quick to remind me of my limitations.  Living up to its name, this Pearson Predator has taken much game.  Eagerly, it devours my energy each time I draw back its recurved limbs, vaulting onward at the release, spitting arrows toward their mark.  I’m saddened, yet satisfied this will be our last season together.  My son, shoot it with respect.

At 5:30 I slowly rise for the last interval, for darkness will soon settle over these woods.  Expectantly I stand, positioning myself for the moment at hand.  Where he will appear I can only guess, but appear he will.  Somehow, I just know.  As I pick apart the woods to my left, searching for any movement, a small miracle occurs.  I hear footsteps behind me and to my right.  Being half deaf is a disadvantage I wish upon no man.  I would love to listen to deer popping acorns, to hear their soft grunts during the rut and their approach from distant cover.  Like an early warning system, to hear accentuates the hunt, building anticipation each time a twig snaps or a leaf turns.  But, I have learned to compensate by remaining motionless and relying upon my eyes to see what I used to hear.  As I slowly rotate my head I see the massive form of a large deer within my peripheral vision.  A scant six yards away it advances under the tree line.  Creeping my head further to improve my view, the deer freezes; its head bolting upright.  I also freeze, worrying that the pounding in my chest will alert him of my presence above.  In moments he continues forward allowing me a sigh of relief.  For the first time I see the magnificence of his rack; a handsome buck he is.  With confidence he strolls into an opening only eleven yards out.

I am invisible now and all eyes.  I see only the “spot.”  Praying for a broadside, I will him to turn.  Upon cue he quarters left, drops his head and takes one more step with his left leg.  Without thought I raise my bow, draw, anchor and watch as the spot suddenly catches my arrow.  The rapport which follows confirms that which I saw at the sound of the shaft’s impact.  As he bounds away, I watch intently, memorizing each turn and relevant landmark.  Losing sight of him fifty yards out I bend down and lean slightly forward, cup my ears, and strain to hear him fall, but silence has already settled in.  Nervously, I float between the feelings of elation and worry.  I find myself questioning my confidence of how I performed.  Then thoughts of all the years of the work and practice to arrive here reel through my mind.  I’m grateful to have lived for this moment.

Knowing I should wait thirty minutes to investigate, I am lured from my perch within minutes to inspect the site.  Finding no arrow, I quietly advance following in his footsteps.  In mere feet I find the evidence of life which coursed through his veins.  Like a crimson beacon it guides me though the fading light; softly at first, but with each step onward its glow brightens.  Anticipating what lies ahead my chest beats with increasing rhythms.  Arriving where he last leapt through the air, a fallen tree had become his final hurdle in life; and beyond, the heavy sign of his hard descent.  Ahead, along the edge of the meadow I spot a resting gray form beside great clumps of grass.  Is it him?  Slowly I advance, then my heart crescendos, YES!  Briskly, though stealthily, I approach while nocking another arrow.  Tense, I circle in a closing arc watching for any movement and possible escape, but it is not to be.  Totally amazed, I stand in awe within his battleground with death, a witness to the determination of how he fought.

In the fading light I kneel beside him, lay my hand on his side and wonder about those who ask, “Why?”  Shattering the evening’s stillness an answer falls upon me.  If any other predator had killed this creature, it would have been for one purpose only, preservation; its flesh becoming just another meal to later deposit upon the soil.  For in that act alone, it likens those who live only to work, never stepping out of their daily grind, and thus they quash their role with nature, existing without recognizing the wondrous work of our Creator, having no comprehension of who they really are, and no real appreciation or gratitude for the gift of life.

Looking up towards heaven, I thank God for this opportunity to engage His Creation, for the bounty He has provided, and the memory that will animate within me as I grow old.

As I stand and turn to begin the journey back to the pickup I stop, look back, and think of Andrew.  Of all the people I want to share this experience with, I choose him first.  Why?  Because like our friendship, this becomes the hunt that was, is, and will always be - appreciated.

Zano