the muffled thud of rubber boots in unison on a dampened, leaf covered logging road in the dark and the sound of the breathing of old friends before each ventures off on his own trail to discovery and adventure.
It is the riot of color as the forest celebrates Summer’s passing and the advent of Fall.
It is the sighing of the wind through the tops of pine trees on a new moon fall evening.
It is the crackle of dry leaves as the lone squirrel shuffles across the forest floor on a still, windless late afternoon.
It is the rattle of the last fugitive leaves in the tops of the hardwoods against a cold north wind.
It is the feel of balanced blued steel and polished Walnut, connecting one to that ancient man that hefted the world’s first spear, and every brother hunter down through the ages.
It is the December moon on the leafless hardwood trunks, casting all the world into shades of silver, gray, and black by turn.
It is the mirth and laughter around the wood stove when old friends share the memories of times gone by, and hope for the days to come.
It is the Hunter’s Moon waxing high, announcing to the forest Man’s time as predator has come.
It is the laughter of water cascading across the rocks in the creek bottom on its’ way to the sea so far away.
It is the rosy glow of first light on the horizon trumpeting the coming of a new day, and the pastels of the evening sunset against cotton ball cumulus clouds, wishing all peace and farewell until the morrow.
It is young spikes cavorting and sparring under the White Oak.
It is the yip of the coyotes in the fields on a cool November evening.
It is Orion and the Big Dipper in a coal black Autumn sky.
It is the sound of pine boughs sliding over brushed cotton.
It is dawn on a winter morning, the leafless forest laid bare revealing life in sharp contrast.
It is the chatter and glee of darting children around the campfire.
It is fog, rising from the creek bottom below as day slowly loses sway and yields to night.
It is the solitude of the hours on stand, when time slows down so one can think, remember, reflect, and pray.
It is the echo of voices and dancing beams of light in the dark in search of downed prey.
It is the smile of the novice on his first success.
It is the gathering shadows at September’s days’ end.
It is the chill of the late fall wind under lead colored skies.
It is all these things, twisted and woven together, that form the slow deep rhythms of man’s oldest pursuit. I am drawn to them. They encircle my senses, capture my thoughts, and I am held thrall. I cannot resist, and willingly surrender.
It is the riot of color as the forest celebrates Summer’s passing and the advent of Fall.
It is the sighing of the wind through the tops of pine trees on a new moon fall evening.
It is the crackle of dry leaves as the lone squirrel shuffles across the forest floor on a still, windless late afternoon.
It is the rattle of the last fugitive leaves in the tops of the hardwoods against a cold north wind.
It is the feel of balanced blued steel and polished Walnut, connecting one to that ancient man that hefted the world’s first spear, and every brother hunter down through the ages.
It is the December moon on the leafless hardwood trunks, casting all the world into shades of silver, gray, and black by turn.
It is the mirth and laughter around the wood stove when old friends share the memories of times gone by, and hope for the days to come.
It is the Hunter’s Moon waxing high, announcing to the forest Man’s time as predator has come.
It is the laughter of water cascading across the rocks in the creek bottom on its’ way to the sea so far away.
It is the rosy glow of first light on the horizon trumpeting the coming of a new day, and the pastels of the evening sunset against cotton ball cumulus clouds, wishing all peace and farewell until the morrow.
It is young spikes cavorting and sparring under the White Oak.
It is the yip of the coyotes in the fields on a cool November evening.
It is Orion and the Big Dipper in a coal black Autumn sky.
It is the sound of pine boughs sliding over brushed cotton.
It is dawn on a winter morning, the leafless forest laid bare revealing life in sharp contrast.
It is the chatter and glee of darting children around the campfire.
It is fog, rising from the creek bottom below as day slowly loses sway and yields to night.
It is the solitude of the hours on stand, when time slows down so one can think, remember, reflect, and pray.
It is the echo of voices and dancing beams of light in the dark in search of downed prey.
It is the smile of the novice on his first success.
It is the gathering shadows at September’s days’ end.
It is the chill of the late fall wind under lead colored skies.
It is all these things, twisted and woven together, that form the slow deep rhythms of man’s oldest pursuit. I am drawn to them. They encircle my senses, capture my thoughts, and I am held thrall. I cannot resist, and willingly surrender.
This is about"shuffiling boots before daylight"and the traditon we all share.You guys know who I am talking about. Who hasen't been on their first hunt?Cut your shirtail or smear blood on your face. Its all about being out here and becoming a member of the brotherhood. When hunting becomes "killing a deer with his nose in a pile of corn" I'll start hunting rats.
