The end of the first bow season is drawing to a close. With annoyances such as work, I have not spent nearly as much time hunting as is necessary. This is obvious by the fact I have yet to get the deer I started hunting over a month ago.
By Sunday, I was about to give up on the possibility that I might take him this year. I would be too busy during the week to hunt and Saturday is the start of gun season. There were a few chores that needed to be done around the house that have been neglected for quite some time. Fortunately, I have an understanding wife that realizes hunting is more important than most mundane things such as fixing the fence to keep the horses out of the garden or winterizing the lawnmowers.
There is though, a limit to her patience. If we were going to keep warm this winter, I might have to get a load or two of firewood. She will tolerate a lot of things, but being cold is not one of them.
We worked around the house all morning and decided to go get a load of wood in the afternoon. If I could cut a quick load, throw it on the truck and head for the cabin, there would be an hour or so of daylight left for the last bow hunt of the rut.
I dropped my wife at the cabin and headed into the timber in search of the perfect tree. I had not driven far before I discovered that tree. My younger son has the habit of cutting trees, splitting, and stacking the wood by the side of the trail until he needs it for a customer wanting to buy firewood. In a half hour, I had a full load of cut, dried and split would without starting a chain saw. Life does not get any better than that. When I got back to the cabin, my wife was impressed with my ability to turn trees into firewood without breaking a sweat.
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She was more impressed with the scenery. The five trumpeter swans that have been hanging around for the last month or so were gliding across the lake. Eagles were all around the edge, sitting in the big cottonwoods and oak trees that ring the lake's edges. We counted seven in all. They called to each other and occasionally swooped down from their tree to make a pass at a fish on the surface of the water. With the unusually warm weather, the swans gliding serenely across the lake, and the eagles in never-before-seen numbers, my wife was perfectly willing to relax at the cabin while I went hunting.
In order to get to my favorite hunting spot (that has been so successful this year) I could drive around the road for a mile, drive a half mile through the pasture, and walk a quarter mile through the woods. The other option would be to drive the gator over some fairly rough terrain for about a half mile and be there. The choice was obvious. A gator will go almost anywhere.
The first ditch was not too severe. I shifted into four-wheel drive and made it right out. The second ditch gave me pause. Daylight was wasting so I went for it. I slid down the one side and floored it when I hit bottom. The little green machine climbed right out and we crashed over the edge onto level ground.
While cruising along toward my destination, looking back while admiring my good fortune and skillful driving, I suddenly came to a stop. I had driven into two perfectly spaced cow paths that were worn slightly deeper than the clearance under a gator. No problem. I jumped out and attempted to lift the front of the gator out of the path. I could not budge it. The same was true of the back half. A little green gator is a heavy little machine. I spent the last remaining time of the first bow season trying to wrestle a gator out of a cow path.
By the time I got back to the cabin, my wife was in much better spirits than I was. She had spent her time enjoying the beauty and wonders of the great birds while I was being watched from the next hill by the old gray ghost I have been hunting. I imagine he enjoyed his evening also.
Walter Scott is an outdoors enthusiast and freelance writer from Bloomfield, Iowa.
