By Milton F. Whitmore
I’ve sat in a tree stand in mid-October and a ground blind on November 15, opening day of Michigan’s deer season, and watched with awe as the sun creeps from its resting place in the far eastern sky, shedding its aura onto the landscape.
In a tree, sitting in a snug, comfortable stand high above the surrounding landscape, the unfolding of the forest takes place. Images, no matter how familiar they are, remain mysterious in the blackened veil that shrouds their form in the pre-dawn. Sometimes their emergence is announced, even in the ebony period before sunrise, by a gentle, barely perceptible breeze created by the micro-warming of some tiny air pocket by the sun, still unseen over the horizon. This first wind of the day seems to be the alarm clock for a few of the more adventurous birds as they begin their day with a wing flap, distinctly heard in the quiet woodland.
At times the howl of a distant coyote, separated from his pack, lends its sonorous, piercing notes to the opening opus of the day. A plea for recognition is answered by his kin, no doubt satisfying the distant ’yote’s need for comfort. The singing of the early birds goes silent and the scurry of forest floor dwellers goes mute as they test the air for danger, renewing their search for breakfast when their instincts signal the “all clear.”
As the long line of crimson edges its way upward from the skyline in the east, the soft crunch of leaves on the forest floor reaches my ears – set on “intense receiving mode” since I settled into my seat, usually in some pine tree for better concealment. The sound from the unseen creature rises out of the duff and shrub of the ground below. I can chart the progress of whatever it is by the sound of its footfalls on the crimson, orange, yellow and gold carpet that spreads underneath my feet. I listen in the deep, charcoal gray of the woods. Only now does the materializing light begin to give some shape and form to the trees and shrubs that surround my stand.
From the sound reaching my ears, I try to visualize the size of whatever it is that ambles my way. The tempo of an early rising squirrel is distinct in its quick, short duration pattern of “crunch-crunch-crunch” as it searches for some hidden, nutty treasure on which to feast. Porcupine and opossum are more sedate in their movements, with forethought and leisure marking each step. This all takes place away from my eyes, as they peer into the graying woodland.
Not only are tempo and pace important in determining what lies below, but they are also vital to get a sense of the animal’s size. I listen for the heft of each impression as the animal moves. A smaller, early morning adventurer won’t have much weight in its footsteps, so the sound is softer, more delicate. This, along with the sound intervals between each step, is a key to identifying the mystery guest.
If I hear a “pert-pert,” soft though it is, I know that what comes my way is probably a ruffed grouse looking for edible berries the bird cherishes. Sometimes my ears can pick up weighted footsteps; then I begin to think deer. Minutes pass with nerve-shattering delay. My eyes scan the area, trying to penetrate the deep gloom of the pre-dawn to determine the source of the noise. My senses are on high alert, radar-like in their information gathering and analyzing.
It isn’t until the sun emerges over the lip of land that hides it from view that I can, at long last, distinguish the animal that has taken my attention for so many minutes. If it is an animal I have no intention of hunting, then my senses begin to relax while I mark the progress of the visitor, now becoming a welcome friend.
If, indeed, a whitetail is moving my way, then I go on heightened alert, determining whether it is a buck or doe. Whether or not I decide to shoot at the animal and/or take it matters not. The anticipation and thrill prior to seeing the deer will haunt me, pleasuring my thoughts in the cold evenings of the upcoming winter.
