to hunt blind and hope. It wasnât likely heâd see the deer soon, but it could happen and if it did he might get a shot and make meat early so he could get back and take care of work around the farm so his grandfather wouldnât have to.
It came to him suddenly that he hadnât thought about his grandfather for nearly an hour and he didnât know if that was good or if that was bad.
He brought his mind back around to the tracks.
There was a saying among the old-timers that you could either hunt deer or you could do something else. You could not do two things when it came to hunting deerâhunting required too much concentration.
John went back to hunting.
SEVEN
In the clearings the snow hung on top of the matted swamp grass and it made hard going. His foot came down through the snow and then on past another eight inches to the peat beneath the grass. It was slow, stumbling work.
And in the willows he had to weave back and forth, so while it was easier walkingâthe grasswas not so deep in the willowsâit was still slow.
By midmorning he had only gone two miles, moving with the tracks. He had not seen the deer again but knew several things about it just the same. It was either a doe or a small buckâhe could tell that by the size of the tracks, but he was not yet good enough to tell its sex. Older hunters could, but he wasnât sure of it; it had something to do with the way the foot came down.
He knew the deer wasnât unduly frightened. After he had jumped it out of the bed it had bounded for two hundred yards but then it had settled down to an even pace, just walking-running ahead of him easily. It wasnât panicking or running hard, the way deer did when the wolves got close.
He knew this deer was healthy. The steps were even, the weight came down evenlyâit didnât limp or weave.
And he knew the deer wasnât a yearling, or a first-year fawn, which he wouldnât have shot even if heâd gotten a chance. His grandfather didnât kill first-year animals and he didnât either. If it had been a yearling it would have been all over the place, wandering as it fed, and probably running in spurts if it felt that it was being followed.
It wasnât until he reached one of the pine and spruce islands in the swamp that he came close to the deer again.
The island was about a hundred yards long, shaped in a large oval, and John worked across another clearing to get to it, wading through the snow-grass, stopping often to listen and watch.
It was easy to follow the tracks. The snow was all new and there didnât seem to be any other tracks in the area, except for rabbits. They had moved during the snow storm and left a patchwork of trails.
As he entered the pines on the island he stopped once more and listened, letting his eyes work ahead through the underbrush. It was like a make-believe land, what his grandmother would have called a fairy place; a place shot with silver and beauty.
The sun was as high as it was going to get now, an orb in the midsouth sky, and the light came down through the pines to make diamonds of the snow. Light sparkled all around, caught in the ice crystals as he stepped, showering his way with gold. Heâd never seen anything like it and he looked down to see the snow move away from his legs in fire and when he looked up he saw her. A doe.
She had been in back of a spruce, all covered with snow and looking like a picture on a Christmas card and when he looked up she stepped out and saw him and was gone, that fast, but she left an image in his mind the way the snow had. When she jumped out from in back of the spruce the snow showered out and around and caught the fire from the sun and took the light to make her something other than what she was.
He held his breath. It had only lasted part of two seconds and yet he held his breath for half a minute, thinking of it. The rifle had come up of its own accord, settled against
It came to him suddenly that he hadnât thought about his grandfather for nearly an hour and he didnât know if that was good or if that was bad.
He brought his mind back around to the tracks.
There was a saying among the old-timers that you could either hunt deer or you could do something else. You could not do two things when it came to hunting deerâhunting required too much concentration.
John went back to hunting.
SEVEN
In the clearings the snow hung on top of the matted swamp grass and it made hard going. His foot came down through the snow and then on past another eight inches to the peat beneath the grass. It was slow, stumbling work.
And in the willows he had to weave back and forth, so while it was easier walkingâthe grasswas not so deep in the willowsâit was still slow.
By midmorning he had only gone two miles, moving with the tracks. He had not seen the deer again but knew several things about it just the same. It was either a doe or a small buckâhe could tell that by the size of the tracks, but he was not yet good enough to tell its sex. Older hunters could, but he wasnât sure of it; it had something to do with the way the foot came down.
He knew the deer wasnât unduly frightened. After he had jumped it out of the bed it had bounded for two hundred yards but then it had settled down to an even pace, just walking-running ahead of him easily. It wasnât panicking or running hard, the way deer did when the wolves got close.
He knew this deer was healthy. The steps were even, the weight came down evenlyâit didnât limp or weave.
And he knew the deer wasnât a yearling, or a first-year fawn, which he wouldnât have shot even if heâd gotten a chance. His grandfather didnât kill first-year animals and he didnât either. If it had been a yearling it would have been all over the place, wandering as it fed, and probably running in spurts if it felt that it was being followed.
It wasnât until he reached one of the pine and spruce islands in the swamp that he came close to the deer again.
The island was about a hundred yards long, shaped in a large oval, and John worked across another clearing to get to it, wading through the snow-grass, stopping often to listen and watch.
It was easy to follow the tracks. The snow was all new and there didnât seem to be any other tracks in the area, except for rabbits. They had moved during the snow storm and left a patchwork of trails.
As he entered the pines on the island he stopped once more and listened, letting his eyes work ahead through the underbrush. It was like a make-believe land, what his grandmother would have called a fairy place; a place shot with silver and beauty.
The sun was as high as it was going to get now, an orb in the midsouth sky, and the light came down through the pines to make diamonds of the snow. Light sparkled all around, caught in the ice crystals as he stepped, showering his way with gold. Heâd never seen anything like it and he looked down to see the snow move away from his legs in fire and when he looked up he saw her. A doe.
She had been in back of a spruce, all covered with snow and looking like a picture on a Christmas card and when he looked up she stepped out and saw him and was gone, that fast, but she left an image in his mind the way the snow had. When she jumped out from in back of the spruce the snow showered out and around and caught the fire from the sun and took the light to make her something other than what she was.
He held his breath. It had only lasted part of two seconds and yet he held his breath for half a minute, thinking of it. The rifle had come up of its own accord, settled against
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