It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear every pump of my heart in my ears as the rate with which it beats begins to subside, slightly elevated from the hike through the snow covered, undulating terrain between the cabin, and my deer blind, separated by half a mile, at least as the crow flies. I can hear the consistent drone of tires on concrete from the cars passing through on Michigan 10 in the far distance, almost as an indiscernible sort of white noise if I wasn’t familiar with the true source. There is rarely a train to be heard, and although I’m forever grateful for the opportunity that the railroad has provided me with, when I’m on vacation, the last thing I wish to think of is trains.
To be brutally honest, I don’t much care about the hunting aspect. That’s where I don’t necessarily “fit in” here. Hell, nobody in my own household even eats venison except for me, and at the heart of the matter, I’m really not all that fond of killing animals in general, although I whole heartedly understand the ridiculous hypocrisy from a statement such as that with every cheeseburger I eat. As an aside, that’s an interesting epiphany I once had, and still occasionally reflect on. If everyone were required to kill, clean and prepare everything they were to eat, I suspect the world would contain an awful lot more vegetarians. It’s much easier to be calloused to where a meal comes from when someone else has handled the dirty work, but I digress.
I come here to sit in this blind, where I can watch a day pass by in its entirety, and as the earth continues to rotate on its axis, I’ll watch the sun rising in the east, and in the span of about eleven hours, I’ll track its course across the sky, the shadows shifting with the ever changing light conditions, the movement of the sun, and the clouds, creating a dynamic effect that is unparalleled by even the most seasoned Hollywood lighting technician. Beneath it all, I am nothing more than a stationary fixture. A casual observer; That just happens to be posted up with a highly-accurized, state-of-the-art, .308 caliber rifle beside me in case an opportunity presents itself. (For those keeping score, it’s one of those crazy, military-style, fully-semi-automatic, weapons-of-war type rifles with ultra high capacity magazine clips. The kinda rifle that everybody claims can’t be, or shouldn’t be, used to hunt with. The actual truth is, I’m still legally restricted to a five round magazine, and the semi-automatic action in this rifle is not unlike many, more ‘traditional,’ hunting rifles- It just looks scarier.)
Either way, I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m simply not the hardcore hunter others may be. I don’t cover myself in doe urine, or study up on the latest trends and technologies in the hunting community. I don’t study their movements with trail cameras, or actively seek out deer runs to deduce where they are most likely to move. No, I’m just a passive participant.
Hell, I’ve been coming to this property since I could walk, and well before I could even hunt myself, I’d sit in my grandpa’s deer blind with him, burning leaves on his makeshift propane heater- A torch that rested inside a steel bucket turned on its side on the sandy floor of his blind, which actually worked remarkably well. I’d even burn sticks, and use the charred end to write on the inside of the blind as if it were some sort of caveman artwork.
In my deer blind, the one my father built three years ago, about fifteen feet from the remnants of my grandpa’s old blind, I have a small propane space heater connected to a twenty pound tank that serves to keep me comfortable. Today, it’s in the face of a gentle north wind, though my elevated body temperature from the energy exerted while making my way to this spot an hour ago is currently negating its usefulness, so I have yet to ignite it. I am plenty warm, thanks to being chubby, and, of course, Carhartt gear helps.
From the desk of Dave Foster 