Valley of Thunder
The Work of Wanting
[Also available on Spotify]
3:30 PM. He’s standing behind a hemlock, leaving a narrow window for the shot.
Two days earlier: At 5:40 AM, the headlamps’ red light shows the snow, and by six, I’m sweaty and smelly, near the ridge top. I’m hunting Vermont’s November rifle season on a ridge I’ve climbed so many times I could almost do it blind, but every year feels like starting over.
Merino stinks, and I’m not sure how every outdoor clothing company can claim otherwise. Tracks here and there, but nothing exciting. No more wisps of woodsmoke from my smoldering woodstove; a west wind ensures it.
I start in the dark, so I’ll be where the deer are when there’s enough light to see and subsequently, shoot them.
Shooting hours arrive like a welcome, yet slightly irritating relative: before they arrive, it’s peaceful and predictable; then they show up, and there’s drama. But the drama is what we remember. They are the thunderstorm that brings much-needed rain.
Today I won’t wait. I’ll patrol this ridge and the next ridge this ridge runs into, all day, looking for a buck track.
Waiting in a tree during archery is fun if there are deer around. But if it’s a dead zone, it’s helpless, since there’s no corner to peek around or a hill to summit. In gun season, I can delude myself into thinking the prize is just ahead. Impatience is a frenemy of mine, and we spend some quality time together every fall.
The fiddling of archery season and the intricacies of gear melt away with mid-November. A small (or sometimes no) bag on my back and a gun in my hand liberate both mind and body.
By 1 PM, I find a fresh set of buck prints. He’s with a doe and they’re going up, up, up. Fourteen inches of snow make it harder for all of us, but they have it easier with four legs. Few worries for them in this area. He’s leaving rubs as we walk, and the bark shavings sprinkled on the snow remind me of sprinkles on my kids’ ice cream cones. This one is smelly, and I can smell the tarsal musk he leaves behind.
November and December. Sometimes I’ll walk forest roads or trails, but most often I’ll walk through the woods, looking for a track to follow. This year, the snow’s been good. Some years, I have to travel further to find it.
By late afternoon, this pair has slowed, so I slow. When I see them, I get a look at the buck, then the happy couple bolts. At 2,650’, I need to begin my descent, message my ride, and try to get to a recognizable place (e.g., a trail or forest road) so my nighttime walk out is doable. I’ve stumbled out of the woods in the dark plenty of times, but in snowy, steep, and cold conditions, the risks are too high unless I think I’m about to catch a deer.
This passion is multifaceted, weaving together culture, environment, health, and survival into a single tapestry. And there’s a perpetual struggle because there’s constant refinement, learning, and development. This maddening struggle is what keeps me coming back for more, running myself ragged, nearing the edge of hypothermia, only to often return home with nothing other than snow- and ice-encrusted boots and stinking, wet clothing.
This pursuit consumes like no other, save for addiction. It doesn’t make any sense to wake up in the dark to wander the woods. It’s illogical and arguably insane.
It consumes me physically because it breaks down my body; ligaments, quads, shoulders—they creak, they weaken. Yet the magic happens when the opening weekend ends and hope fades for the weekend warrior: day 3. You’re recovering, and your body is ready to climb. “Let’s go,” it says. “Get up there.” Midday Advil helps.
It consumes me mentally, greedily demanding all my thoughts. “Where to go?” is persistently the question. What about the weather? What mistakes to improve upon? There’s always luck, but I hate relying on that. I drink the Kool-Aid I mix for myself that says it’s more than luck. And I don’t think that this must consume a person, but for me, it does.
My word retrieval fades. My commitment to commitments wavers. And I know it. I witness it happening, helpless.
As the season goes on and I watch the hope in other hunters’ eyes fade, mine grows. Their disillusion energizes me. Big, slow trucks creep down the road, then park at the diner for lunch. “Get lost, give up. That’s right, there’s no hope. Move on. Leave the woods to me.” I don’t say it out loud.
It’s a particularly selfish, aggressive shift in mindset. Vermont has a black powder season, and it’s one of my favorites; worse conditions and fewer deer, which means fewer hunters.
After that first day on the ridge, I moved on to new territory. Late in the day, a buck track made that morning leads me to a fresh one, which I follow. A long shot and specks of blood, this time like the cherry-red county fair Sno-Kone. I sprint, the buck bounds, and night approaches. “Push it,” I say out loud to myself. “There’s no other way.” In a half mile, he pauses behind that hemlock. Thunder unleashed, and we’re both at peace.
It’s dark now, and as we pass by a stepped series of beaver dams, the kerplunk of beaver tails startles and then comforts me. When we cross the icy river, I pause to rinse him out; magically clear water briefly turns a cloudy red.
What about the difficulty of watching a creature die? At face value, I feel like I should feel this, but I don’t. When I shoot a deer, I’ve already made the decision, overcome the difficulty, and accepted it the moment I pick up my rifle. To waver beyond that will only cause suffering. Suffering is difficult to watch, but we can minimize it as the predator.
Shoot to kill, and you’ll likely have to watch it die, which is your obligation, your duty, what you owe to the animal. You should be willing, even thrilled, to watch it die a noble death; embrace the fact that you killed it. That thought is worth listening to. Looking away or hoping you don’t have to see it die means you probably shouldn’t be hunting (at least not in North America, where the hunter is expected to handle the hard parts of the process).
When I’m unsuccessful, the thrill doesn’t dissipate; I keep going to whatever season is next, but I go dark and defiant. There’s no radical acceptance for boredom. No curiosity or patience for anything. It’s a storm within, and like thunder, it shakes us, and is impossible to ignore or control. Your own storm may look different, but the weather feels the same.
Storms pass, antlers fall, the thunder inside quiets, and December bleeds into a new year.
Great stuff, Jesse. I was talking about that "point of no return" with a non-hunting buddy today. He was telling me how he watched a deer the other day in his backyard and couldn't imagine killing it. I think that's a decision you need to have made long before you head out into the woods -- otherwise, it's a dishonor to you and to the animal.
I can really feel this one. Thanks for sharing.