Soon thereafter, a deer came from a clump of hardwoods to my left and walked toward me. The deer was small, and I suspected it was a doe. A hint of antler-maybe it was a spike-got my attention. The closer the deer got, the more interested I became. Could those be points protruding from a main beam? Yes, it turned out that the deer was indeed a buck, a forkhorn, and he went right under my stand. I let the immature deer walk. At that moment, I was overcome by a sort of sadness linked to our area’s management situation. The whitetail deer have become so overpopulated in recent years that they strain the human-animal symbiosis and annoy local farmers. Some hunters refuse to take anything other than a buck, and in so doing indirectly allow an imbalance of does. Moreover, many small bucks with blossoming trophy potential are never permitted to grow awesome racks. Nevertheless, we must not forget the hunters that strive to become educated and practice responsible management of game. I am optimistic that we hunter-naturalists who sincerely appreciate learning everything about God’s nature where we spend so much time can truly influence the direction of hunting.

I was grateful to be so close to a buck, and full of satisfaction in knowing my patience would be rewarded in time. I went shopping one Saturday as Christmas approached, fighting off allergies and the temptation to buy more than necessary. I got home in the evening and knew there was a lot waiting for me. It was nearing the end of break away from college, and I still had so much to complete. Halfway through writing about the Desana, a tribe in South America who believes that we are all creatures in the same forest, I heard a shot. At that moment, my thoughts were on my Dad, so mentally close to the game animal before him, noticing the lay of every hair, the moist breath dissipating into the cold evening. Not long after the shot, Dad came in and asked me to track a hog for him. What a surprise- a hog! Nobody other than him knows how much I enjoy tracking animals. Dad followed me out as I grabbed a couple of coats and chuckled over how we prepared ourselves so differently; I took the .30-06 and two flashlights while he packed himself a few beers.

I surveyed the situation and knew it wouldn’t be smart for both of us to enter the thick stuff in the dark, so I handed him the gun and started to follow the blood. We are a tight team, my dad is my favorite hunting partner, and we switch roles between hunter and tracker effortlessly. The hunter listens to the tracker at this point, no questions asked. I went in. The darker it seemed to get and the deeper the erratic but foolproof blood trail took me, the more I wondered just why I handed him my gun. The hog must have ran blindly through the thickest of the briars, and then doubled-up and chosen the more familiar, clearer trail as he gained what was left of his bearings. An older animal has a remarkable will to survive.

I finally came upon the hog, about 150 pounds of wild boar, razor-backed with a couple cutters. Dad had made a beautiful shot. It meant a lot for him to use his .375 on a more exotic animal. I congratulated Dad on a job well done, and we tried screaming a conversation, but it just would not work. I used voice-contact to get him to me, and helped him back out of the thick stuff with his harvest. We then each took a leg and dragged the boar up the alley. The hard work was made easier through cooperation. Dad and I took a break to tighten our grip and started uphill through a narrow trail. He took too many breaks, thinking I would be winded easier, but I ended up pushing him on to continue. I later asked him if he was okay, and about that time we both found a few stumps to trip over so it looked like we synchronized the loss of coordination, but we kept going, unfazed. "Did you see me trip?" I giggled.

"See who what?" Dad responded with a twinkle.

"Yeah, thanks, that’s what I thought."

We joined together and thanked the Lord that He would provide us with a special harvest and family teamwork.