 While scouting prior to bow season I walked up an old dirt road grown up with four-foot loblolly pines, and caught movement out of the corner of my eye.I froze, turned slowly, and saw nothing. I scanned down to up, blinked, moved my line of sight a hair, scanned down to up, blinked, then picked up another twitch, and identified an ear and tail. A couple more scans revealed a third twitch--a second doe. I didn't move. Had they seen me? Sure they had. They lived there. However they were unused to being hunted and so were comfortable engaging in their favorite part-time after sleeping, eating, mating: being curious. The first one turned her head to look at the other one as if to say something like, "We've got a live one here," or, "What the heck is SHE doing here?" or, "Are those Calvins?" Then she turned back to me. For lack of anything else to try, short of charging the does or walking away, and I started whistling. Random notes evolved quickly into "Singing in the Rain." Enthralled, bored, whatever . . . the does continued to gaze at me, still unthreatened by my presence. When I finished the tune, I realized the does were not going to leave. Magic time arrived, that time of day when you can no longer distinguish colors, when deep gray shadows are punctuated by glints of silver light. Many animals get up and move around at this time of day: first to feed, then to socialize (think Applebee's, but more visceral and beautiful, and without the smell of seared flesh). When I could no longer see the does, though I am certain they could still see--or smell--me, I eased back to my truck in the dark, accompanied by crescendos of chirping and tweets, and thanked God for making me, even at this late date in my life, a tomboy. |
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