|Posted on June 13, 2015 at 5:05 PM|
With the dusk came a silence that covered the deep forest like a blanket. Not a warm comfortable cover but one that brought dark shadows and cold. By this time of day the hunter was chilled to the bone and he squirmed in his place. Oh how he was cold. Just ten more minutes of shooting light left, or less if he left now. No! A buck hunter never leaves the stand early no matter how cold he is. Ten minutes. He could do it, though his fingers ached and his toes were numb. His nose was running and his teeth chattered. Ten more minutes. Yes he could make that he told himself again and again. Ten more minutes. Plenty of time. For this was it, the witching hour for a cold bow hunters. Light was fading. Dusk was growing. The time was nearing. Ten more minutes. He could make it … he hoped.
That’s when he heard the snap of a twig and the sound of heavy foot falls moving through the leaves on the ground. Something was coming along the trail 30 yards down hill of his blind. Something big. Ten more minutes. His finger wrapped around the bowstring. He licked his lips when he spotted the tall, wide rack of antlers moving above the underbrush. The bowstring came back. His muscles bulged. The buck stepped into clear view. He took a breath and let go.
The arrow sliced through the dusky light and hit the big buck with a “thwack” just a few inches behind the shoulder. It was a killing shot. The buck lurched forward and crashed into the underbrush. Ten more minutes he thought. Ten minutes to gut and drag it back to his camp. Ten more minutes. Plenty of time.