I have written a story about just such a thing. I have posted it on here already but will attach it to this thread so you can see it. I know it's really long but it comes from my heart and I think you may enjoy it.


I never really understand why I can’t sleep the day before deer season, or why I stay up so late for that matter. The point remains that every year the same story unfolds. I lay in bed listening to the white tail run through the underbrush in the back of my head. It’s as if I am already in stand as the darkness envelops me, just listening to the sound of the crickets singing outside my window. Eventually the sounds fade away into nothing, only to be replaced by the harsh shrill of an alarm clock, and the sound of my father getting coffee ready in the kitchen.

Most days getting up at four in the morning would be a chore. I would have to wait for my legs to gather enough strength to pull the rest of my body out of bed, but not today, for today is the first day of archery season. It’s as if I was five again, and there was a shiny new bike waiting under the Christmas tree for me. But today is much different from that day. There is no bike, nor friends, nor Christmas trees. There is no snow on the ground or stockings hung on the mantle. There is only the faint silhouette of my father tying his boots at the kitchen table, and hint of coffee as it fills the room. It is at this moment that I realize how the true gifts in life can’t be wrapped up and tied with a bow. They don’t have your name written on them or sat under a tree. No, the true gifts in life are those that are lived. The ones that only a father and son can understand at four in the morning.

As I stand there in silence for the next few seconds I regain my composure and realize that I too must finish getting ready. As I finish my coffee and tie up my last shoestring my father is already waiting at the door with flashlight in hand. I move as fast as I can, snatching up my bow and head out by his side pulling the door tight behind me. The cool morning air hits my face as the crickets that sang me to sleep begin to fade into the distance. All is quiet except for the sound of our breath and the rustle of grass under our feet.

We continue to walk across the power line beside our house, heading to the treestands my father placed earlier in the year. Nothing is heard, nothing is said. We just keep walking with only the two glowing circles created by our flashlights to keep us company. They dance back in forth like two giant lightning bugs playing in the yard illuminating sticks and leaves as they go along.

We finally come to a point where our paths must split. My father heads along the left side of the field as I angle to the right to take my stand along the creek bed. Until this point the moon has helped lead our way but as I stand peering into the forest nothing can be seen but darkness. It almost seems as if the trees and fallen timber would swallow the light of my flashlight. Nonetheless, I manage to find the trail heading down into the trees that leads to my stand. I proceed with great caution, knowing that the slightest noise may alert the deer that are bedded nearby. I fight my way through the tangle of sticks and limbs, dodging the outstretched arms of the nearby trees as they try and prevent me from reaching my final destination. Upon arrival I look up at what remains of an antenna tower chained to a tree with a small stand perched at the top. There is already a rope in place, so I tie off my bow and make my way up.

Once perched atop the stand, it seems as if God has turned down the volume of nature. Everything seems so much quieter. You can hear the tiniest of noises and notice the smallest of movements. The mere sound of your feet on the cold steel below you sounds as if it could be heard for miles. It is at this time that I begin to relax. I take a deep breath and sway in rhythm with the trees as they dance with the wind. For a few moments the rest of the world does not exist. I just stare at the stars as they shine through the canopy, disappearing for moments as they hide behind the last few leaves still clinging to the branches. With my eyes now closed I hear those same deer from the previous night in my dreams as they creep through the saplings. Then I realize that those noises aren’t in my mind, but rather coming from the forest floor twenty feet below. I just watch as a raccoon, makes its way back to its tree for another days rest. I wonder to myself, where has he been all night? What has he seen? If only I could see out of his eyes for one evening, just to see this magnificent place from his point of view. Then, as quickly as he appears, he fades into the distance.

It isn’t long before the first signs of the morning sun begin to climb over the meadow. The leaves, which seemed dark and lifeless just an hour before, awaken for their first dance of the morning. I watch as the crimson and gold forms play amongst each other as if they have been waiting all night for this exact moment. The moment when the sun’s rays begin to penetrate through the oaks, piercing the forest like swords thrown down from the heavens and the crisp night air brushes one last time against my cheeks. This is the image that is emblazoned in my mind since I first stepped foot into the woods with my father so many years ago.

It’s not long until I hear movement coming along the creek bed towards my stand. I slowly turn around so as not to make the slightest sound. My weight shifts from one foot to the other so the stand does not creak from the movement. For a split second the tread on my boot catches the stand and the lightest of noises can be heard. To me it seems as if someone has just slammed a car door and broken the silence. My heart begins to race as all my movements cease. Slowly I look around but nothing has caught this small mishap. Once again I finish turning until the source of the noise is directly in front of me. My eyes strain to see through the dense saplings and I fear all is lost, but a small movement gives him away. A deer, slowly and methodically makes his way along the creek browsing on acorns strewn amongst the leaf litter. Once within forty yards I can see his ivory crown as it intertwines with the rest of the underbrush. It is him, the one that I have so often envisioned while sitting in stand on long autumn days. He is no longer a myth, but rather one of the most elegant creatures to ever pass through these trees. My heart begins to race and a warm metallic taste fills my mouth as my adrenaline begins to rise. I stare in awe as he slowly moves closer, weaving through the trees without exerting the slightest effort. For a second he stops, merely twenty yards away without a care in the world as to what is taking place around him. Not once does the thought cross my mind to reach for my bow. The mere sight of such a creature keeps me froze in time like the moss that clings to the tree at my back. He is the proudest, most confident creature in the woods, and rightfully so. What does he have to be afraid of? At this exact moment, he is right, there is nothing to fear, for I never even begin to pick up my bow.

I have entered these woods with my father for many years now, listening to him speak about the true meaning of being a hunter. I can still here his words as if he was speaking them right now. "It's not whether or not your hunt is successful, but rather the time you get to share with the woods that is the true measure of a good hunt.” It is at this moment that I truly understand what he has been trying to tell me since I was a boy.

It isn’t long before the thoughts of my father vanish and the deer regains my full attention. I know in the back of my mind that if I do not take the shot soon he will be gone forever, and this meeting between the two of us will be nothing more than a memory. This, I say to myself, is exactly the way I want it to be. He has given me everything I could have hoped for. At this very moment all I can think about is how lucky I have been to be blessed in the presence of such a creature. I know in my heart what could have happened. I know that I was the victor on that day. But I also know that he will never truly be gone. He will be there in my mind running through the underbrush the night before every season.

I just smile as he vanishes into the scrub oaks knowing that no matter what happens the rest of the day, I will always have a trophy to hang in my memories to keep me company.

Eventually day fades into evening and I can feel the last few rays from the sun fade from the back of my neck. I slowly descend from my stand to join my father for the walk home.

This walk is different from all of the other walks we have shared over the years. Few words are spoken and only those same two glowing circles emitted from our lights keep us company. I can faintly see our house in the distance as my father breaks the silence. “Did you have a successful hunt?” he asks me. These words stop me in my tracks. He turns and looks at me with a smile from ear to ear and he knows that the time has come when everything he has taught me about being a hunter came to be realized. I never really did answer the question but we both knew that there was no need for words. He knew by the look in my eye that no matter what happened in the stand that day, just being out there made the hunt “successful”. We stand in silence for what seems like eternity and then slowly finish our journey.

To this day that same deer keeps me company the night before every deer season, and he is the greatest trophy I will ever have. I know in my heart that I will never have a more successful hunt because no single day could ever compare to that one October morning. For that was the day a father and son truly understood each other. That was the day lessons were learned, and memories were made. That was the day every father hopes for and every son imagines. That was the day…a hunter was born.


Eric