Curse the jets!
Only in moments like this do I notice how often they fly over, and how loud they are.
And then there are the piston-powered aircraft, of which there is no shortage, and I seem to be in all of their flight paths. Curse them. Curse them all!
It's Thursday afternoon in the woods of northern Grant County, and I'm desperately trying to hear. It rained most of the day, so the forest floor is damp. Leaves and pine straw don't crackle, and a hard north wind makes the leaves rattle and roar like fans in a football stadium.
My ears strain for any sounds out of sync with the day's sonic suite, anything that might betray the presence of an approaching whitetailed deer.
That's when I really notice the distant growls of high-flying jets. They sound sharp and acute at first, but as a jet passes, the crescendo of its slipstream rises and rolls to the ground like ocean waves slamming onto the beach.
Piston-driven planes fly lower, and they linger. Some of these, I suspect, are conducting aerial timber surveys. One such survey recently discovered on another hunting club in the area that a hunter had removed a considerable amount of pine trees to create long shooting lanes in a thicket. The offending hunter had planted food plots, and his spot sure looked pretty.
The timber company was not happy. It sent that club a bill for $9,000, due immediately.
The jets and piston poppers pass by every 20 minutes or so, and I finally surrender my ears. I must rely on my eyes. I gaze through the broken light pouring through the pines and hardwoods, looking for flickers caused by a whitetailed deer breaking the rays.
It is then that I realize how beautiful this place is, and how happy I am to be here.
Muzzleloader deer season started Oct. 15, and it has been much different than usual. Traditionally, opening day dawns very cool and rises into the low 60s to mid-70s.
This year, it dawned warm and humid, and the temperature got close to 90 degrees. It stayed that way until Thursday. From the Gulf Coastal Plain to the Ozarks, texts poured in all morning Oct. 15 to complain about the heat and mosquitoes.
The one exception was Basel Khalil of North Little Rock, who hunted in the Piney Creeks Wildlife Management Area. At 8:43 a.m., Khalil texted, "One down."
"Photo?" I replied.
"I am in my stand."
"Well, get down and take a picture," I replied.
"I am waiting for a buck"
"You know the rules," I taunted. "No picture, no deer."
"That's gospel!!!!" added Mark Hedrick of Little Rock.
"Hahahaha," Khalil retorted.
"He's laughing!" I texted. "We need to convene a meeting to discuss revoking Basel's Deer Hunter Card."
Photos arrived a few minutes later. Everyone in the string congratulated Khalil.
"I prove myself," Khalil wrote.
Last Sunday was another hot, humid day at the Old Belfast Hunting Club. I arrived at camp about 2:30 p.m. and found Mike Romine and his son, Zach Smith, getting ready for an evening hunt. Romine wore a sleeveless T-shirt and an orange hunting vest. Smith was sweaty and groggy from a nap in a camper lacking refrigerated air.
"Has anybody killed anything out here this weekend?" I asked Romine.
"Not to my knowledge," Romine replied. "I don't think anyone's hunting. It's too hot."
Heat is no fun, but it really complicates cleaning and dressing a deer. You have to work lightning fast to keep from being overwhelmed by flies and yellowjackets. And the smell is atrocious.
That's doubtless why the statewide muzzleloader kill to date is about half of last year's tally. As of 4 p.m. Friday, hunters killed 10,667 during the muzzleloader season. At this point in 2015, we killed 24,649.
"Deer are in the acorns heavy right now," Romine said. "I'd hunt in the acorns, or somewhere leading to them."
I went to my stand in a hollow, in a streamside management zone amid a ribbon of mixed pines and hardwoods. I have killed a deer in muzzleloader season in this stand every year since I joined the club in 2009.
I was being treated for cancer at that time and wasn't sure how much more time I had left on this earth. That was my only stand that year, and I grew very fond of it. My son Daniel killed his only deer from this stand during muzzleloader season that same year. I never would have imagined that I would outlive him.
My son Matthew has hunted with me here, and I saw one of the biggest bucks I've seen on this property during the youth deer hunt with my daughter Amy in 2013.
These memories swirl as I watch the afternoon light fade to evening in its timeless fashion. The bittersweet makes me edgy, and I wonder if I'll ever enjoy this spot as much as I once did.
I hear a distant shot from the direction of Romine's stand. At 6:28 p.m., I sent him a text.
"Get him?"
Romine texted a photo with him holding up the head of a mature buck with a beautiful, chocolate covered rack. It was a perfectly symmetrical 8-point with an inside spread of 13 5/8 inches. The bases were thick and heavy. Where we hunt, that's a dandy rack.
Romine and Smith made a beeline for home where they could dress, skin and process the buck in the bright lights of Romine's shop.
I returned Thursday, after the rain, when a cold front passed through and dropped the temperature back down to where it's supposed to be. It was a gorgeous afternoon, and though deer often travel this little corridor, they were on hiatus.
I badmouth the airplanes, but honestly, I'm not as tuned in as usual. The bittersweet has something to do with it, and I tell myself that for me, the 2016 deer season is a time for patience, reflection and healing.
I don't particularly want to be here, but I need to be here.
Sports on 10/23/2016