The woods are dark and deep, but not what I'd call lovely in the descending veil of night.
Having left my stand in the dark, I arrive to open sky after a short walk to the steady footing of a fire break that separates a tract of tall pines and a 6-year-old thicket.
The fading rays of daylight illuminate the first four or five rows of pines in a hue of soft blues, but beyond is blackness so deep as to consume the entire atmosphere. It's a beautiful kind of blackness that seems best viewed from a safe distance.
The thought makes me smile because I know every inch of those woods, even in the dark. In darkness, rain or fog, I can turn, bob and weave through the brush and still arrive at my stand or any of my other landmarks with GPS-like precision.
I know the 6-year-old thicket equally well despite its seemingly impenetrable wall of pine boughs, briars and logging slash. I can enter anywhere and walk to camp.
It is comfortable to know a place so well. I can almost close my eyes and count the steps from my stand to the little alcove where I park my four-wheeler. I seldom ride the four-wheeler, though. Usually I walk from camp to the stand in the thinned pines. It's about a half-mile from camp, but I cover it quickly.
This year I ride because of a long, deep mud hole in the fire trail. Skirting it requires shortcutting through a bramble that looks and feels like rolled concertina. The sound of my four-wheeler doesn't seem to disturb deer, probably because I park so far from my stand, but it's better to enter silently.
Nearby, on a different trail leading to another stand, is a pair of pine trees where I used to park when I hunted with my late son. Loggers left those trees standing when they thinned the thicket. They have no meaning to anyone but me, and their presence is comforting.
Brushy cover is slowly growing up in the thin. Deer seem to like it better each year, and the hunting gets better each year.
This particular evening ended with a deer approaching a feeder about 130 yards away at dusk. It appeared to be a mature doe, but I couldn't be sure in the dimness. Size can be deceptive, and a single antlerless deer this time of year is likely to be a button buck that was exiled by its mother before the rut.
The stand is conspicuous from the feeder. Deer always look at it, but they are never alarmed. Only rarely is it troublesome to them, and the deer for which it is troublesome almost always leave with me, so it is not educational to the herd at large. It's also uphill from the feeder, so if they see me, they probably only see the top of my head.
Or, perhaps the stand's unique visual dynamics befuddle them. Years ago, I installed new 1/4-inch plywood panels on the stand and painted them a deep, matte blood red that melted into the background.
Two years ago the panel facing the feeder rotted and fell to the ground. I replaced it with a red, semi-glossy all-weather panel. It's garish in daylight, and it glows eerily in dim light. I believe it actually serves me well because that throbbing splash of red overpowers the landscape. Deer are used to it, and I could probably do jumping jacks next to it unnoticed.
As darkness settled, the deer dissolved into a faint, dark blob until the night consumed it altogether. Certain it had consumed me as well, I eased my rifle sling over my shoulder and quietly descended the ladder.
I am visible from the feeder only at the foot of the ladder. Two steps back and I vanish. Once, I was halfway up the ladder before a deer looked up and noticed me, but I wanted to see if I could get inside without being seen.
Despite the darkness that envelops the woods, there is still enough light on the ground to illuminate my path. I detour down a game trail that I can't see but know by heart. When I pass the swale that enters the mud hole, I continue through the bramble and enter the fire lane.
The woods look forbidding, but that is a facade. Within the darkness, they are familiar and safe.
Sports on 11/29/2018