Some of you may be done with deer hunting for the year (for your sake, I hope not). It is the end of the first week of buck season here in West Virginia, and in truth, most of the activity happens the first three days of the season.
I would not be truthful if I didn’t say it is sad to me that there are, no doubt, far fewer hunters in the woods for this season than in the past. If I could get nostalgic for just a minute, gone are the days of the mass migrations to the mountains with camps being set up everywhere, an army of blaze orange on the hillsides. Depending on which surveys you read, the number of hunters in general may be rising slightly, or not.
Many times I have probably told you here that I am not the most rabid of deer hunters. I like that so many of you enjoy it, and there is no doubt it fuels most of the license sales and the economy boost where hunters buy all of the guns and ammo and sporting goods, along with gas, groceries and all they things they need for deer camp. I will deer hunt with you a little. I probably like the various doe seasons the most; we can go and enjoy deer camp, get some good venison in the freezer and the canner, and we have a chance to introduce others to deer hunting and hunting in general.
(But you know what? Lately I have been thinking more and more how maybe I would like to collect a big ol’ mossy horned buck. We’ll see.)
Well, having said all that, this little ditty isn’t really about all that — the deer season, how it has changed and the number of hunters out there. This is about one deer in particular and a chance meeting with a skinny kid on the banks of a muddy river back in the mists of time (cue the dream sequence music).