The Cow And I

Slay Another Day

Much as my opponent would like you to believe that he alone has a life outside of BeefStakes, cream-oozing cheeses and all, I too have occasion to take a few steps back from the contest that has so dominated our lives this year.

Such was the case this past weekend, when I ventured down to Southern Illinois for a family deer-hunting trip. And I was not alone. Thousands upon thousands of other hunters were apparently headed in the same direction Thursday morning, as I made my way south on Interstate 57. Every other vehicle, it seemed was an SUV or pickup truck, loaded up with the tell-tale paraphernalia of the hunting sportsman: portable deer stands, gun rack, cases of cheap beer. Ah, the anticipation was palpable.

The next morning, I proceeded to hike out, in the darkness of 4:30 am, to my chosen hiding place on the edge of a vast woodland. As I trudged past field and fence with only a dim flashlight to guide me, I wondered how my quarry, once dispatched with hollow-tipped slug, would impact BeefStakes. The meat from a deer, while insignificant compared to a steer, nonetheless represents at least a couple of weeks worth of meals. And so, as I settled down for the long wait until dawn, I resolved to stow my processed kill at the bottom of my freezer, underneath the prized remains of one Young Belted Galloway.

However, as the cold slowly seeped through my layers of clothing into my bones over the new few solitary, still hours in the growing light of day (an experience repeated on Saturday and Sunday), it became apparent that this wasn’t a choice I would have to make after all. The deer, it seems, were unwilling to deliver themselves unto me. The closest herd that I glimpsed through the dim light of dawn, on Sunday, was at least 300 feet distant – too far by a half to squeeze off an accurate kill-shot. (Sigh)

The drive home was even more frustrating: as I passed truck after truck on the highway, I observed the unmistakable signs of success in the rear bed: hooves protruding upward from stiffened legs. That a vast slaughter occurred statewide during the three-day deer season was obvious to all who cared to look.

And yet, amidst such evidence of joyful carnage, I wondered what prevented me from taking a deer this weekend. Was my sniping perch not adequately concealed from the sharp eyes of my quarry? Did the occasional shifting of my weight in my seat make too much racket in the still, dark woods? Or was the scent of beef wafting from my clothes and pores strong enough to alert my prey from great distances? I don’t know. At this point, I don’t really care. The deer will be back next year, as will I. And as I thaw out another couple of pounds of frozen ground beef, I’ve got bigger things to think about in the meantime.

Posted by eric at November 24, 2004 08:30 AM