John Blankenship
November and wind are as inseparable as my spirit and the places where I can sit and savor the rush of feelings they can bring.
It’s that transition time of not yet winter, but no longer the gentle period separating the seasons.
It’s the smell of wood smoke, old friendships rekindled and new ones made.
And through it all, there’s the sense of tradition.
I can spend a whole year and not listen, feel or taste the wind.
November is different.
I hear the rustle of a few dead leaves at the top of aspens and birches, which can both sadden and yet exhilarate me.
They seem to mourn the passing of another season, dried bones rattling on nature’s wind chimes.
For a big-game hunter, they can keep the senses alive when they mimic the sounds of approaching hooves.
In November, I’m forced to feel the wind and embrace its challenge as it looks for nooks and crannies in my armor.
It blushes my cheeks and brings my sense of touch alive once more.
And there are times when I could swear I smell its essence, as if it were a living creature that surrounds me.
At other times, the wind carries smells of cedar, hemlock and moss dredged up from the floor of hidden valleys beyond the next ridge.
Or perhaps it carries the scent of marshes where, with autumn’s chill, it has churned up the moisture. It has a faint scent of pine and spruce.
November’s winds are a hunter’s winds: one part sadness for the understanding that all life passes; one part joy at knowing that you’re truly alive in the moment. And for me, that’s November in deer season.
As a youngster growing up in southern West Virginia, I hunted mostly for small game. The great comeback of the white-tailed deer and the wild turkey had just begun, but squirrels were plentiful. They offered hunting chances for almost everyone.
Similarly, the beginning of bushy-tail season and the advent of rabbit and grouse seasons garnered special attention.
The basic idea was to set out at first light and hunt all day. This might have involved 30 minutes or so at a farm pond.
The heart of the day would be devoted to a sort of come-what-may approach.
This might have meant easing along the edge of woodlots or walking an old logging road, stopping frequently to look and listen, hoping to spot a bushy-tail or a fat fox squirrel hiding high up in a hardwood.
Of course, if you were fortunate enough to have a trustworthy squirrel dog and decent scenting conditions, getting a bunch of the treetop tricksters could sometimes be accomplished quite readily.
Should that be the case, you could turn your attention elsewhere, buoyed by the satisfying heft of a bulging game pouch in a hunting jacket.
The rest of the day would be spent meandering through fields, tromping windrows where brush had been pried up from clear-cuts or walking ditch rows and woodlot edges, hoping to jump a rabbit or flush a covey of quail.
If a quail or two flew over, took wing from a tree or otherwise came within range, so much the better.
Any such activity was a joy for all.
The delicious uncertainty of anticipation added spice to the day, and even if the pace were leisurely, by day’s end you were sure to be dog-tired.
If you were really dedicated, you might stick it out until the last light faded in the west and legal shooting hours ended, still-hunting near a den tree for squirrels if you hadn’t already hit your limit.
If you’d already snagged some bushy-tails, you could try to intercept a few game birds on the way back to a roosting area after their day’s pursuits.
Alternatively, there was the chance for some equally fast shooting for grouse as they flocked to cedar thickets for the night.
As dark embraced you on the homeward trek, you suddenly sensed a pleasant fatigue.
It was a gratifying tiredness, one that brought the satisfaction of knowing you worked hard for the game you bagged.
The point of this reminiscence is simple: The same old-fashioned style of hunting is still available.
Throughout the country, small-game seasons remain open well after deer season closes.
Tread softly and safely, my friends.
Top o’ the morning!
— Blankenship is a columnist for The Register-Herald. E-mail: jabbb@suddenlink.net
