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Several years ago, I wrote of the significance of an old hunting rule, one whose importance was evident in an example I gave. Deer hunting season is fast approaching; the old rule and its example merit repeating.
Seasoned deer hunters know the rule. They know it's not the rifle's cost, not the depth of shine in its stock's finish, not the bullet's caliber, or the newly mounted Weaver scope.
They know it's not the steadiness of their pull on their rifle's sculpted trigger.
They know none of these matters most. They know the most important thing is the truth embodied in the old hunting rule that says:
"Hunter, be vigilant in the field."
A rule well known by those who journey into the field of hunting dreams.
My father and I were gazing out the camp's picture window, overlooking the golden stubble of a recently combined field of corn. An old fence line was no more than 100 feet in front of us and ran parallel to our view along that field’s western boundary.
Max, a seasoned woodsman and fellow hunter, had left camp early on this opening-day's afternoon hunt. His blind was situated a couple hundred yards to the north, overlooking the same field my father and I stood viewing.
From the south, moving slowly but steadily along that fence line, came an eight-point buck, fully bathed in the midday sun.
He was gleaning kernels of corn and sampling the occasional yet tender shoot. My father and I watched as he moved north, a silhouette of perfection against the golden remnants of a harvested field of corn.
This magnificent presence occasionally paused to raise his head and test the breeze; his contentment affirmed, he continued toward Max's stand.
Could it possibly be this easy?
My father and I agreed that Max already had the buck in his sights and had begun formulating suitably humble responses to the anticipated accolades of his fellow hunters. We watched as he allowed this trophy to come along, waiting, we assumed, for that window of greatest opportunity, in this case, the perfect shot.
That window began to open. Soon, Max would seize the moment fate had so generously provided.
But no shots were heard. This superb specimen experienced nothing to disrupt his sampling of the harvested cornfield's remaining bounty, and the sun continued to enfold him in its autumn softness as he moved away and then was gone.
The moment passed; the window closed.
At dusk, Max returned to camp. I asked about the buck.
"What eight-point buck?" he inquired.
" The buck that walked 50 feet in front of you. The one who smiled and reached out to shake your hand." I replied.
Deep in his eyes, I could see a train of panic leave his innermost station and begin moving along tracks to the fringes of his awareness, pulling carloads of humiliation and mortification.
But Max, ever cool, always collected, refused to offload a single container. Instead, reaching more deeply than he had ever reached before, he replied:
"Oh, that buck, that eight-point buck! Ah yes, I watched him closely, had him in my sights all the while, but decided not to take him — a sire for the herd!"
It was a magnanimous Max, concerned for the heartiness and endurance of our local whitetail. How could I have thought otherwise?
Rumors of naps in deer blinds persist because of misunderstandings such as this. Never is there any truth to them. The old rule is simply too ingrained in the experienced hunter's well-honed concentration for such a lapse to ever occur.
Still, it bears repeating, and I know Max would want me to remind you:
Hunter, when in the field, be resolute in your vigilance!