What is bowhunting to U

[Gimpaw]

I wrote this article in 2001.

On any given day someone at work will ask me if I've had any success in my hunting. I know that what they're really asking me is whether I've filled my freezer with venison, or not. When I tell them that I haven't taken a deer yet, I frequently get one of those smiles that says, "All that time and nothing to show for it. Your nuts".
Success means something different to everyone. If I hunted strictly to put meat on the table, I guess I would be a little nuts. Spending a fraction of that time in some money making endeavor instead of in a tree, would buy far more meat than one deer could offer.
I don't think that I've ever had an unsuccessful hunt. I sat in my stand a couple weeks ago and didn't see one deer, but it was one of the most enjoyable hunts I've ever had.
I climb into my stand and look at my watch. It's 4:30 pm. I look at a dark cloud bank that is unique to an autumn sky. the blue/gray clouds are the perfect backdrop for the autumn collage of greens, yellows, reds and browns. The sun breaks through the clouds and brings out the brilliance of their color, and I realize that what I'm viewing cannot be captured in any photograph. God's own masterpiece is spread out before me.
As the afternoon wears on, the temperatures begin to fall. I sit and listen to a lone frog weakly croak out the season's last song. If not for me, there would be no one to hear him. I close my eyes for a moment to hear him sing. I already anticipate his return in the spring when the "frog song" will be nearly deafening.
From behind me the chickadees announce their arrival with the sound of fluttering wings. How often they have entertained me within arms reach and rescued me from the boredom that sometimes accompanies a long day in the woods.
A smile rests on my face as the chickadees and titmouse orbit my stand. They are so completely unaware of my presents, that their perch alternates between my knee and my arrow. As they migrate toward the swamp that I hunt, I give a quick word of thanks to the Creator for their brief visit.
My stand overlooks Butcher's creek. The quiet babbling of the passing waters is soothing. I am unencumbered by the tasks of the day and all the noise assosiated with it. There's a noticable absence of telephone, television and the hum of machinery. I bask in the stillness of nature.
Darkness begins to overtake the day, and I lower my bow to the ground. As I begin to climb out of my stand, I see two racoons making their way to the water's edge. I linger there for a few minutes to watch them. They bear a striking resemblance to the two bandits I've seen on my front porch, eating the cat's food. For tonight, I'm just content to watch them. We can argue over porch ownership another day.
There's an undeniable chill in the air. My son must have started the woodstove. As the faint smell of chimney smoke reaches me, I think of all the places that I've lived, and I think of how blessed I am to be living out my dream of living in these woods that we've aptly named Journey's End.

So many places I've called home,
but my dreams have led me here
A quiet place with room to roam
among the woodcock and the deer
Where the chimney smoke reaches out to me
like a welcome on the wind
With a promise of warmth and shelter
at every journey's end.

In the gathering darkness, I walk back to the house. My wife asks, "How was hunting?" I smile and tell her that it was good. "Did you see any deer?" she asks. She smiles and shakes her head when I tell her, "Not a one".
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