We Are Hunters

We Are Hunters

Frost glistens on the stiff, brittle, strands of grass. The early morning air is frigid; the cold seeps easily to the bone. Despite the dark and cold, you will sit stubbornly in that tree stand. Watching as the sun first breaks over the treetops, and warms your freezing form, well hidden amongst the branches. You flex your fingers and adjust your bow. Waiting to draw back on the buck of a lifetime.
The waves lap against the rocky shore. A nice wind that churns the water, and a growing fog mark ideal conditions. Despite the dark and cold, I sit backed up to the tree line. My gaze focused, waiting for movement. The sun's first rays peak over the mountains, and warm my cold-stiffened form, barely visible in the thin, brittle foliage. I flex my fingers and adjust my shotgun against my shoulder. Waiting to pull up on a flock of greenheads that will come bearing out of the fog.
Buds on the trees signal the arrival of spring. Mornings are brisk, but that doesn't last long. The birds sing their familiar morning songs. Here paths cross where we share the same woods, the same knowledge, and the same game. The same excitement flashes, red-hot, through our veins at the sound of a bellowing gobble. The same rush of adrenaline at seeing a a longbeard come strutting into view. With that neon white head, and body puffed out with his tail fanned wide.
We are hunters. No matter the quarry we hunt, whether it be deer, ducks, or turkeys, we all experience the same thing. We know the challenge of what we hunt keeps us going. But it is the memory of the hunt that we walk away with that makes us proud. Only another hunter will understand what drives a hunter. The best memories come from getting lost in the woods with others that you care about, because even if you leave empty handed, you will still have a new hunting story to tell.
Bows and bucks, shotguns and ducks. Paths cross at the turkey tracks. That sure sounds like paradise to me.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think!