Zzzzzz

Man am I tired (and its only 9 p.m.) so I'm going to make this brief.
I almost got a doe this morning. Right away too, like 6:30 a.m. It was staring right at me. My gun was raised, my sight on, by safety off. I was slowly squeezing the trigger and before it could completely clamp and activate, the doe raised its tail and ran the way it came. Shoot. I mean I didn't shoot-Dang.
No more close ones after that.
And now its evening. I just got done barely making a dent in the growing pile of unfortunate school responsibilities. I can feel the timeline choking me a bit, and that unfortunately is effecting the loveliness of my time in the woods. No way am I going to feel guilty. This is what learning is! Right now its not just about writing fictional plots and feelings associated with pent-up-ness. I want to experience and get my face wind-burned! I want to do so much in a day (really, a full day from beautiful sunrise to sundown), that sleep is both a mental escape and a physical rest. Usually I'm just a fatty who falls on the bed in habit. Now I'm a hiker who's worn to the bones, crawling in for a few hours before another early morning ahead.
In fact, that bed is calling, and tomorrows the last day. I have some doe-tags to fill.

Bang Bang (but really just one bang)

I kept falling asleep all morning. Its amazing I can zonk out so effectively with my chin tucked into my collarbone. I would open my eyes in panic and scan around me. Twenty seconds later my head would be lolling forward again. I ended up standing for awhile to jolt the senses, and not long after sitting again, I saw movement and I watched as a camouflaged tan body made its way up the bluff (on a deer path) and in my direction. I frantically moved my hand at my side, shaking it to get my dads attention beside me. I even hit the gnarled bark of the giant oak tree next to me, just short of panicking to let  him know. I discretely pointed to the deer, and he put his scope on it. I could tell it was a buck. I couldn't tell how big it's antlers were.
It made its way closer, slowly climbing  to my right. I watched through my sight, I kept the shaking red dot focused in the right place when he finally said "take the shot." That's all I needed to hear (that the buck was big enough to take), so when it stopped, perfectly displaying its side for me to shoot, I slowly squeezed the trigger. Whoops. The safety was still on.
Shaking even more, I watched as the deer made its way through thick brush. Dang it! I blew it. Its not going to stop now (insert additional frustrated shaking that inspires additional panic shaking). When it moved out of the brush, I followed with my gun, and again pulled the trigger (only this time the safety was effectively disabled). I shot him in the neck and he dropped instantly.

I got my first buck on 11-11-11. I already envision the mini antlers on display in my future outdoorsy, fire-placed library in my cabin home up north. I'll look at them, scanning to the very large and unbelievably impressive trophies next to it (including the red stag) and I'll think, yes, that one was memorable because it was a first, because it made my heart skip, because my sister was there to give me a knuckle bump, and because once again I had my dad there to tell me it was of legal size, to tell me to take the shot, and to reteach me how to field dress the deer (and take over when I puncture the stomach).

Comparisons: hunting and the ride home.

It only seems appropriate that when driving back to Wisconsin after a so far unsuccessful Minnesota hunt (in terms of harvesting a deer) I almost hit two, one being a nice buck. The drive back took forever, mostly because I didn't want to go back. For once I didn't almost fall asleep being behind the wheel in my normal narcoleptic state, but instead I scanned the road for hazards, almost like scanning for deer in the stand eh eh? You like that?--My comparison between the natural world and the transition back into a world of waking after sunrise, and mindless jabbering (I'm quiet in the woods)?
I arrived back at my huge and crappy multiple-leased mansion with a headache. I hate driving at night. Brights or no brights, I get blinded, and I end up squinting the entire way (especially when driving under the speed limit and scanning for the silhouettes of deer). You say you want another comparison? Well of course! How about trudging to our spots in the morning, crunching on invisible sticks on the path beneath our feet, almost being adjusted to the pitch black morning when my dad looks back (wearing his mini red light strapped to his forehead) to see where we (me and my sister) are at, or to show us where a steep incline is:  inward groan at the shrinking pupils! That also has to do with being the walking sleepy dead.
Ok so now I'm back in my college town. I missed four classes today, and I am leaving back home for more hunting on Thursday, adding three more to the list. Eh whatevs...happy senior year!

Strange Encounters...err with squirrels.

Today I learned the difference between the red squirrel/pine squirrel, and the fox squirrel. Both are red, but only one looks like its hungry enough to eat your face.

When I encountered the red squirrel, I had been in a tree-stand. Hearing a quick rustle I would lean down, hoping to wake myself out of a sleepy trance by watching the little guy run around. I'm pretty sure they all have ADHD. Watch their tails. With every little chirp, it moves in a new direction. The eyes are wide open in perfect spheres, unblinking, staring yet looking unfocused, freaking out and becoming excited over a leaf, a gust of wind, the blaze-orange a hunter wears. Chirp, chirp. My dad told me he once saw a hawk swoop down to take out one of our spazztic friends. At the last minute he (our spazztic friend) sprung into the air and out of reach. Of course he knew it was coming. Of course he was quick enough to escape--he is always aware.
The fox squirrel is a big guy. For this encounter, I was leaning against a large fallen tree. Again hearing a rustle I looked to my left, and watched as the ginger monster unknowingly approached where I was sitting. Scampering forward atop my back rest, the chubbster had his hands-er mouth full. Go figure. It took him awhile to notice I was there. When he did, he stood up, and I stared at his soft squishy light belly, at his two palms lazily facing me (his right had a freckle near the thumb), at his black little fingernails. I looked at his fur, how the orange was intermingled with tans and black, how from root to tip it was transformed. He looked at my face, and tried to determine if I was male or female. Then I made the eye contact. That was a mistake. It was a duel, one I most definitely lost. My eyes crossed, my vision blurred, and he kept moving closer, making my breath catch. I thought if I looked away, if I moved a little, he would startle and scamper, giving me my accustomed space from the tree climbers. Instead he ran up the log, clattering behind me (chirping threats as he passed my head), and continued his life of obesity and constant bullying of humans.
The rest of the night's hunt the grey squirrels kept making my heart palpitate. The rustle of leaves! A deer-- it must be!
The species are tricksters.