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GRAY OWL 2
A follow-up letter from Buck turned a deer season on its head.
November 11, 1973 Hoops, It’s with a great amount of sadness I’m writing you this short note. Even though I didn’t get a deer last year, I had a great season. Lots of memories stayed with me and I told the story about Gray Owl many times. I was able to take a couple of extra days off to scout this year and was excited, hoping that the big buck had survived the wolves and the winter and would be around for this November.
I got to deer camp and immediately headed out to look for sign. I had just gotten to the edge of the balsams by the Cedar Swamp when I heard “hoo-hooo.” I smiled to myself and started to plan my strategy for the season. I had to get a look at the buck again, so I followed the sound down into the swamp.
“Hoo-hoo.” I was hurrying with excitement. His gray form was unmistakable. The feathers were broken down a little more and his shoulders seemed to almost droop. He looked like an old man. His voice was melancholy, and I suddenly had a very unsettling feeling. As I came closer, I could see that he was watching me and yet made no effort to escape. I was puzzled. He was quiet as I finished the last few steps, but his eyes stared directly into mine.
I stumbled as I reached his tree and looked down to see the remains of a deer that had obviously died some time before. Disappearing into the ground and half covered with this autumn’s fallen leaves, it was the big buck.
What was left of its frame was huge. The mice and squirrels had attacked the antlers, chewing off several small points and almost gnawing through the thick base at the skull in an effort to restore the minerals they need for survival. Even in this state they were impressive. Most of his ribs were there, and it was obvious what had happened. The sixth rib on the left side, and the fourth rib on his right side were both broken in half well up onto the chest. He made it less than two hundred yards from where I shot him.
A wellspring started within me, and I began to sob. “I’m sorry Gray Owl!” I bellowed and looked up into the tree. He was gone. He’d served his friend one last time.
I have no argument with hunting. I believe God, in his wisdom, allows for those of us who spend our time in His world to pursue game in a fair manner as did our ancestors. And yet, I had no heart for being out in the woods this November.
I’ll serve my penance this year and will again take to the woods in the future. My story of Gray Owl has been met with skepticism. I’ve found no one that has had a similar experience. To be honest, it’s the only time I’ve seen an owl and a buck together. Is it just an old wife’s tale? I don’t know. But, if I’m fortunate to have a son in the future and we go out on those cool, crisp days of November, I will always say: “Matti, when that big owl flies by, keep your eyes peeled for antlers”!
Buck
