By Tank Hoover

The black coffee tastes good as I head west in total darkness. It’s late muzzleloader season, my favorite, and I’m excited. Hunting reunites us with the age-old primitive urge to kill what we eat. The “late” deer season makes us appreciative and aware of the common “basic” needs of food and shelter.

I leave my warm home to rendezvous with my ol’ trooper buddy. You remember Bill. He lives on 67 acres on top of a mountain and still has the sense, sage and savvy of the trooper he was. Still full of piss and vinegar, at 75, you best not cross him if you know what’s good for you.

The temperature is 15 degrees when I leave my house as it “warms up” to 8 degrees in Bill’s neck of the woods. Arriving in the pre-dawn hours, I make out the silhouette of about a dozen deer eating the hoar frost frozen grass as I climb the winding driveway to Bill’s mountaintop home. It’s going to be a good day!

After exchanging pleasantries and insults, back slaps and hugs we get down to business. Bill drops me off to my stand and he takes his on the opposite side of the property.

Time Freezes

Sitting in the cold, I learn a few sadistic lessons. Time is not only capable of flying, it can actually freeze, especially when you’re staring at a thermometer nailed to a tree in your blind reading 8 degrees — left by a buddy — to remind you just how cold it is. It doesn’t matter. My senses revert back a few thousand years into hunter mode. My vision and hearing sharpens, I’m alert and happy.

The simple self-denial of the basic comfort of heat makes me appreciative of what I’m experiencing. While in predator mode it makes me feel alive, actively participating in the food chain. Foggy thoughts clear my head as new fresh ones enter in a cathartic sort of way. I’ve been hunting all season long in several different states and have passed up many deer. Why? It seemed the right thing to do at the time.

I can honestly say I never really know what I’m going to do when I hunt. Will I shoot or pass? That’s where the decision is made. It’s all mine to make or take and no one else’s. You can’t fully understand it until you’re there, but those who do know what I’m saying.

Finally…

After two and a half hours, my teeth are chattering in-tune with my shivering. Looking to my right, I see seven deer step from the wood line like they’re entering a minefield. The lead doe is as suspicious as Bill and me, trusting no one. Her 6th sense tells her something is amiss, but what? All sense of cold escapes my body and focuses on the mission at hand.

Funny how that happens, and I think it’s the main reason we hunt. It doesn’t matter if we shoot or not, but every time we see a game animal, our adrenal glands prepare themselves for the big dump. It’s this feeling keeping us coming back for more, all the while denying the simple comforts.

Or is there a more important comfort in what we do, after all?

Shoot?

Even though I’m using a “modern” in-line TC Encore muzzleloader, I love hearing a front stuffer belch it’s bullet or ball after consuming powder. The pffft.. KABOOM! is almost instantaneous, yet distinguishable. A fiery inferno of orange flame blasts from the bore as a blinding cloud of white smoke follows suit, making you subconsciously stoop, peeking under the plume to check your aim. Just as it was 200 years ago using a flintlock.

As the air clears, I happily see a white belly with legs kicking in the air. My load of 150 grains of Hodgdon 777 under a Harvester ribbed sabot cradling a TC .45 caliber 250-grain shockwave bullet, sparked by a Winchester 209 primer — works flawlessly.

This hunt is special, reminding me of the single digit cold day I share with a good buddy. It’s etched in my brain to be retrieved whenever I need a break from the stress or monotony of real life. That comforting thing, maybe?

Bill shows up shortly on his 4-wheeler laughing at the snot-icle hanging from my nose past my mustache, saying, “Let’s go warm up!”

The fire is roaring, a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and an easy chair ready for me. Sipping coffee, warming my frozen fingers on the hot mug, we tell war stories as only two old cops can, stories getting richer and funnier each time they’re spun. When the BS was piled up over the top, we decide we better recover my deer.

Reflection

As I wind myself down Bill’s twisting driveway, I’m feeling pretty darn good. It was a great day to deprive myself of some physical comforts, to appreciate what I have — and make decisions. It’s these pick-me-ups that keep us going. I drop my deer off at the butcher shop and bump into another old cop buddy. Greetings are exchanged as we catch up, adding to a great day.

Make some decisions to deny yourself something to get out of your comfort zone. You’ll appreciate life more.

I know I do.

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