The following is called Meteor it is about a hunting trip made just before
thanksgiving during the Leonaides meteor shower...best way to enjoy it is to
copy, print and read at your leisure or do like Ralph and wrap your fish in
it.



Just a quick note there is about 8 million deer in Mississippi and 2.5
million people
and they are a problem for the habitat.
Second my diet includes meat so I feel one must be responsible to the
principal of taking meat (for your familles table).as it does not grow in the
super market.  .
Lastly this is my first buck;I had plenty of chances but this is my first one
The original story is long....(write if you want the whole thing) Michael
The story picks up on the first night at deer camp......

Meteor.
It is time for bed; the fire is made low and we retire to our sleeping bags
eager to witness the spectacular fireball fantasy of the Leonaids.
We ooh and ahh on the hillside as we watch the.stars wiggle and leave color
trails.every which way.
From opposite hills a pair of coyotes serenade in unison. Then Mid way
through the third movement  the program is enjoined by a chorus of snoring
men ."What perfection".
  As I lay on the hillside and think probably not since Hannibal crossed the
Alps with the elephants has there been such a din ; ..
. As the heavens continue I close my eyes and listen to the crescendo of the
soloists .It won't be long before long I join them in  the last act.

    Dawn breaks  with a pair of nosey mag pies flying  overhead.I can't see
them but they seem to chase the night.
 Then as stars fade to light  the camp fire sputters its light then jumps to
life.
  We crowd around  and bustle through a breakfast of hot ham biscuits in red
eye gravy with cups of grainy cowboy coffee.
Amid gulps of coffee, we busy ourselves dressing in cammo and hunter orange
while dosing our clothes in deer scent.
Then  we  tend to our firearms; sharpen  knives.and draw crude maps of our
hunt  locations in the dirt by the fire

 I am to take a low trail into the North wood to a good stand about halfway
from the stream. I am to look for it when I see a Persimmon tree
My friend .. Beau will take another trail a 1/2 mile away off in another
holler of horn scrapes  made by territorial buck in rut.

It is a fine morning cold and clear with little wisps of dark purple cirrus
clouds floating mile and a half above. us.  .
I affix the leather ammo bandolier across my chest, smudge my face , then
shoulder my old garrand and head out   bidding good luck to those I pass.

I manage the trail in the gloom experiencing the phenomena of rising fog in
ghostly little fingers creeping out of hollers of wet leaves and wood decay.
It collects in silver pools waist high to the Forrest floor and leaves an
earthy smell in the cold crisp air... I find my Persimmon tree and locate my
stand high in an old moss oak.

 At 6:45 am the dogs are released a mile and a half away;
They pickup the scents of deer and move through a distant wood braying.
Two Doe deer forage breakfast near my stand and move off not noticing me
I am not interested.
 We are here for buck.
At seven am Two more Doe trot through the thicket as the dogs bray closer.
Still no sign of any Buck boy friends.

The sun now peeks through the Forrest in slotted shafts alighting the mist
making it surreal and dreamlike.
Suddenly I hear something.
Thirty yards off there is a crash through a thicket.
 Fog bound It stops unseen and takes its bearings
  I don't see anything until there is another scramble of leaves near me
 Then I see it. Horn in the fog.
I stare in disbelief ... it is a magnificent rack of horn.

In a split second the buck is running again and my heart is pounding.
 This time in full view through a small stand of hardwoods.
A two hundred pound whitetail with large hind quarters;
stamping and bashing his way through wet dark oaks and fallen leaves of the
cut.
I raise my Garrand, and press my eye to the sight
Our  fates have now  crossed
 ; whatever the outcome the buck and I are bound by these precious moments
sharing in drama acted out since time immemorial
          The peep site closes in.He is splashing along a small  stream
making for some pine thicket when he leaps a log in mid air.
 He is dead on center.
 I exhale and slowly squeeze the trigger.

The rifle cracks and the . 06 knocks him down between two trees at 50 yds.
He struggles  to get up as the smoke clears from my  stand.
My adrenaline rushes ...
he rises nimbly
I quickly refocus and and issue a second report. Knocking him still to the
Forrest floor. . .

I climb down out of my tree and run over to him.
His eyes are wild yet wise
 Strangely I feel knowledge imparted to me through his worldly presence. And
bloody sacrifice
. I also feel sadness as he is so beautiful.
      In a second he is gone.

      I carry him over to where I was standing and care for him until men and
dogs show up.
          Soon there was a small crowd to see the trophy buck.
 I don't care about this because he had given me something I can't describe.
Something the animal kingdom tries to communicate with man.

Diana The 14 yr. old huntress arrives on an ATV while the other teenagers
proceeded to count then measure the horns.
 Nine points seventeen inches they announce. Good size for a hill deer

Diana asked me if it was my first buck; At first I did not want to answer;
embarrassed for my age and lack of experience.
 Then sheepishly told her it was.
This created a reaction and a call for some disguised initiation
that I was oblivious to.
She studied me then asked me for my knife;
I hesitated unsure of what this was all about.
I then handed her a 19 cent Austrian bayonet I had restored and brought with
me to field dress with if I was so lucky with a buck..
. She unsheathed it and its gleam caught the sun.
She then took it and worked it along the open wound of the buck letting the
warm blood run unto its blade and gut groove.

Satisfied with her work she did something I had never heard of let alone
seen; she stood over the deer and offered the bloody blade up to the sun.
 She then turned and ordered me to stand still.
 I felt uneasy but trusted the moment.
 She then simply smiled and wiped the bloody blade across my cheek being
careful not to cut me.

The simplicity of the act instantly transported me to some ancient time in
some vaunted field.
 I was a boy and I was initiated in the rite of first kill by a young girl
royal to the hunting clan. Why I saw this now I do not know.
The blood ran warmly down my cheek it touched the corner of my mouth and lip.
My present hunting partners stepped forward to congratulate me.
I barely acknowledged their greeting
 In my interpretation; I saw the act of taking the blood by knife a ritual
that needed to be repeated at this time in my life.
 I didn't want to let go of its significance.to the moment.

As I tasted the blood;I was reminded   that life is a collective experience
with many mansions rich in the memory of . learning .
Sometimes it is  necessary to  step back and claim  all your experience  in
order to step foward.
Be careful how you perceive this. Life and your relationships differ in time;
  the blood you taste may be your own.
Let consciousness rule all your indecision's; Sacrifice and make giving
abundant at your table.
I give thanks to my Buck deer;
I couldn't have gotten here today without him.
Peace Michael
(stone masons journal)
  .