I looked downhill; I let my eyes settle on the creek
and worked my eyes uphill, into an oak stand and the beginnings of a thicket. I allowed my eyes to naturally pick up movement against a white-blanket
backdrop. To the south the rhododendron thicket thickened, I found gaps and
listened, nothing. I moved west. I hid my rifle under my bulky-orange coat, protected
the scope from the dripping sky and occupied my mind with daydreams of deer. I
saw a flash of a deer, up the hill in the fog. It was gone quick, and I was
lucky to see it.
I sat on the cloud line. The
valley below ducked beneath the cloud like a child lying beneath his or her
smoke filled his bedroom. Uphill, the trees grew tall into a white-gray cloud of obscurity.
I looked for the horizon line; but the forest floor and the between-trees-sky blended into one another. Time drifted by, the ratio of snowflakes to rain
rose, and then the rain came back. At three o’clock the weather changed. The precipitation
stopped, the cloud rose and a slight breeze from the southwest kicked up. Blue-birds
flew around my tree, foraging and beating the cold from their feathered wings.
A red fox appeared; its
red-orange coat shone brilliantly against the white snow. I watched as it
picked a careful, yet quick path through the rhododendron thicket. I brought my
rifle-scope to my eye to watch it more closely. It traveled by instinct from
thicket to thicket, peering here, sniffing there. It came right for me and I
watched silently, rapt in its natural beauty. When she came within twenty yards
I could hear her footsteps in the soft snow. She left the cover of the rhododendrons.
She slowed, and climbed onto a downed tree, only five yards away.
The red fox paused, took a step and
then she stopped completely on the downed tree. This was the first time I saw her motionless. I
noticed her shoulders; I wondered how her orange coat kept her dry and warm. She
stuck out her snout and smelled. She took a graceful leap; nose first, front paws
curled back, and back legs exploding. Her body curved in a red arc and thump! She
landed snout first, buried her face three inches deep in the snow, leaves and
forest floor. I heard a squeak, and the fox came up from the underground with a
dead mouse in her jaws.
She put the mouse down, crouched
low and looked around. She focused onto my boot-prints at the base of my tree,
and then she looked up; right at me. Only then did I notice my mouth was
hanging open. We held eye contact for a moment and then she looked back at her
prey, and slowly backed away. She glanced at me again and then the mouse, she kept
backing away. Not wanting to leave, not to waste food, not after a successful
hunt; but she had to choice. The fox didn't run, but it reluctantly abandoned
her prize at my feet, backed away and then turned for cover.
I wore an orange coat, but
the real hunter went away and I was left sitting in a tree with a gun and trying
to understand something I never will.
