A special buck and an unforgettable afternoon in the woods at the farm. I think that “Pop” would be proud! Outdoors writer Brad Dye and the “Cardinal Buck.” Photo by Gena Dye

Something told me that I needed to go hunting that afternoon.  Call it hunter’s intuition, a hunch or a premonition, but earlier in the week as I was studying the long-range forecast and wind direction for each day, I had a special feeling about this one afternoon.

 

I’m no wildlife biologist, but the deer behavior seemed to be signaling that the whitetail rut was beginning at the farm.  The most obvious sign of that was the fact that bigger bucks seemed to be abandoning their normal nocturnal patterns and showing themselves in daylight hours.

 

One of those bucks began to frequent the area I had chosen for my afternoon hunt.  The spot seemed to be a magnet for doe activity throughout the day and with the wind blowing lightly from the south, conditions were right for the old monarch of the woods to make an appearance.

 

I slipped undetected into a box blind just after 3 p.m. and settled in for the evening hunt.  Based upon the game camera footage for the food plot, I expected to see eight to ten does within the hour, however, when I checked my watch a little after 4 p.m., the field was empty, apart from one brilliant cardinal.

 

My vibrant red-feathered friend had announced his arrival from the limb of a small white oak along the wood’s edge before pitching into the open field to feed.

 

As I’ve previously written, cardinals hold special significance for our family.  In much of Native American culture the cardinal is believed to be a messenger from the spirit world.

 

Since his passing, we’ve come to see a visit from a cardinal as a visit from “Pop.”  It’s not unusual in our family to hear that, “Pop was with me on my turkey hunt this morning,” or “Pop paid me a visit this afternoon while I was down by the lake with the dogs.”

 

When the stunning avian envoy joined me on my evening hunt this week, I took it as a sign.  I also took the opportunity to ask a few questions.  “Do you think he will show up this afternoon, Pop?” was my first, followed by, “Can you believe how many bucks we have here now?”

 

We conversed as the last light of the day waned in the western sky and I pondered, as I often do, exactly what Billy “Pop” Hull would think and say about the habitat enhancements and wildlife management practices we’ve implemented at the farm.

 

Shortly before 5 p.m., the spirited — or spiritual — songbird left the field in the direction from which he had entered.  He left in a manner that suggested the arrival of something or someone else.  I bent down to place the Harry Middleton book that I had been reading into my pack and when I raised my head, I understood why.

 

A large buck had entered the field to my right, opposite the cardinal’s egress, and was making his way slowly and deliberately across the field. He was the one, the reason I had chosen this spot.  Was this really happening?

 

This was my first hunt of the season.  I had been in the stand less than two hours, and my trophy buck was at hand. It felt unreal.  Perhaps, I later reckoned, hunts like this are the reward for all the days spent sitting, waiting and watching to no avail.

 

As I settled the crosshairs, let out half a breath, and began to squeeze the trigger, I thought of the cardinal.  In the moments that followed, as I knelt beside the buck, my hands on his still-warm body while offering up a prayer of thanksgiving, I thought of Pop.

 

It is in these moments that I miss him the most, moments in which I long to share the experience, to hear his words, to see his smile.  It is in these moments that I am also grateful for the cardinals, for the signs, for the messages.

 

In those last moments of dusk, the light fading to shadow, the cardinal sounded his Evensong and I, too, whispered mine.  “Keep up the good work,” he said.  “I will. I promise,” I replied.

 

As I walked across the field to retrieve my pack, a trio of wood ducks squealed overhead as they rocketed down the hill toward the reed brake.  No finer vespers have ever been sung.

 

In my reading of Middleton’s “The Earth is Enough” that afternoon, I came across this passage:

 

“Later I began to understand that when you have lived with the land as long as they had, if you’re lucky, there comes a point when the land is part of you and you are part of it.  The union, if not perfect, is inexorable.  It’s in you, all its rich bounty, its pain and loss, like blood and tissue.”

 

Walking out that night, I’ve never felt more connected to a place, “inexorably” connected, and never more proud of that connection as well as humbled by the responsibility of it.

 

Here’s to honoring the life of the buck, the lives of those that came before us and blazed the trail, and the lives of those that will walk behind us in our footsteps, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.