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Jesse's Hunting > Hunting Articles > Hunting Articles Archives > Is Time Afield Wasted Time?
Is Time Afield Wasted Time?
Phillip Loughlin - Editor JHO ProStaff
- SF Bay Area, CA
August 23, 2006
Last weekend, I came home, empty-handed as usual, from a daytrip to one of my favorite deer hunting spots. I only had time for a morning hunt, as I had to be home by early afternoon in order to join my wife at a barbecue.
So of course I rolled in just at the last moment, exhausted and filthy… actually just a little bit late. I explained to my wife about the fact that I’d driven a total of seven hours across almost 300 miles of highway just to spend three hours actually hunting. I’d spent those three hours climbing up nearly 2400 vertical feet of rugged canyon in 90 degree heat. I thought she’d be impressed by my dedication, and would at least show a little sympathy.
She shook her head. “You’re nuts! Just goes to show how much your IQ drops in direct relation to the proximity of any hunting season. By the time hunting season arrives, you’re a blithering idiot.”
I chose not to point out that, since wild hogs are open year-round here in California, it’s always hunting season. For some reason, I didn’t think that would make my point.
She didn’t give me a chance anyway. She scolded me like a mother scolding a child. “I can’t believe you went all the way out there, exerted all that sweat, spent all that money on gas, and for what? You did it all and got nothing!
No go wash up, and don’t linger! We’re supposed to be there in an hour!”
I stood contemplating her words under the hot shower. I did all that for “nothing”? I don’t see it that way at all. The steaming water rolled off of my tired shoulders as I recapped the trip in my mind.
Central California habitat
Just spending a few hours in the California hills is worth the time and expense of getting there. Time afield is definitely not wasted time. |
First of all, I’d left the city the evening before. Even as I fought my way through Friday night traffic, I could feel the madness falling away behind me. By sunset, I was on an empty country highway, sailing along through the kind of scenery that only central California can offer. Sere red hills rose up out of the yellow-tan valley floor. The sunset glowed a glorious purple and pink as it filtered through the coastal fog that almost, but not quite, rolled all the way in from the cold Pacific Ocean.
Just after dark, I’d had to stop to let a herd of wild hogs cross the road. It was too late to even think about shooting them, and they were heading onto private property anyway. It was still a thrill to watch them.
I arrived at my campsite at about 10:00. I got camp set up, poured myself a drink and stepped outside into the night. As the disturbance of my arrival faded, the night creatures resumed their gentle chorus. A covey of quail had roosted in a clump of brush right beside the road, and they chirped and murmured as they settled back to their sleep. Overhead, a canopy of stars spread out like a painting… the cloudy form of the galaxy serving as a contrasting glow of white in the inky blackness. As I stood soaking it in, I was serenaded by the song of a coyote. He was soon joined by another, then another, until the whole valley was alive with yips and howls. Already, I’d forgotten the drive, the traffic, and the workweek I was leaving behind. I breathed in deep, inhaling the unique California summer smell of dried grasses, sage, and chemise.
I filled myself with the smells and sounds, and then turned in. I crawled under the elk skin blanket, with a gentle breeze wafting over me and slipped away to sleep in that deep, restful way that only happens when I’m camping.
My alarm sounded, modern and alien in the 3:30am stillness, and I rolled over to turn it off. Eager to hunt, and knowing I had a long hike, I rolled out of bed and turned on the stove to heat a cup of coffee while I dressed. I took my cup and a breakfast bar and stepped out into the cool of the morning. The stars, if anything, were even more spectacular than before. They shone out like silver-white lights scattered across the sky. As I reveled in them, a sudden streak of green crossed space and I watched as remnants of the Perseid meteor shower burned their fiery arcs through the highest levels of the atmosphere.
Then the coyotes sang again, awakening the hunter in me. I donned my pack, grabbed my rifle and binoculars, and set out for my morning hunt.
A quarter mile from my truck, I heard noise in the grass to my right. I stopped, and slowly turned my headlamp toward the source. A pair of green eyes glowed back at me, less than 20 yards away. Another pair blinked to life behind the first. I turned my head again, and realized that there were deer all around me. They had let me walk right into the middle of the herd. We pondered each other briefly, and then with snorts and wheezes, they broke and ran into the surrounding hills. With two hours of darkness before shooting light, I knew there was no point trying to follow, so I went on to my original destination with my heart thudding from the excitement of the encounter.
The hike and climb were exhilarating, the only kind of exercise I really enjoy, and daybreak found me perched on a peak overlooking three main canyons, with many ridges and fingers jutting into them. Meadows and oak thickets, interspersed with thick chaparral covered the hills, with occasional pines jutting upward. Every acre held promise as prime deer and hog habitat, and the morning went quickly as I glassed over and over.
The day heated up quickly, as the early season days tend to do in this part of the state. I checked my watch, and realized I needed to start back toward camp. I took a detour, and worked my way up the draw where the deer had run earlier. The draw led into a box canyon, and I climbed the steep sides, sometimes on hands and knees, until I reached the top of the ridge heaving and sweating. Deer tracks and scat littered the hillside, and several indentations under a copse of pines told me that the deer had bedded there during the night. I made a mental note to return here for another hunt, then made my way back to camp, where I arrived tired but fulfilled.
I barely noticed the distance traveled on the way home, memories of the short trip crowded my mind. Traffic was bearable, and every time it slowed I had only to think back on the green, red, and white streaking meteors or the coyote concert to dull the frustration. It had been a great trip!
My wife was yelling something about getting on the road, so I turned off the shower and reached for a towel. I was still thinking about her words, though. Those hours spent on the road, the expense of fuel and time, and the physical exertion... all to come home without so much as a shot at game. Was it all for nothing?
Hardly.
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