The hunting seasons were long over. The world around his modest mountain home seemed as empty as his thrice-damaged hunter’s heart. He needed rejuvenation of the soul that forever craved wildness, sylvan places of almost deafening silence. He recalled the words of Samuel Foss in his book, The Bloodless Sportsman. “The woods are for the hunter of dreams,” He so agreed with that sentiment, that the hollows around his home provided far more precious things than sustenance for the physical energy needed by mankind.
Far more abundant and priceless were those things that filled the soul and peaceably nurtured his aging inner spirit. God, he thought after having three heart attacks, I never want to die and leave all of this behind.
Often he would mention to his family that he was “shamefully afraid of passing over to the other side.” That he knew not what awaited him over “there.” Frequently, he would ask his personal God, “Are there whitetails there and drumming grouse and the pungent but favorable odor of rotting forest duff?” Simple things in his life, yes, but he cherished them. And he would smile to himself, knowing the answer wouldn’t come. Still he went on, wishing for these things but, at the same time, hoping for an extension of life he so loved.
Bluebird days, one by one, were cherished more than ever before, savored and appreciated wholly. The daily voids that tried to overcome him emotionally stabbed at his heart, but were fought off with memories of woodland outings past. Certain animals from long ago sightings and golden times spent with his son helped to fill those crevasses in his heart where none should ever be.
One of his most treasured memories was the sighting, and emotional befriending of a white deer, a doe, he came Nahani, a breathtakingly beautiful animal that always walked alone, shunned by its own kind because of their instinctive fear that her white pelage may draw unwanted attention, thus danger. Nahani means in Canadian Indian (Chimmesyan band) “one who shines.” And that she did. Ghosting through the forest like a small cloud of birch woodsmoke. Seemingly trusting, whisper-silent, and with a beauty and majesty that could halt one’s heartbeat.
And so, in the dread core of winter, against family wishes, he shuffled slowly and tentatively toward a grove of nearly impassable hemlocks where he felt she might have sought shelter from the knifing winds. Thinking she might already have resorted to eating mountain laurel as a defense against the relentless winter winds, he carried along several dozen small apples he’d kept in the basement. Stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket, he would leave them behind for her, hoping she would find them, for he knew that whitetails will, when food supplies are dangerously low, sometimes eat the toxic leaves of the laurel, only to make them sick. He also knew that deer of every species have been found starved and frozen within feet of hay bales. “What I would give,” he said, “to have her take the apples from my hand. What a blessing it would be to touch her sterile white coat, just one time.”
His main concern, though, was to help Nahani make it through the dangerous time of the Hunger Moon. If only she would accept his small offering, laden with man scent, it may afford her some comfort against the pangs of hunger. They’ll keep her until my son can fall some unreachable browse tomorrow, he thought. Permission, of course, had been granted by the landowner.
Out of breath and aching to the point of tearing eyes and gravely weakened in hips and legs to where he was forced to pull himself along with the help of springy saplings, he looked with relief to the hemlock stand where Nahani might sleep, protected near her winter yard, always alone.
He so respected her tenacity, housed in her snow white, fragile looking body. He often drew his own strength from thoughts of her. Thus, she was special to him, as surely as she would be to his beloved Native Americans. She was a blessing from the Great Spirit, a tonic for the troubled soul. Magic “dressed in white.
Sitting to catch his breath and take what could always be the last taste of his revered sanctuary, he thought wilderness is the salvation of the world. The sanctuary I may never again visit, worship or give thanks for as it may one day, soon, be beyond my ability to make the trip again. Today then, I must bid a reluctant farewell, a last but grateful thanks for the golden memories. My old heart weighs heavy, for this will be like a friend dying. Man never loses his deep need for solitude, the quiescence that is nature, the freedom that is hunting. Surely the need and urge to kill diminishes as one grays. I seem to have naturally taken on an attitude of live and let live. Still, that superiority of power over another fellow animal is a feeling that exists in all men. Some, however, never come to the raw realization of it or turn on their natural instincts. Thus their predatory transmissions remain in neutral. That feeling, that natural instinct in him, kept him a hunter some 43 years.
His thoughts then turned to the white deer that seemed to have magic following closely behind her-always. He laughed to himself as he looked upon his lumpy appearance, caused by all the apples he’d stuffed in every pocket of his woolen jacket. “I’m sure glad there are no hunters out,” he said to no one in particular. “Why they’d think I had a severe case of upperbody mumps,” He felt weakened, yet well. Happy to be where he was even though the penetrating cold frosted his mustache and sideburns.
He remembered the huge black bear that once followed Nahani through a hardwood hollow nearby. A bear he’d tried for two years to photograph but never caught a glimpse of until Nahani and her magic brought the silken, ebony-coated bear just in front of his position early one morning during the initial days of the buck season. A day on which, of course, he carried no camera. But like Nahani, and like all the woodland wonders he’d seen over his 40 plus years a hunter, he’d etched the memories of them into a special chamber in his heart where he knew for certain they would never age or yellow.
How I would love to have her accept the apples from my hand, he thought, as a gift. As a bonding of our odd but touching friendship. It would be more precious to me than a gold watch from the president of some large corporation on retirement day. Superficial at best, but here in Nahani’s world, there is nothing superficial. He smiled, bent over painfully, and touched a match to the small collection of tree limb debris and pine cones he’d gathered for a small, hand-warming fire.
Soon, his eyelids became heavy from the over exertion of the walk to the hemlock stand. Darkness was about 90 minutes off, beyond the Endless Mountain range. He thought of the simple, yet profound sentiments of George Washington Carver who once said, “If you love it enough, anything will talk to you.” And he wondered what Nahani might say if indeed, she could speak. Perhaps she would ask why she must always walk alone, and why she was not blessed with a fawn. Maybe she would say, “Inside I’m like the rest; only my coat is different.”
He thought of how the world nurtures prejudice. He was saddened to have learned that, although minimal, there too, is prejudice in the world of wild things. However, this adversity goes relatively unnoticed, for no cruel words spill forth from the mouths of those who “practice” it, nor do the victims of same feel any hurt, save loneliness.
His heart seemed burdened by the weight of hurt he felt for Nahani, for white deer that walk alone, for whatever the true reason. A student of wildlife biology, he was reminded that partly white deer, commonly known as piebalds, are alleged to be genetically inferior. That their occurrence in hunted populations is less than one percent. He knew, too, that true albino deer, all white with pink eyes were extremely rare and that both may be hearing impaired. He worried for Nahani, that she may fall victim to a vehicle. What a waste that would be, he thought. What considerable beauty and mystique would be gone from these woods should she perish before her natural time?
He of course cherished those times he saw her in the meadow grasses of late spring and summer. Like a heavenly ghost, an earth held cloud of woodsmoke. And he would always recall the words of a long ago writer whose name he’d forgotten: “the criterion of true beauty is that it increases upon closer examination.” Also during this time, perhaps his very last in a woodland where he could not hear the whining of fast rolling radial tires on a highway to nowhere, he wanted to see Nahani up close. He waited until the chill of dusk urged him homeward. She hadn’t shown herself but, strangely, he felt certain she was nearby. She was “always there.”
As he left the woods, he turned one last time to say farewell to a place he may never again visit. His eyes glistened from the evening wind that clawed its way through his woolen jacket and, through that painful stabbing in his aging eyes; he spotted the ghostly shape of Nahani.
He watched her furtive movement as she sneaked her way toward the spot where she sat. Her keen eyes straining for a clearer view of her benefactor, for her hearing was, obviously, severely impaired. Otherwise, he thought, she would never have come in this close were she able to hear my careless footfalls.
Nahani was the benediction of his day, perhaps his last time in this most favored hollow. He somehow felt she revealed herself especially for him. But no, it was Someone else, a miraculous answer to a simple man’s prayer. And so, simple man he is, he whispered to Nahani, “See ya.”
Summoning the memory of that day helped brighten many otherwise spiritless days of winter. He felt himself blessed but, still, as always, he worried about Nahani living comfortably beyond the Hunger Moon. He would constantly watch the field across from his home for her. She was never there, though at least during daylight. However, there was some comfort in his old heart knowing his son, Justin, had cut considerable browse for her and any other whitetail in the area. It would soon be spring and his concern would lessen.
During the time of the “First Leaves”, he again saw “his” Nahani. As did all deer, she grazed the meadow in search of forbs. He took a photo of her without advantage of his telephoto lens; still, it revealed her unique majesty and her unforgettable look of innocence backed by an odd awareness of all that was around her. The photo sits atop his private dresser with other, equally sacred photos. Nahani was special to him, to her Mother Earth, and to those few who were fortunate enough to spot her.
As far as he could tell, it was Nahani’s third spring. When he’d first spotted her in the field that spring, she appeared to have wintered well. But he knew that ribs wouldn’t show too well beneath q coat of long, white hair. She was small, as are most whitetails of this pelage and, in the greatest sense; this characteristic may have been to her advantage. Smaller body, he thought requires less food, less exertion to move about in search of food during the Hunger Moon. Had Nahani fared well through winter? At least she’d made the journey and, most likely, alone.
One late spring morning his son walked to the garden of a neighbor who would offer some saddening news.
“Hi, Justin. Suppose you and your father heard about that white deer you two loved so much?”
Of course the young man hadn’t, and his father was still at home nursing his first pot of coffee.
“No, In fact I haven’t even seen Nahani since the beginning of spring. Why?”
“Had a name for her huh?” questioned the neighbor, Francis. He looked down toward his muddied boots, then into the questioning, anxious eyes of the young man. “Well, Justin, she was killed last night, hit by a car or truck over on Maple Hill.”
The young man thanked Francis for telling him, and without saying goodbye turned and left. He walked home slowly, not wanting to break the news to his father. That time came and went. Little else was said that week about little Nahani. A few frequent sentiments were shared, each of them similar in nature. “Sure do miss seein’ ol’ Nahani, don’t you?”
Nahani had made it through three Hunger Moons. She’d added a pleasant and brilliant presence to the otherwise gray woods of winter and a special magic to the flowered meadows of spring, only to fall victim to what was, perhaps, a careless driver in deer country. But then all of Pennsylvania is deer country, so most must question their judgment. Why are we not more careful, more alert when traveling the back roads? Our roadkilled whitetail figure in unnecessarily high, a waste we all must strive to eliminate.
Summer passed and although the memory of Nahani endured as though etched in stone, little else was said of her passing. At the turning of the first leaf in autumn, a long box showed up at the old hunter’s mountain home.
“What’s that Pop?” Justin asked.
Pop smiled, knowing full well that his son knew what was inside the box.
“Oh, I bought your mother another deer rifle.”
“Yeah, right. What caliber this time, Pop?” the young man laughed as he questioned his smiling father.
“Oh, just one of those new .260 Remingtons in a Model Seven stainless with synthetic stock.”
“Thought you weren’t gonna hunt anymore?”
“Well, Partner, I may not. But I’ve heard so much about how great this rifle and caliber is that I felt I ought to at least try one out, right?”
“Sure, Pop. Sure.”
The Remington shot impressive groups with factory loads. Noticeably better with careful handloads using Barnes X bullets in 140-grain. Two trips to the shooting range and the old man was getting the autumnal itch.
Certainly, he found enough heart to make it to his favorite woodland place and, yes, he went for whatever his reasons. Perhaps just to visit Nahani’s old haunt once again.
As he sat atop a familiar blowdown the first day of buck season, he spotted something brilliantly white coming in from his right. The sun had just begun to cast rays through the overstory, making the gray woods comfortable and uncommonly pleasant. Seconds passed and then into clear view, not 30 yards away, stood a white deer. A smallish buck with six, tight points. “Big Medicine,” he whispered, “White magic on my side of the mountain again” Was this Nahani’s brother or another fawn out of the same doe? Would he raise the stainless barrel of the Model Seven and make this deer his bounty? Or would he instead, stand and leave the hollow? Sure, it may have been his last time out, and certainly he knew the Remington would do its job. But then if you knew him, you most likely heard him say quite often, “…success is not always measured in terms of winter meat and mounted antlers.”
So, the old hunter waited until the small white buck passed and disappeared over a bench to his left. Nahani’s brother, too, walked alone. He smiled as he always did at the end of a successful hunt and, if one listened closely, you could hear the old hunter softly reciting the poet, Keats, as he shuffled toward home. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” And this is how he felt about Nahani, and her relative. He no longer needed the bounty from Mother Nature, but indeed needed the blessing and security of knowing it shall always be there. For him, for all mankind, as the memories alone can sustain us if we only store them in the proper place.