Victory in the Snow
         
                            (c) 1990 Chester Ceille
         
         This is a true story which I must tell you . . .
         
         I peered out the window at a swirling snow spectacle.  Snow 
         blew around relentlessly as a north wind moved it at will.  
         I wondered if any whitetail deer in its right mind would get 
         out of its warm bed - and was I in my right mind to go 
         hunting for one this morning? 
         
         It was four a.m. and a full moon cast its weak but welcome 
         light over the dark, northern Wisconsin pine forest.  I 
         grabbed my pack and rifle and left the cabin's warmth 
         heading into the zero degree temperature.  I ignored the 
         cold of the snow on my face as I jumped into the jeep, 
         started it, and took off slowly on the snow packed but 
         passable road. 
         
         Our hunting party had little success over the last two days, 
         taking one fat doe.  We badly wanted to take more deer - we 
         hadn't done well in previous years - but the main reason was 
         we knew this could be the last hunt for all of us.  Our 
         friend and hunting leader lay back at the cabin gripped by 
         cancer.  He heroically struggled just to make the trip and 
         be among us.  
         
         He always told me to walk into the stand quietly before dawn 
         and keep my eyes peeled during the productive early morning 
         hours.  He had taught me to hunt and was certainly expert 
         having taken deer almost every year for the last 30.  Deer 
         hunting magically captivated him.  It was this magic and 
         mystique that he spread to all of us, and it helped sustain 
         us throughout the rest of the year.  Would the magic die 
         with my friend?  Would we care about hunting or for that 
         matter anything else?
         
         I parked my jeep along the sand road near the trail leading 
         to my camouflaged stand and headed along the last visible 
         traces of the snow covered path.  My compass guided me more 
         than the path which seemed often to veer in many dark 
         directions.  The snow continued to swirl ominously although 
         more quietly under the protective overhead blanket of the 
         pine branches.  At last I reached and entered the stand.
         
         The wind and blowing snow stopped suddenly and more quiet 
         came to the dawn woods; the temperature seemed to get colder 
         as I remained still in my stand trying to will my body to 
         stay warm.  My .308 Winchester lay across my knees ready.  A 
         wood pecker's dull tapping on a frozen tree was the only 
         sound of life.  
         
         Without breaking the silence a huge buck suddenly appeared 
         advancing majestically through the pine thicket about 75 
         yards upwind.  It wore its antlers regally like a king's 
         jeweled crown.  Indeed it was a master of the wild, and, at 
         that moment, I shared this magic force in my pounding 
         heart.  My rifle spoke once and the deer slumped immediately 
         into the bloodied snow.
         
         I raced over to the now lifeless deer and watched it for a 
         moment admiring its vibrant, wild mystique which somehow 
         remained.  I knew then this magic excitement always endures 
         as long as hunters hunt.  It survived the deer now dead at 
         my feet, and it easily defeats any peril no matter how 
         great. 
         
         The deer and I sat victorious in the snow.  That day also my 
         friend's son helped him into a truck, and he joined us 
         hunting prevailing over the cancer.