Morning Rituals: The Tree Stand

Fog on the Marsh, Sun on the Horizon… Hancock County, Ohio - Taken by Jasveer Sandhu Oct. 2021

We all have morning rituals, each person’s is different. Our trails and tree stands are our own.

I decided yesterday afternoon that I would like to go white tail hunting the next morning. I talked it over with the wife, she is always supportive of my woodland adventures, before beginning a brief period of preparation for the morning. As I have hunted more and more, over the last few years especially, I have developed a sort of ritual for preparing to hunt. This involves checking the weather and laying out my clothing accordingly the night before, hitting it with some de-scenting spray (which I am not fully convinced makes a difference), and inspecting my weapon and gear. It is deer archery season in Ohio now, so I am opting for my crossbow. It’s an accurate and powerful, if heavy, device that I have hunted with for 3 years now. Although I’m not an expert on all things’ crossbow, I can tell you that I have been pleased with the ol’ Barnett and its quality and willingness to “get the job done”. I load ol’ B in the truck and examine my broadheads and bolts. The shafts are clean and free of scratches and nicks in the carbon fiber that they are made of. I roll them over in my hands. “No wobble, good”. I move to the broadheads. No chips or rust, clean, razor sharp…they are good to go, I stow them safely in their quiver to avoid any unwanted contact while I move around the back seat. Just one last check of my backpack to confirm I have my things. Antlers, grunt tube, crossbow cocking device, and BrowHooks. All set. Now it’s back to the house, preparing the coffee pot and setting its’ timer to start at 4:45am. It must have been something to be alive even just 60 years ago, before every device in the house could be programed. Getting up to put the coffee on is a phenomenon now only enjoyed at deer camp or “the cottage” which both seem to be perpetually fixed in a state of historically accurate conditions. They are places where grounds still sit in metal tins and coffee comes only after the boiling of water on a camp stove or the flip of a sticky, aged switch on a worn-out pot. With the completion of my preparation, I’m off to take care of business for the remainder of the day. Evening brings with it dinner and time with my honey, we will stay up too late, and I’ll have to get up too early, in a delicate balance between what I desire to do and what time allows.

5:00am, the alarm sounds the call to arms. I drag my sore body out of bed but then remember my divine purpose and begin to fully wake up. A quick shuffle to the bathroom where nature takes its course. Then the ceremonious washing of my face before I “install” contacts in my reddened eyes. If someone told me that I would be adhering flexible silicon disks to my eyes to help me see better when I was a 5 year old, I would have told them I’d prefer not to see at all. Wisdom now shows me it’s a wonderful discomfort to poke yourself in the eye every morning so that you can avoid your glasses fogging up when you line up your scope or get out of the house or truck. Trading one thing for another, as with so many things in life. Another quick shuffle through the kitchen where I pause for a moment to look longingly at the coffeepot, “just a few more minutes” I think. Then it’s out the side door and into the unheated garage where I unceremoniously strip and then put on my long johns and camo. “32 degrees in here, crimony”. I like to leave my cloths out and put them on in the cold as a sort of discipline, knowing that when I am camping on those multiday hunts, I won’t have the luxury of a warm pair of drawers to wake up to. Some people take ice baths, some people leave their cloths in the garage, I’ll insist that both tactics have their merits. Back into the house and straight to the kitchen to pour the long-awaited coffee. I add a splash of coconut milk and have at it. Why coconut milk? Honestly, it just tastes good, and it is better for me than creamer, that’s the long and short of it. I quickly make my toast in the oven, choosing to broil it and flip it without tongs rather than using the toaster because that is what I did in college when I didn’t have one. Sweet nostalgia. I sit, eat my toast and drink my coffee as I read my daily scripture. Today I am reading about David, and I try not to lose my train of thought as I imagine myself as him and Goliath as a massive whitetail buck. “Oh well, we can’t always be the hero”, I remind myself. I clean up my dishes and make another quick pitstop before heading out to the truck. I like to avoid having to take a mid-hunt growler, it’s just the truth. I head out and climb in the truck to begin the 35-minute drive from my home to the private property where I have permission to hunt. On the way, I jump on the highway, and I see the occasional early morning driver pass by and some big rigs heading the same direction as me. The drive is frequently punctuated by the comments of Mark Kenyon’s podcast, Wired to Hunt. I enjoy listening to him and his pals when I am heading out to the woods. I pull off the highway and shoot down a country sideroad a couple miles away. The corn is still on here and it skirts the road on both sides. In the high beams, the corn creates the illusion that I am driving very fast, each stalk whipping by as I travel past them. Another turn down a trail and I am crossing the small bridge to access the property. I stop the truck and look at the trees in the moonlight to see which way they are bowing. “West wind, better head a little further”. I continue up the driveway until I have reached the end where I can disembark and avoid broadcasting my scent over a bedding area that I scouted in the spring. I jump out, grab my backpack, cock my crossbow, and head for the tree stand.

It’s a short walk, the property isn’t huge, maybe 5 acres, and it won’t take long to get to the tree stand. There is a creek on the property line that I want to maneuver to before heading back west, with the wind in my face. I head north into the woods; I leave my flashlight in my pocket. The moonlight is so bright this morning that I can see at least 10 feet in front of me and I know the way by now so there is no need for my headlamp. The wind is blowing strong now and it rattles the tree branches above me. Locust bean pods fall all around me creating the illusion that there are animals moving everywhere. Every few steps that I take I tread on a dry pod which crackles and snaps underfoot. The breeze and ambient noise of the woods conceals my movement and I carry on. When you are moving in the moonlight and being very careful not to make a sound there is an inverse relationship between the speed you move and the level of awareness you have to the woods around you. The faster you go, the less concerned you are with your surroundings. The slower you go, the more aware you become and the more easily you are spooked. On this night, as I move up to the creek and into the clearing that edges it, I feel that familiar awareness build. The wind is mostly blocked in this corridor and the ambient noise has died down to a whisper. The moon is illuminating me at the edge of the trees. I turn west and point myself into the wind before setting off cautiously toward my stand. I move 80 yards west along the creek and I am about to turn into the woods to make the final move into the stand when I hear it. A snort wheeze cutting through the dark morning air. Crisp, clear, and soul crushing. With the reduced wind and light from the moon the buck I was making my move on must have seen me at the edge of the trees when he was coming back to bed. Disaster. He is long gone now but I am forced to press on. I make the final push into the woods and climb my stand as quietly as I can. I quickly set up my utility strap and place a BrowHook on either side of the tree. I hang my cross bow next to me and my backpack with the rattling antlers on the back side of the tree. I put my grunt tube and wind indicator in my pocket. I sit down and take a deep breath. Now I am ready to see what the day will bring.

It is a wonderful and peculiar thing to sit in a tree stand before the first light of the day peaks over the horizon. Especially on a clear night with a strong breeze. As you gaze into the relative darkness you see faint suggestions of what you believe to be there. A tree limb becomes antlers, a stump becomes a raccoon. Two trees that are shifting in the wind 50 yards away creak and sound remarkably like an animal that you don’t recognize but are positive lurks just out of your limited field of view. The moon’s light creates a shimmering effect under the right circumstances, and it appears as if everything you are watching is vibrating in the night air. It is at this point that I pray. I find that the mentioned surroundings put me in the mood to pray about what is on my mind. I reflect on the goings on of the week, my troubles and concerns, and the things that I am most looking forward to. As I meditate on these things I settle back against the tree and relax. It’s a strange form of comfort that you find in the tree stand. The cool air on your face, the metal seat supporting you below, your breath fogging in front of you, and your back set solidly against the tree behind you. It feels as if you are sitting on God’s knee and he is holding your back up while you recline. Secure, familiar, friendly, inviting even. It’s a place of certainty when you are so unsure of the dark woods around you.

As sunlight begins to break over the trees and the grey light timeframe begins, the forest starts its’ morning routine. The possum and raccoons lumber back to their places of rest and relinquish the forest floor. The birds begin to sing as they flit between the trees. Squirrels work their way down from the canopy and filter down to the forest loam where they forage for mast of all sorts. Now I can begin to really see what surrounds me. Individual trees and the odd falling leaf have become recognizable in the dim light. I have learned to tell the difference between the foraging squirrels and the slowly moving deer. Both have their own unique sound and I listen carefully to discern what my eyes cannot yet see. The sun reaches its’ peak, all is revealed.

I hear a crack behind me. The sound has every indication of being a large animal slowly pacing through the trees. I stand up and turn around, moving intentionally, careful to make no noise. I peer through the trees, and all becomes clear. Three does are working their way up the creek bed on the opposite side. I access my binoculars and watch them for some time. They interact with one another, browse on leafy treats, and watch expectantly for other deer that never arrive. Their white tails hang casually, flicking at a bothersome but lazy fly that harasses them. They show no indication of concern or apprehension, completely unaware of my presence. This is one of the greatest joys of hunting, watching an animal that doesn’t know you are there. After some time, they turn and slowly move further away, doubtlessly on the way to the neighbor’s food plot where they will eat and lay down for a snooze. I wait a little longer and enjoy the feeling of the rising sun on my face before packing up my backpack and quietly coming down from the stand. This afternoon I will talk of going out the next morning and begin the hunting ritual once more. Who knows what awaits me tomorrow when I try again.