The Monarch

By
James L. Bruner
– October 14, 2008

The Monarch by James L. Bruner
article copyright

Like his majesty walking through the hallowed halls of his kingdom the old monarch swaggered through the field wearing his crown of antlers in pride. The flushing of a lone pheasant brought him to a momentary halt as he quickly surveyed the surroundings then continued on his journey to somewhere unknown to any man and oblivious to danger. This beautiful whitetail didn’t grow those tremendous antlers overnight and with Bow Season getting closer his daily routine was sure to change any day now. My last vision of him melting into the forest with the sun rising at his back illuminating his crown left me breathless for words or thoughts.

Up until now the buck was easily patterned the same as he was last season. But as eerie as a ghostly figure dancing under a pale moonlit night, he would soon disappear for the remainder of the hunting season. But this year was to be different and my plans brought the notion that if he wouldn’t come to me…I’ll go to him!

How could I penetrate the very depths of his core range when he was aware of every branch, rock, and leaf that I was sure to disturb? Only once did I dare to intrude on his home-range as I trekked a mere 40 acres back and found trees the size of a small mans leg, scarred and damaged from present and past years.

The musty smell of the moss that lay afoot was obviously impregnated with years of markings and droppings from years gone by. The pungent odor filled my nostrils as I studied the scarred trees where the monarch had left his calling card and staked his claim to this dark and silent section of forest. It was obvious from the many battle-wounded timbers that this had been a long-time favorite haunt of his and showed no signs of changing. For the most part, it was an impenetrable fortress guarded by century old thorn berry brush and sunlight starved cedars that touched limbs from one to the next. A small creek ran north and south to create one last obstacle should any of the previous parameters be broken. I could envision that buck as he walked silently on the mossy carpet of his home and listened intently for intruders trying to defy the walls of defense that surrounded him. I often wondered how this magnificent animal survived the instinctive hormonal rage of the rut, which has brought down countless numbers of world-class trophies. My only reasonable suggestion to myself was that he had honed his survival skills to perfection and became a nocturnal prince of the night calling on the suitors of his choice under the comfort of nightfall. But there had to be a flaw. A small piece of the puzzle was left somewhere that I hadn’t seen and held my key to success and the harvest of his majesty.

The dawn of the next day found myself trying to alleviate the heightened excitement of the coming bow season. As I guided a well-placed fly in front of a wary brook trout he snubbed graciously at my presentation and disappeared under the security of the undercut banks of the creek. As I stalked the banks my mind drifted back to the buck. Staring intently into the cool fresh water racing past I realized that the morning frost had lost its battle to the early rays of morning light. My walk back would now be as wet as walking in the creek itself as I high stepped back in an effort to stay as dry as possible. The site of the old pickup was welcome indeed as I stowed my gear behind the seat and sat behind the wheel. One last look at the creek meandering through the meadow and I was gone. A short distance down the old gravel road the truck came to an abrupt halt as I hit reverse and headed back. There it was, right before my eyes. The piece of the puzzle that had been missing suddenly came into full view. I would follow the bed of the creek that led me right to the old monarchs sanctuary and relish in the spoils of my victory.

The creek was as wide as an average man could leap with a running start. The banks carved three foot deep from the once raging waters of a small river would provide cover to each of my sides. The water only a foot in depth supplied enough subtle sound to mask any small error or slip of the foot. A north wind would be sure to wash my scent downstream away from the buck. I had a plan all right, but would it work? The last few days before season were spent polishing shooting skills to precision pinpoint accuracy. My plan was simple. Slip into the creek an hour after sunrise and work my way cautiously to my destination. With the whole day ahead of me the estimated three-hour walk should put me there right around noon.

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About James L. Bruner

James grew up in an outdoor family and recalls some of his first memories outdoors with his father. “I remember being very young and my dad carrying me on his shoulders out to the duck blind where a cold day of watching decoys dipping on the waves was complimented by the time spent together.” In the years that followed, moments like those were played time and again in a number of outdoor activities that included rabbit hunting, fishing, deer hunting, grouse hunting, and of course more waterfowling. View Entire Bio