The suns first rays painted fringes of feathery clouds a dusty pink as the old whitetail buck, carrying a heavy rack, stirred, aroused by a plump opossum waddling through a tangle of briers and sumac.
He rose slowly, stretched to loosen muscles and joints stiffened by better than six years of wandering in heat and cold, rain and snow, always seeking a meal. Scars were testament of having defended himself in many a fracas.
The rut had started, but at his age he had conceded early pirouettes of the annual mating ballet to young bucks, some his progenies.
He deftly picked his way through a thicket, and crossed a broad expanse of tall CRP grass to a freshly cut soybean field, dotted with beans strewn by a combines incessant churn. En route he gave wide margin to a thin ribbon of timber bordering Vegetarian Creek south of Humboldt, an inborn caution.
He opted for beans this morning, after feasting on succulent corn the night before, coming from a feeder placed to invite deer. A small flock of turkeys often cackled away on their approach.
As Pavlov surmised more than a century ago, animals know sources of food by conditioned responses indelibly imprinted on their minds. And, the corn and soybeans were welcome relief from what nature provided in fits and starts, they being more appetizing, more nutritious.
By force of habit the buck stood in the camouflage of heavy brush several minutes before venturing onto the soybean field. Soon, he was nibbling beans until a gastric mechanism signaled enough. He walked to a nearby water-filled swale, lapped his fill and slowly went to where several large cedars held sway. With the temperature just above freezing, the buck snuggled under low-lying limbs of one, curled in a fetal position as animals are wont to do, and quickly was asleep.
He awoke again as the sun slipped below the western horizon, the stillness broken by cries of Canada geese winging to overnight refuge. As darkness consumed the countryside, he made another trek to the bean field.
The next morning he again woke before dawn, his slumber interrupted by a whiff of the alluring odor of a doe. His interest was piqued, but, as he shook off sleep, corn was more tempting. Time was on his side; romance could wait.
Always alert, he adopted a slow pace back into the tall CRP grass, stopping occasionally to let his senses gather any hint of danger. This time the buck uncharacteristically walked close to the creek-bordering timber, even though that limited escape routes.
At six years old, the buck was a survivor of above-average age. He never had tangled with a vehicle, though having crossed thoroughfares many times. He had escaped deadly intents of hunters several times. His few illnesses had been minor.
He was on borrowed time; statistically, few Kansas deer live five years.
When the old buck passed near the timber, my grandson Noah was perched in a tree stand. He had seen the buck from the same vantage the previous morning but 100 yards away, well beyond his crossbows range. Not so at 30 yards; the bolt flew true.
THOUSANDS of deer will be taken before this years Kansas season concludes, few with the history of the old buck. Another 10,000 will die in traffic accidents, including scores in Allen County.
Whitetail deer in a protected and safe environment can live 15 to 16 years. Those born in the wild have an average lifespan of 4.5 years.
