These woods were most magical in the evening. Ross definitely thought so. As he sat in his tree stand in the last drips of daylight, he figured he might get one solid shot at a nice sized deer.
This evening was an equally gorgeous end to a gorgeous fall day. The light was coming through what remained of the fall foliage in golden beams from the mountain top to the west. The tall ash and maple trees silhouetted against the evening sun created a staggering backdrop to the clearings below him. All around him was the warm palette of fall color, the light and dark lines of the dense trees blending to a blurred wash of red and brown and yellow. The last bright greens of the summer had matured to earthy gold tones and whites. He enjoyed this time of year the most. The way the light played in the trees, the gentle sounds carried on the wind echoing through the wood.
Rosco Stark had always been in the woods. He grew up on a small farm on the outskirts of town. While making a living had moved him a little closer to civilization he still made his regular trips to meet mother nature. His life was always more whole when he got his time with her. Hunting, fishing, camping... it didn't matter. He felt recharged after a day out in the woods, invigorated. This attitude hadn't been great for his relationships. He felt comfortable alone, in the forest and at home. He never traveled with anyone else. I would be hard to find a partner who could keep up, or a woman that would wait that long at home.
He is a big man, naturally strong, and he definitely looked the part of the woodsman. When he was younger, sports kept him lean, and as he graduated into manhood he maintained himself with ease. At more than six feet tall he was a striking gentleman, a broad man who could lift his share and run with it for some time, too. His tan face was darker now after having spent so many days preparing in the sunny woods. He tended not to show much age but the crow's feet at his eyes had just started to make their appearance in these last two years, badges of honor after a lifetime squinting into the sunlight at dusk. Currently protecting those eyes were his great hands, flattened in a visor looking southwest along the foot of the rocky hills. He was proud of his hands. A man could say that his life is remembered his hands. One could clearly see it in Ross's. Two great mitts thickened by years of learning work and knowing dirt. His callouses told a story of a man who wasn't afraid of doing things himself. This time of year his hands were always stronger as maintained his bow skills often. One arrow a day, at the very least, kept his hands tough and ready.
Lowering his hands he took a long breath and wiped his mouth and long beard. The beard was his yearly tradition. He would quit his shaving sometime in spring so he had a marvelous face of hair to keep him warm by the time fall and winter hunting came. These last years, his age let him develop a matte of hair as well colored as the fall foliage. His own red and blond browns blending with the late season leaves around him. The beard was a necessity in his mind, also, as anything to disturb his human silhouette to his prey was a benefit.
Above that beard sat a nose that could smell the woods like no other man. He loved the smells of the fall woods most of all. Ross's nose was a gift from the heavens. His grandfather used to say that he could smell the grapes in the wine. He could wander through the woods all day and never get tired of the sensations. He could smell the gentle sweetness of the fall seeds on the branches, mulled with the warm bitters and earthy tones of the fallen leaves beginning transition back into earth. When the wind came down from the rocky hills he could taste in his nose the spice of pine needle and the saltiness of the rocks. It was all so pleasant to him. A day in the woods was like a warm bath, cleansing his senses.
As the sun was disappearing over the rocks to his right, he knew that this could be an opportunity. The deer would typically make its way from deeper cover during the day and head towards more open territory at night. This was a predictable move on the animal's part, and he had witnessed it more often than not in this an other hunting grounds, it was an advantage he knew he could count on.
Rosco had been sitting all day. He had set up his stand a good twenty five feet up in an tall roman column of a white ash tree. A camouflaged mass of warm clothing and a brand new matte black tree setup had given him a birds eye view of the fields afoot. The experience had been wonderful as usual, however there had been no sight of his prey. This was frustrating as he had scouted this location during his off days for the last two months, and it had seen plenty of activity then. This location had been perfect. He had a snipers view of a comfortable looking glade fully within the reach of his bow. To his right, was the rocky edges of a small mountain. And further left past the glad was the same. To his back was thick wood, a considerable amount of it actually, and he had witnessed game moving from the deeper woods to the fields to his south east, a short hike beyond the glade ahead. From this position he would have had a view of any deer that would make that journey.
He knew hew would wait it out here. He relaxed and ignored the soreness his joints produced after not moving form so many hours. Having seen nothing all day, this made it seem more likely that something would be wandering though in these last minutes. Staying relaxed and calm would be key. Plenty of animals had been taken by him in the same way. He was prepared to wait out the last few moments for an opportunity, given the the length of time that was now taking its toll. He had been quite still all day and had made a few meals of the packaged foods and water he had brought with him. He knew he would be stiff and a dehydrated when he finally made his way down, and it would be a long walk back to the truck.
As the Time went by, the sun first dipped completely behind the mountain, then the light of the sky wandered after it. There had been no movement. Alas with the range of his bow receding with the light, he made the call to embark home. Ross had many a day end in no reward, but this time, he couldn't help feel robbed. There had been so much to see and track in his proceeding trips here. He had spotted a group of three excellent animals previously, watched them take their time moving north through the light of morning, then returning in the same manner as it faded in the evening. He made a few racking sounds with the set of antlers he carried during scouting. Their attention would periodically drift his direction but their seasonal hormonal changes had not made the truly interested yet in the sound of fighting males. He had left some dried corn cobs in the glade in the off season. From time to time he would see his offering sniffed and sampled by these same animals. He witnessed this most of the times he had been here to scout and thought that as food became more scarce there would be no question he would see them again. Nothing. The day had been silent.
Ross lifted himself and stretched in the small seat. His joints cracked and he felt his veins open back up and supply his muscles, pickled by immobility, with energy and life. He always stood and waited a few moments to let his blood pressure adjust after so much time sitting. The trip down the ladder was long and would never be graceful given his state. As he unhooked is safety line he wobbled down and still maintained that his day wasn't over quite yet. The planning was so, that in that the walk back took him through the areas most likely to be frequented by a hungry animal at night. In the time it took him to walk back in the growing dark he might be able to come upon prey while within the confines of the legal hunting day. He could hopefully make a shot on a stalk, given one last opportunity. He jumped the last 3 steps and landed heavily in the brush and leaves, the last jolt of energy shaking life back into his frame. Checking his watch he guessed that he would be back to his pickup a few minutes after the legal time frame had ended. Coming out of the woods too late could be a risk, as he had met a few wardens who would wait by a truck in the woods and question what took so long, and if he had planned on stalking deer in the dark who were bedding down after eating.
He began making his way through the glade and up the run beyond it. The was a pass flanked by the steep mountain to his left and another rocky round top on his right. Beyond that he would find some lighter woods and a few more glades, and then further on, the road in which he parked. He passed a few of his corn cobs, a few kernels left, but mostly stripped by the hoofed traffic he had seen previously. It was illegal to use bait to lure deer in season, but it was legal to provide food earlier, for tracking and observation purposes. As long as he was not observed dropping lures or leaving the woods with pockets full of loose corn, he would be fine.
As he moved up the run the made sure to keep with wits. While in the woods he had a habit of keeping his footfalls soft. A habit learned from years of hiking with bow in hand. If he spooked a deer stumbling through the evening he wouldn't forgive himself. He was moving into the wind, and knew they would not smell him coming. The air movement was a constant northwestern drift, back towards his tree stand. This was another reason his spot would have been effective, this wind pattern had been constant during his scouting sessions. If he could keep the view he had on the path and maintain invisibility to the noses of his prey, a good kill was almost inevitable. As he thought about it he shrugged, still wondering how everything could have been so right and not had a shot at anything. He didn't even feel the need to mask his scent. In an area with more stagnant wind or the chance of his scent drifting into his target area he would have used doe urine. This covered his own smell and typically would have made a male deer more curious rather than tentative. As he felt the light breeze on his face he pressed on.
As he approached the pass, he knew there was enough light that he could make his way along a game trail in the thick bush and emerge in the fields beyond. It was important he stayed quiet and ready along that path and he prepared his mind and senses. Unfortunately, as he focused on the thicket ahead of him he was met with a mental and physical block. A large old black walnut tree had stood guard at the mouth of the path between the two rocky mounds ahead. He had walked under it countless times as it marked the end of the narrow pass the border to the open glades he was now standing in. This tree had been split down the middle and half of its tangle now rested directly in his intended path. A tree like this was at least three stories tall and had enough mass in on of its boughs to outweigh his pickup truck. It would take him and hour to get through that tangled mass with a chainsaw during the daytime. There would be no making his way through now.
The disappointment now fully enveloped Ross. He knew he could still make it back to the truck, but the way around the small mountain ahead would ruin his timing. By the time he took his detour around through the fields there would definitely not be enough light to see any prey in the clearings ahead. His Day had ended here.
Ross took a moment for a deep breath and a look back at the territory he had just crossed. In his mind, any day in the woods was not a loss. He surveyed his day in his mind and remembered why he was here and his enjoyment of the experience. He knew the work was done already and he would be returning soon enough, bow ready, for his yearly bag limit. He secured his gear one final time. With his hands on his hips he gazed out, and in taking the last of the fading light with him, began his hike.
The area ahead he had scouted previously. It was more dense, not his favorite setting for a good shot. In addition, the wind in this area tended to swirl in from the forests farther southwest. This made his scent a liability. Further ahead there were some lower lying areas in some dense beech wood. The few times he had been though he had found some large raspberry thickets, which produced fruit of a quite large variety. He had snacked on a few on each pass. As he was walking he thought he might sample them again, if they were still there. This late in the season, things like berries and fruits had been picked clean by the smaller forest dwellers of the are. For some reason though, these remained. Every time he passed through the area there were at least a hand full of giant thumb sized purple fruits left for him. It was as if the plants didn't know when to stop producing, and the birds didn't know to keep eating.
As he thought of the fruit moved back in his mind he thought of the fallen walnut tree. He was surprised he didn't hear it when it fell. A tree like that would have made quite a bit of noise coming down. It made sense to him now why he had not seen any deer. He thought perhaps that much of a change in path would have made his prey avoid the area for at least a day or two. After all, he knew the smartest deer were the ones who fled at any sign of change. It was always the more confident, or curious animal that he brought home with him every year. He was sure his quarry just found another path for the moment. By the time he returned in a few days the regular game routes would be back in use and he would have his shot. The reason he didn't hear the tree, he was sure, was because of the distance through the forest. It could have fallen earlier in the day right after he traveled past in the morning. It was, after all, a little gusty as he made his morning hike in. He wouldn't have heard it if it was when he arrived and set himself up in his perch. All this reasoning made sense to him.
Continuing through the low lying thickets he started to see the tangles ahead of the fruit bushes. He knew by this point he was a third of the way around the mountain. As he grew closer, however he winced at the bare sticks ahead. No more fruit now. It was sensible. There was no way berries like that stayed on the plant this late in the season. It made almost no sense that he had found them as late as he had. He continued through. The low lying area he was in was leveling out to the furthest point out in his detour. At that point the the berry thickets ended and gave way to a thin pine grove, a turn left around the mountain was a straight shot through easy woods leading to his truck. As he was nearing the the end, the pines were in view, and he spotted something he hadn't seen before.
Mushrooms, not normal mushrooms, but ones he rarely found in the area. Laetiporus to be exact, known as chicken of the woods. They were sprouting up in the pines leading out to the woods further out to his southwest. He learned when he was a child that one could collect and prepare these just as one could prepare chicken. Many would grow in the older parts of the forest near his home. He enjoyed the taste and consistency and a meal collected from the forest always felt more wholesome to him. This would could practically make the day a success. He had only scouted this area once before and not seen these. The area further beyond the pines was harder to traverse and given that and the problems with scent he wrote the area off and turned back. What a stroke of luck that they would all sprout here and now. Light was almost completely gone now and he thought collecting a few fungus was worth it, being that he had not seen it in some time in his travels.
He immediately began searching for good specimens. They were small here, but the grew in size the more he wandered. He picked a few, and as he would place them in his bag he could see that there were even larger ones ahead. He was packing the last meal of mushroom he stood and realized he could not longer detect any more in the night. Light had completely fled now. He stood in darkness in the pine grove.
He had not been out in this direction yet, the pines were taller here and had there been any moonlight he would still have been shielded from it. They were tall, thick and old around him. There was only darkness and the sounds of the evening insects. He looked back at the direction he had come and noted his path had been lost in the excitement of collecting food. He pulled his camping light from his front pocket and set it on his head. He did not usually keep a large flashlight as he was confident in his sense of direction. The small light was only a red forehead mounted light for seeing the steps in front of you. He clicked it on and checked his surroundings. The pine bark reflected back like stony monoliths in a cave. He was sure of the direction he came and knew if he just maintained a straight line that way he would end up on his familiar path. He was not worried.
But there was something else. As he was picking fungus it crept into his nose but couldn't separate the two. A faint uncharacteristic smell for the area. Now that he was standing and feeling the air swirl it was becoming more clear. Vanilla, and some kind of tropical flower he remembered from a vacation south. He waited for a moment for it to continue to clear in his refined nose. These were not smells that mixed well with the rot and the dirt of a pine grove. The final hint... a chemical of some sort, the sting of alcohol. It hit him. The realization made him wince in confusion. It was perfume. A very... very weak whiff of cheap women's perfume. It was old smelling, weakened, like wine that had sat too long and become vinegar. He remembered smelling something close on a woman he bought a drink for at a bar near his home. It was definitely perfume. The air was now coming at him from the unknown south east direction. It blew at his face and around him and back toward the safety of his car. He couldn't understand why the smell of perfume would be wafting this direction from out there.
This area was quite rarely traveled. He was miles out on acreage owned by the state spotted with protected forests and plots for gas wells. He would see hikers ad campers sometimes. But they stuck to easy paths and the pretty vistas closer to roads. Never this late. The direction south east to him on the map was just miles of trees for longer than one would want to hike. Perhaps it was more adventurous campers. While he thought of these woods as completely safe he did spy bears from time to time. A camper who wandered out too far and spooked a bear would not be having a great time unless they were prepared for the meeting. This situation was something he had never encountered and the thought of the unknown made him wonder if he should just head back and forget about it. He thought about it for a long moment, looking back and forth on his path. He let the air around him settle so he could feel the cool evening air bring him more of the scent. Then he heard it.
A voice. A voice being carried by the wind to him. It was so quiet. He couldn't make out words. The echoes of the woods had broken it up to just a swell of noise from the dark ahead. His experience late at night had taught him to be wary of voices in the dark. He remembered other times he was out deep in the dark. He would hear voices then. Sometimes he thought that the trees spoke to him. But only in the dark. The sounds, he knew could be in his mind. The words had no meaning but he knew sometimes he could hear them. Perhaps it was just his senses listening to the will of nature.
He froze when he heard the first sound, and waited. Another followed seconds later. The same voice. Higher. It was a female voice. Not a whisper. Very distant. The perfume smell made more sense now. This must have been a hiker. He continued to listen to the broken echos floating through the dark at him. This didn't sound like a talking voice. She was speaking loudly, taking long breaths in between her vocalizations. The inflections were not natural. Campers would always be laughing or yelling to each other. The groups were easy to hear. This was just one voice. Stressed... whining. He knew that rangers taught people that if you were lost in the woods you should use an emergency whistle. If you had no whistle you just kept speaking loudly so as to maintain a noise level but not ruin your voice. He took his first steps in the direction of the voice.
Rosco moved at a quick pace. He knew that if a hiker was lost he could find them. All he had to do was keep listening. He knew if he began to yell, the echos of the forest could confuse an unskilled hiker. Through fault of inexperience they can run farther out and deepen their predicament, thinking they were heading towards salvation. He would call out when he was closer and knew their position. His confidence in is his woodsman's skills drove him quickly on. The sounds of the hiker were growing in volume. As he traversed the rocks and fallen logs he felt his pockets to take stock of what he had with him. He had drank his water and eaten his last sustenance in the tree stand. His knife was on his right hip. In the hilt was some matches, and a small package of sterile suture for wounds. Hopefully there were no injuries to tend to. The stress in the voice did not give him an indicator. He had heard of hunters finding lost hikers in this area. It was beautiful and drew plenty of city naturalists for flower collecting and picture taking. There had been stories of hikers being found dehydrated, with broken ankles mere miles from roads or known paths. The walk back to his vehicle was getting longer but he knew he could make it back to his phone in the truck to call for help. He was approaching the voice. He still couldn't make out words. The dark was thick around him. The trees reflected back his red headlight in his near circle but it was pitch black beyond his temple of light moving through the bush.
The pines cleared to saplings. Ahead the voice was getting louder. He could move faster here. His red light gave just enough visibility ahead to begin to jog. A few more steps. The voice sounded like a young woman. She was babbling, the way you would talk in traffic to yourself. The was urgency and sadness in her voice. As the echoes were forming into one clear sound, Ross knew he was homing in on its source. He still could not make out what she was saying. Perhaps she was injured, not clear in her thoughts. His worry grew as she became more clear. Ross cleared the last saplings and found himself at the edge of tall grass. He stopped to listen, there were no trees ahead to break up the incoming sound. The voice was whimpering, crying. He must be at the end of a large field. He stood tall, and licking his lips after a long day of silence, took a deep breath and called out. The rasp of his voice echoing out across the field ahead.
Immediately the was silence. The woman's voice stopped. He heard nothing. He stood in waist high grass illuminated by the red of his light. The insects of the night had quieted. There was only the gentle movement of the air in the tangle of grass. He waited for a response. Nothing. He called again, louder this time. He drifted his head left, and then right to focus at the silent black around him. He heard the echo of his voice return to him at a delay. This told him the field ahead of him was quite large. There was no longer the his of fall leaves in the breeze or the wooden crackle of branches, he had sprinted deeper in to the field than he thought.
Ross walked forward, he kept his senses trained on the area ahead. He knew the source of the voice should be no more than a few more yards ahead. The sound of his boots crushing thin grass cracked in his ears. The field would not mask his position or the location of the hiker if they called back. He sniffed the air. The perfume was clear in the air now. It filled his nostrils with the sharp sting of preservative alcohol and stale tropical flowers. It was clear it was old and stale, as if having sat on a shelf for some time. He waited for a long time. If he heard a rustle, an snap, a whimper, or a cough he knew he could find her. The moment went on as if forever. He didn't know why suddenly she was too afraid to answer. He exhaled fully, took a deep breath, and let out a long call again. His sound was cut abruptly when he was struck in the chest.
When Rosco Stark was a junior in high school he was a fullback on the football team. He was already taller than most and his track skill gave him the speed of someone half his size. Most plays his job was to clear a path for his friend and team mate playing running back. The coaches knew that if they gave him an instruction he was as reliable for the position as a bulldozer. His size and speed let him make a path other schools couldn't barely defend. The last game of the season he lined up in the third quarter against school rival. The ball was snapped and he rocketed forward. He leveled a small lineman who had the poor luck of being assigned to his position and continued out and pushing right, knowing his running back would have taken a hand off and would be gunning it for the sideline in a short yardage play. His senses were trained on the defensive backs in the middle of the field most likely to stop his team mate. What he didn't see was the defenseman to his right who had left his mark to come in and stop the two of them. He had been blindsided by a boy smaller than him but moving faster than he could perceive. The hit had turned him horizontal in mid air, when he came down his right collar bone was broken and the bells of impact were fading away. This was the same.
He had been struck in the right chest so hard that he had been flung back landed hard on his shoulder blades. The high pitched feedback of an impact was fading as his mind went into overdrive. He had not heard or seen it coming as he was calling out. Just a solid hard hit that knocked the air from his lungs. He began to panic, he didn't know what hit him and there was nothing now. There was nothing out in the woods that would do this.
He flailed on the ground and as he rolled over he felt the sharp pain of his ribs on his right. His chest flexed and heaved and he knew that there were at least a few broken ribs. He was gasping and reached with his arms and find the ground to stand and could not move his right shoulder. It seemed to be frozen in place, his collarbone was fractured and impeding his shoulder movement. He knew he had to run. Adrenaline had shot through his nerves like lightning. As he rose he felt with his left hand to his chest and felt the torn remains of his coat. His fingers touched wet exposed flesh and something solid and deep like bone, perhaps it was his ribs. He could feel broken limbs but the entirety of his right chest was numb and the feelings of his fingers were not reciprocated by the warm, bleeding flesh of his chest.
He ran.
He suddenly had so much energy his first steps were like springs. He bound back and forth barely keeping his balance. His feet crushed the uneven ground at his feet. He sprinted the direction he came, or so he thought, feeling the grass whipping at his legs and coat. After a few bounding leaps he leveled into a full sprint, but his breath began to be sucked away. He gasped for air. Each breath was harder than the last. He would wheeze and exhale and force his chest open every time to suck the night air. Each time it seemed there was less air to find. His effort was maximized. A ringing sound was growing in his ears as he ran. Each step grew heavier and each impact echoed louder and more numbly in his head.
He stumbled and fell. He felt his body strike the ground and his ribs flex and bounce in paralyzing agony. He reached with his left to raise himself to his knees and the air felt like water. He sucked breath with the full effort of his back muscles, but there was none to be found. There was no strength in his legs. They would now ignore his commands. As he writhed forward, the ringing in his ears was a constant tone. He exhaled weakly and slumped
As he rolled to his back onto the stiff grass, he heard the trees crack and groan. Leaves hissed and there was a heavy thud in the bush, followed quickly by three stumbling thumps of heavy limbs striking soil… like they hadn’t moved in some time. His breath was slowing. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear the strikes of thick hard feet slowly moving through the grass.
His vision narrowed, there was no more to see. The footfalls stopped yards away. He knew now they would not approach any more. He had behaved the same to prey of his own.
Rosco Stark lay on his back, his vision blurred, his last breaths meager whiffs of air. His limbs felt warm, the feeling absorbed him as he heard the grass hiss once more. He listened as the ringing grew and turned to soft hiss in his ears. The shadows around him closed in until he was alone, sinking, in the Dark.