Soft footsteps, carefully avoiding the fallen twigs, cannot
prevent the quiet crunching of the leaves on the forest floor. Camera in one hand, 30-30 Winchester in the
other, the stalker quietly made his way along the barbed wire fence, vigilantly
turning his eyes in every direction, watching for he knew not what. Stopping periodically, he listened. The sounds of the crows faded into the
distance as they flew off, alerted by his presence. Still, other sounds came from around him as
the life of the wooded creek bottom resumed a sense of normality. Slowly, Kit was becoming one with his
surroundings.
There was no purpose in his woodland saunter. It was merely a walk among the trees to see
what he could see; hear what he could hear; photograph what might draw his
interest. The rifle just seemed to be
needed. Some might call it
intuition. Others might call it habit. It was a comfort.
White Oak bottom is what they called this place. It was one of the wildest remaining areas of
Northeast Texas. It was known to shelter
the occasional cougar or black bear and sometimes a Red Wolf. It was no wonder the cattle were so
jumpy. After all, humans, just like
other predators, had eyes in the front of their heads; it was the prey that had eyes on the
sides. It only took a brief glimpse of
Kit for the cows to go running to their young calves in the middle of the
meadow to join the ever-present “nurse maids” that stayed with them at all
times. Never were the young animals left
alone by their mothers.
The sound that had drawn Kit to the woods had quieted. It really wasn’t the purpose for the walk –
merely the excuse. After all, clearing
brush from the fence line was tiring. A
walk seemed just the thing to rest the weary body and to clear the mind. Clearing brush allowed for too much
thought. It was physically tiring but it
rarely slowed the mind. The sound of the
crows had done that – the crows and that other sound – the one he couldn’t
quite identify.
Standing quietly on the south side of the creek, listening
to the birds and the sound of the falling leaves, Kit thought he could make out
a slow shuffling somewhere to the North, on the other side. The wind was behind him and that wasn’t good. It would blow his scent to whatever was
there. Nevertheless he stood,
listening.
Somewhere a Flicker was pecking at one of the dead or
diseased trees trying to dig out a late season insect. A flurry of tiny wings marked the passing of
several sparrows. They flitted from
branch to branch, never sitting still long enough to focus the camera on them
before they were on to another perch. The
tannin-stained water of the creek was littered with fallen leaves from the
various species of oak and other hardwoods.
The mirrored surface was broken only by the occasional leaf-fall that
landed with a light “smack” which broke the reflection of the trees
overhead. Looking up, Kit saw a Black
Vulture circling high above against the pale blue sky. He was alone which meant he was merely riding
currents, seeking the scent of the next meal.
Then he heard it.
There was a slight mewing sound somewhere across the creek where the
woods were thickest. It wouldn’t be easy
getting over there without making the trek around by the bridge. Still, there were fallen trees that would
make a natural bridge in a few places and Kit knew exactly where they
were. He headed toward the largest one
which lay from bank-to-bank about ten feet above the stream. It was a place where crossing could be made
without the need to climb the steep bank....
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