The New Meaning of Fall

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Fall has always been my favorite time of year.  Each year I grind my way through the seemingly endless summer, holding on to the vision of cool and color like a mirage in the desert.  This year has been different.  Since hunting is now allowed, in fact encouraged as a private hunting club has bought a lease for it the days have lost their lustre. 

Our farmlet is in the middle of the leased land, so we can't help but be very aware of the presence and movements of the hunters.  They are all great guys and make every effort not to disturb us.  They're not allowed to shoot within a hundred yards of our line and I am telling myself that people live by hunting preserves all the time and rarely get shot.  It's not really myself I'm thinking about, though.  The first things I did on hearing about the hunting rights being sold, back in the spring was to buy Willow a blaze-orange halter and a blaze-orange horse sheet.  I couldn't stand the thought of him out without them.  Unfortunately, they didn't hold up very well and while you'd think a blaze-orange halter would be easy to see, I can only think he must've buried it.  Maybe I'll find it in the spring.  And, the sheet is already in shreds.  Sigh. 

What really disturbs me though, is the knowlege that now fall may come to mean the season of death.  My mother and I have always been completely committed to providing a safe haven for wildlife, but in the end we had to make some major compromises in order to find a buyer for the farm.  My mother's and my main wish was that the land never be developed.  It took ten full years to find a buyer who shared that philosophy and was also willing to let us live out our lives on a little parcel on the lake.  So we had to make a deal with the devil, and while I know there was nothing else I could do, I'll still never stop regretting it. 

So far, the hunters have had a very gratifying season.  They've taken seven bucks already; at least they don't kill does.  My logical mind keeps telling me how over-populated the deer are here, and they do cause many more auto accidents than they used to.  I know culling is probably necessary, but I do so love to watch them.  In my mother's last years I got a salt block that we put in her back yard, with a wildlife camera focussed on it.  We got to know whole families of deer.  The buck with the droopy horn.  I wonder if he's still alive.  Damn.  I must be reasonable.  The hunters offered us some of what I'm sure is very fine venison.  We accepted it in the spirit it was intended and even tried it.  It was fine, I guess.  But it sure didn't sit well with my conscience.  We gave the rest away.  Last week I looked into the dead eyes of a buck in the back of their Jimmy.  Why did I put myself through that?  Somehow I hoped it would help me come to terms with the killing, but all I could think of was how much more beautiful he would've been standing alive in the forrest. 

Now it's duck season and that's even worse.  There's no way the wood ducks and ring necks and the others are over populated.  In order to shoot away from our house the hunters must have their blind near it, so as to point their guns away.  I've always loved to see the ducks come in at night, and every one is a jewel-colored treasure.  The iridescence of the drakes and the subtle, tweedy shades of the hens.  How can it be right to take the light from their eyes?  While the deer are hunted with single shots, flocks of ducks bring volleys.  I swear, I know how over-dramatic it sounds but I feel like my soul flinches with every shot, as if it was killing something in me.  I hate to see the ducks come in now.  And I wonder if I'll come to dread the fall, as it begins to seem like a season of death.