In the woods, at least in these woods, the quiet was palpable, thick. I walked out for half an hour, into the thick quiet, and then sat, silent. Leaves falling to the ground were an event. Nothing was moving at first, but then I’d hear something rustling through the leaves. In those woods, in that quiet, there was no way to know if it was 200 yards away or over my left shoulder. I didn’t see any deer. Back at camp, my dad was waiting, pistol in hand. It may seem odd to hunt with a revolver, but I’ve seen him consistently hit at 200 yards, which is about as far as I trust my own aim with a rifle. He’d set off in the opposite direction at the same time as me, and come back just a few minutes earlier. The rule of hunting is that the game will show up as soon as you’re not prepared; so we sat and waited and talked the sun down, in low voices. Half an hour before sunset, at the end of legal shooting light, we unloaded and stowed the weapons, and cooked dinner. In the morning, we got back up, and headed back to the city.
