Waltz of the Ozarks

Dawn’s golden light spilled across the broad meadow, illuminating drying grasses and brambles that had recently begun their autumn dormancy. Here and there, ideally-positioned dewdrops captured a passing beam and forcibly split it into its component colors, so that the vegetation seemed adorned with fantastical rainbow-hued gems. The mid-October air had its characteristic nip, but hadn’t yet acquired the deep chill that late-November’s bow season would bring. Somewhere in the distance, a fire smoldered in a woodstove or a hunter’s camp, lending its hardwood smoke scent to the breeze that it rode. Soon, the surrounding forest would come alive with the subdued sounds of a midwestern forest in autumn, the occasional caw of crows, rustling of dried leaves on forest floor as squirrels, rabbits, and gamebirds went about their daily business, but for now all was silence.

Sat in a tree stand perched in a blackjack oak, thirty feet off the ground, and fifty feet into the tree line on the south side of the meadow, Tim Jobe bore sole and silent witness to the miracle of morning in the forest. The stand was a simple sling-and-board affair with attached stirrups that allowed it to be used as a climbing aid. Tim had employed it for just that purpose the previous night, shimmying to his current position in the span of two heartbeats. His bow, sidearm (a well-worn AMT Javelina), and day pack, hastily discarded in his adrenaline-fueled race to safety, lay on the ground below him. Motionless and breathing shallow, he sat with his feet tucked under him, and his legs ached from their long confinement in their huddled position.

Knowing that he couldn’t stay in the tree stand forever, and slightly reassured by the coming of daylight, Tim decided that it might finally be worth the risk to move. Cautiously, he turned his head slowly to the left, tendons creaking all the while, and surveyed his surroundings. The forest was sparse this close to the meadow, and the trees, mostly blackjack oak like the one in which he resided, were spindly and offered little concealment. This was good, for whoever (or whatever) had chased him up the tree last night was sizeable, and there was little chance they (it) could be hiding behind one of them. His gaze moved from tree to tree, pausing on each to check for telltale bulges, protruding appendages, anything that might indicate a hidden threat. Finding none, he craned his neck around the trunk of the oak and checked the area behind him. Nothing. Feeling fairly certain that he was alone in his little corner of the woods, he began to slowly unfold his legs. It was a painful process, and the pins and needles that assaulted his feet would be with him for a few minutes, but it felt good to move, and even better to stand.

Glancing at his watch, Tim noted that it was five past seven. That meant that he’d been huddled in his tree stand for upward of nine hours. He could think of no other time in his life when he’d sat still for so long, but he’d never before encountered a situation like the one in which he presently found himself; treed, like a squirrel, by some unseen pursuer. Tim had been hunting these woods his entire life, and he’d seen strange things. He knew they held secrets, and it seemed that last night, one of those secrets had come to claim him. He was a skilled woodsman, and a cunning hunter, and his instincts had saved him, for the moment, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

In order to get to his pickup, Tim would have to either cross the open meadow (an option he’d declined earlier, in favor of climbing the tree), or stick to the tree line and skirt it, doubling his traveling distance. He considered this. He was in reasonably good shape for a man in his forties, but he instinctively felt the need to move quickly, and while the trees would provide some cover, they would also become obstacles to be dodged. Add to this the noise generated by dried leaves and sticks crunching underfoot, which would not only give away his position, but also mask any sounds made by a possible pursuer. Crossing the meadow seemed to be the safer option. Tim surveyed the area between himself and the edge of the meadow. Windblown patches of bare earth and sporadic growths of moss would allow him to travel in near silence until he was clear of the trees. He would be able to move quietly at a run when he reached the grass. He guessed he would be in the open for twenty seconds, all told, then it was short, five-minute walk through more woods to his pickup.

One thing nagged and gnawed at his subconscious, though. He hadn’t ever actually seen whoever, or whatever, chased him up the tree. Nor had he seen the direction in which it retreated when it gave up the mile chase, in which Tim had been steadily losing ground before he ditched his gear and climbed the tree. It was quite possible that his pursuer was waiting in ambush at the other side of the meadow. It was equally possible that his pursuer had abandoned him, in search of easier prey, though Tim felt this was unlikely. Whoever, or whatever, his pursuer was, it had come after him with dogged, bestial determination, and he could not convince himself that it would be thwarted so easily.

Tim squatted and stood a few times, both to get the blood moving in his legs, and to test their reliability after a night spent tucked under him. When he was satisfied that the night hadn’t caused any permanent damage, and that he’d be able to trust his life to them, he faced the tree and slipped his feet into the stirrups of his tree stand. He was too far off the ground to jump, so, as quietly as he could, he hugged the tree, and began to shimmy back down, using the tree stand to aid him. When he was about ten feet from the ground, he turned away from the tree, slid over the edge of the small platform, and dropped the remaining distance. He landed bent-kneed and rolled backward. Gaining his feet, he retrieved the Javelina from its holster on his pack and racked the slide. Oddly, the big, substantial 10mm handgun felt completely inadequate, though he’d always trusted it in the past. Pistol in hand, Tim began to cautiously make his way to the meadow.

It was a dozen steps, and, accustomed as he was to stalking spooky whitetails, he covered the distance in almost complete silence. He was gathering himself at the edge of the woods, preparing to sprint across the open meadow, when he heard a twig snap in the forest behind him. This was followed by the crunch of dry leaves, and the snap of another twig. Suddenly seized by terror and awash in adrenaline, Tim broke into a sprint, firing his pistol blindly behind him. He didn’t dare look back, but he could sense that something was closing on him. Something that panted, and ran swiftly on padded feet. Time slowed. The ground felt spongy beneath Tim’s feet, and his sprint became a slog. His heartbeat thundered in his eardrums, and he heard the padded steps of his still-unseen pursuer. The footsteps ceased, and something heavy landed on his back, sending him sprawling. As time resumed its normal pace, Tim felt hot breath on the back of his exposed neck, accompanied by a carnivore stench. The woods would keep their secrets today.