11/23/2024
Inside the cabin, the venison was cooking over a low flame, its aroma filling the air with a richness that carried the memory of the land. Each bite would be more than nourishment; it would be a story—of patience, of effort, of life given so that life might go on. I sat by the fire, watching the flames dance, and thought about the morning, about the deer, and about the quiet exchange that had taken place.
The buck had stepped into the clearing with the slow grace of something born to live in a world far older and wiser than the one I knew. Its breath was a soft plume in the cold air, its movements deliberate and unhurried. I had waited, not out of hesitation but out of respect. The shot, when it came, was clean and true, and the forest seemed to pause in acknowledgment of what had passed.
As I knelt beside the animal, I felt the familiar mix of gratitude and humility settle over me. My hand rested on its flank, still warm, and I whispered a prayer—not a prayer of victory, but one of thanks. It was not lost on me that this deer had lived a life of its own, wild and free, unaware of its place in mine until that final moment. To take such a life is no small thing, and it should never be treated as such.
The woods were quiet now, the kind of stillness that settles in after the work of the hunt is done. The last rays of sunlight stretched through the trees, turning the frost on the leaves to gold. I stood at the edge of the clearing where the deer had fallen, my rifle slung over my shoulder, and let the weight of the moment rest on me. This was the part of the hunt that mattered most—not the chase, not the shot, but the time to reflect on what it all meant.
Now, as the venison cooked, I couldn’t help but think about how much the world outside this cabin had changed. Once, this connection to the land was a common thread that bound people together. Everyone understood where their food came from, the work it took, and the responsibility it carried. But today, it seems that thread has frayed. Food comes wrapped in plastic, anonymous and unearned, and the idea of respecting the harvest has been replaced by convenience.
There is something about the hunt—about the hours spent waiting in the cold, the care it takes to track an animal, the effort required to clean and prepare the meat—that instills a kind of reverence. It teaches you that life is not to be taken lightly, that every meal is a gift and a debt to the natural world. But this lesson, it seems, is slipping away, lost in the noise of modern life.
I thought about the deer again, about the way it had moved through the woods, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and the wind. Its life had been simple and honest, untouched by the haste and clutter of the world I came from. And in taking that life, I was reminded of something I feared too many had forgotten: that to eat is to take, and to take is to owe.
The venison was ready now, seared to perfection and glistening in the firelight. I cut a piece, the knife sliding easily through the tender meat, and brought it to my mouth. The flavor was unlike anything you could buy in a store—rich and wild, full of the woods and the work that had brought it to my plate. Each bite was a reminder of the time spent in the cold, of the patience it took to wait for the right moment, of the life that had made it possible.
As I ate, I felt a deep sense of gratitude—not just for the meal, but for the chance to remember what it meant. The fire crackled softly, the woods beyond the cabin standing quiet and eternal, and I whispered a prayer for the deer, for the land, and for a world that might yet remember the old ways. For as long as I am able, I will carry these lessons with me, and I will give thanks—for the work, for the patience, and for the life that makes all of it possible.
