Four years ago, in Sweden, I didn’t fire a shot, and two years later, in Poland, fired only one productive one. There is a learning process. Driven hunting may seem easy to the uninitiated, but for the man sitting on a stand waiting for the beasts to dash by, it requires a collection of skills that must be acquired. I feel I’m doing that, bit by bit. Being able to shoot, obviously, is a big part of it, and so is identifying an animal as it bursts out of the bush at high speed. Reaction time counts heavily, too. But the real key, I believe, is to have enough experience to read a situation, anticipate what is going to happen next, and be ready for it.
Wayne Gretzky, the hockey great, was said to be able to anticipate what would happen on the ice, like a chess player thinking several moves ahead, but at lightning speed. He could then get into position either to deal with it or profit by it. Archie Moore, an immortal in the boxing world, could do the same thing, and it was this that A. J. Liebling, quoted above, was talking about. That, and the value of studying the curriculum that has been developed over several centuries. A young boxer may sneer at it, and get by for a while on sheer reflexes, but when speed and reflexes go, you need wisdom and anticipation, or you find yourself on the mat.
“Sprigs of fir were presented to all who had killed, and the hunting horns played the traditional fanfares for each species that lay there.”
Among the rules we were given was that when a mob of wild boar crashed through, led by an old sow, we were never to shoot the sow, but to try for the smaller ones, or the second largest, which always brings up the rear. Faced with a young animal and an old one, whether deer or boar, shoot the young one first. Roe bucks were out of season, but does were fair game. The bucks, however, had shed their antlers, so we had to be sure. As for red stags, it was a matter of antler quality. This is just a taste of the rules, and Zeiss had a booklet printed for us to explain it all.
The penalties for making a mistake? A hefty government fine for a big stag, jail for shooting a wolf.
Usually, with running game, I wait for it to pause before shooting, and that worked the first morning with both a boar and a young roe. Those were my contributions to the bag that day. On a coon dog, I did not shoot, because I was not sure; same a little later with a hind. By the time I was sure, they were both gone.
On day two, I was in a high stand facing into a hillside. A furious drumming of trotters and a line of wild boar came across from the left. I saw them in time either to panic or form a plan. Seeing they were running as evenly as a train on tracks, I settled in with the crosshair where they were likely to run, waited for the big sow to pass, then pulled the trigger and rolled a young pig.
Three animals in two days was certainly a big improvement over my performances in Poland and Sweden, but the moment that gave the most satisfaction was yet to come. A hundred yards down a dirt road, a roe deer appeared. Buck or doe? No way to tell. But wait, I thought. If it’s a doe, a young one might follow. And if a second one does appear, it must be either a doe or a young one—both fair game. I settled in, waited, and it all unfolded just as I anticipated. I got a shot at the second animal— and missed.
Wayne Gretzky would have scored, and Archie Moore would have decked the guy, but I’m still learning, and this was serious progress. Too bad it was over for the day, the trip, the year.
SOME STATISTICS: Forty guns hunted for a total of 5 hours and 45 minutes over two days, and delivered 127 assorted beasts to the city fathers of Laubach. What’s more, no rules were broken, no wrong animals shot. It was the best two-day result in the history of this annual Zeiss event.
Those facts were read out by the gamekeeper during the second evening ceremony. Sprigs of fir were presented to all who had killed, and the hunting horns played the traditional fanfares for each species that lay there. At dinner, a splendid repast in a grand hall of the castle, that day’s King of the Hunt was crowned, and those of us who, during the two days, had bagged our first wild boar were inducted into the Company of German Hunters in a ceremony that involved kneeling, shoulder-dubbing with a rather fearsome hunting knife, Teutonic orations, and copious laughter.
There is, still, a kick in style. And tradition does, indeed, carry a nasty wallop.
It may be his remote German antecedents, but Wieland finds it all admirable. He has ordered a loden green hunting cloak but is holding off on the lederhosen. The Lord be praised.
