Trying to keep up with the guide and actually hunt was difficult. At times, it was downright annoying. I was raised to “slip” as my dad would say. Hunting in Poland was turning out to be very different. You try to be as quiet as possible, move as little as possible, and melt into the landscape. When you do that, you become part of the system. You observe, you don’t intrude. This was completely different.
“Just roll with it, they know what they are doing”, I pleaded with myself. Last thing I wanted was some conflict with a guy that only spoke German. For the most part, I attempted to keep up while not sounding like a freight train crashing through timber. My guide kept his breakneck pace while sweeping with a thermal monocular scope.
The scope was neat and very useful when sitting in a stand. If he elected to simply stop and scan, I would have been fine with it. However, this sprint through the woods while canvassing everything with it was starting to get old. However, I was a guest and didn’t want to pass judgement on their methods. After all, they were the ones running the business, doing it, I was just some random guy who paid them.
We had seen a female red deer at a bait pile a few minutes ago. She slowly moved off into the thickets we had elected to skirt using a forest road to the south. Not having my chest rig and binoculars had impeded me and I had thrown the scope up on her. “Frau”, the guide had whispered as he thought I was looking to shoot her. I just wanted to see her and what was around her. During the rut, the opposite sex is often not far behind. Yet I heard the game warden that had taught my hunter’s ed class in ‘97 in the back of my mind “the state of Arkansas does not see your scope as an authorized optic”. Translation: only point the gun at what you intend to shoot. Fair enough.
She had moved off and we were now looking to find a large red deer closing in on her, but we hadn’t seen any yet. However, we could hear them bellow. Their call is distinct, nearly a roar. Perhaps even a grumble. It speaks of something very disturbed and if you didn’t know what it was, you would be unnerved to hear it in the twilight.
They were everywhere, yet nowhere. The only deer I had seen stepped out in front of us the previous morning, startling me. The size of it was impressive. It was not yet an elk, but the huge rack was something completely foreign to a guy from Arkansas. After spooking that one, I wanted a second chance to be successful, knowing that I should have acted sooner than I did. Had it not been for the amazement of the beast, I would have dropped it immediately.
As we cruised down the road, my guide steadily swept the thickets beside us for a thermal signature. I kept my scan going while taking frequent breaks to weave my foot in between the sticks and brush that threatened to break my silent sprint. After two days of this waltz, I was getting danced out.
We crested a small knoll and an opening to my right came into view. I glanced up at the peaceful scene to see a red deer standing on top with the sun rising behind him. In a Disney worthy scene, the deer was looking over its shoulder at my guide who was furiously walking at a breakneck pace and sweeping with his thermal scope. I instinctively flipped the rifle off my shoulder and brought him up in my scope. The sudden motion caused the deer to shift his focus from the guide to me. The realization that he was about to meet an unwanted end caused the deer to turn lazily and saunter off into the brush.
In the seconds that had transpired, I had managed to whisper loud enough to get the guide’s attention. He turned to see the excitement on my face and my rifle shouldered. Walking back to me at his lightning pace to investigate what my vantage point afforded me, likely spooked the deer.
“Damn.” I whispered under my breath after the ensuing pursuit lasted all of thirty seconds. My guide muttered something in German that led me to believe he didn’t want to engage in a pursuit. I stood, rifle in hand, with all my instincts prodding me to find the deer that had disappeared into the foliage. Yet my guide had other ideas.
In the distance, there was another deer calling aggressively with a deep bellowing roar. My guide waved his hand at my query indicating he had no interest in going into the thick brush that had swallowed my pursuit. Simultaneously, he turned and cupped his ear to the calling deer. He waved his hand and muttered some broken German in a rough whisper as he walked towards the siren sound of the sexually frustrated deer deep in the forest.
We got back on the neglected forest road that we had begun our quest on and walked for an extended time. Eventually, we realized that the other deer was deeper in the forest than we would be able to walk in any reasonable time period. So we returned to the small suv we had embarked from.
Hunting in Poland: The Set Up
Tim had been pestering me about wanting to go hunting in Poland during our deployment. With the insane amount of planning and preparation that comes with getting an entire task force across the world, I simply hadn’t had the time to devote to something that I would be happy to do. However, he took it in stride and began to relentlessly plan our adventure into the weird Polish wilderness.
“They have fallow deer, or red deer?”, he stated, imposing a question of what I would be most excited to pursue. Remembering the ridiculous opening scene of Last of the Mohicans that sported a red deer instead of the more appropriate elk for the Adirondack mountains, I quickly made my decision.
“Definitely red deer,” I affirmed, being far too busy to really devote significant brainpower. I immediately felt bad as he was doing me a real favor, planning a dream hunt that I should be super excited about. Yet, the stress of the unfolding deployment sucked the energy from all areas of life, to include my love for wild places.
Tim is a man of few words, and after grumbling something akin to an “alright” he disappeared into the concrete jungle that imprisoned us. The office was cozy and functional, but it wasn’t lively in the way I prefer. The mountains, swamps, and beautiful forest of my home were an ocean away and I was missing it terribly. Perhaps Tim would come through with a gentle substitute that would provide some sort of reprieve. Even if it was only for a few short days.
The hunt was soon booked and I paid a competitive, but personally substantial amount of money that was only available due to my selling of a commuter truck I owned. After the short, but painful swipe of the credit card and some initial confusion concerning what currency Diana Outfitters preferred, I soon found myself looking at the calendar with a new anticipation.
Days ticked by slowly and painfully. All I really wanted was to be back in Arkansas scanning the trees for squirrels or out of service in Washington looking through my Vortex binoculars at a mule deer. The only feasible alternative for the European prison sentence I had incurred by my willingness to serve in the Army was right around the corner. It’s proximity in time didn’t bring it any closer, but made it feel farther away.
Hunting in Poland: The Journey
Finally the hour came to climb in an absurdly small rental car with Tim and Josh and begin the multi-hour trek across parts unknown to hunt an animal I had never seen in the wild before. With each bunmp of the tires, conversation of my friends, and mile placed between me and work came a small, but glinting hint of freedom.
It was dark when we arrived. We found ourselves staring at a small cohort of confused people in our headlights that looked nothing like the people or accommodations we expected. Soon, a middle aged woman entered into the frame of our lumination and began pointing into the darkness, far off to our left.
She came up to the window and began speaking more Polish than I could ever want to understand. It soon became clear that we were in the wrong spot. With all that I could guess was a scolding from a budding Polish grandmother, we reversed and began to follow her into the night.
After a 100 yard trek, the grandmother, who we would soon learn was our host named Eva, walked up to a multi story brick home and welcomed us in. We walked up several flights of stairs whose walls were decorated with the trophies of yesteryear. It was at that moment that the size and handsome nature of a red deer’s rack became clear.
We were effectively hunting in Poland for small elk. The deer’s rack branched similarly to elk’s, but were smaller. The result was a trophy that far dwarfed even the most treasured white tail rack, but was, even in its most pristine, subordinate to that of the elk. I was now, officially, excited.
After another brief and hilariously difficult to understand exchange with Eva, we determined that at 0515 the next morning we would embark on our deer hunt. After having some of the finest cold cuts, cheese, and other random Polish staples Eva had to offer, we found ourselves tucked into simple beds.
The next morning was a confusing whirlwind. I woke up at my customary 0400 and laid awake for the next hour. Staring at the ceiling, I began to wonder what the day would bring. The anticipation was at its height and each minute ticked into the past more painful than the last. As it just so happened I would be reading Marcus Aerlius’s Meditations, I found myself trying to separate myself from the emotions of the day in the most stoic sense.
Soon it was 0500 and I was dawning my First Lite pants and shirt. Finally being able to afford proper clothes for hunting in Poland, I had ordered them with the remainder of the truck proceeds after I paid for the hunt. I was excited to test them out and the professional attire gave me a sense of competence despite the ineptitude I knew I would be wrestling with.
Hunting in Poland: Stepping Off
The guides arrived at 0515 just like they promised. Tomack, our main point of contact, arrived and began to sort through the paperwork on the hood of his car. His car, which was more or less a Suzuki Samurai,is worth calling attention to. Though it was very different from hunting vehicles that Americans are used to. It sported a winch and was completely Herculined in a very military OD green color. It reminded me of something out of an apocalypse movie, but one that was absolutely hysterical.
With the guide assignments finished and the paperwork in order, Tomack handed my guide a rifle and a box of ammo. Nearly without hesitation, the short, older, mustached German man handed it to me and began to lecture me in yet another foreign language. I did my best to appear like I understood his paternal advice despite having no clue what he was saying.
Looking down, I found in my hands to see a Mossberg .308 with a synthetic black stock. I dropped the magazine and pulled the bolt back to ensure it was unloaded. Seeing the chamber a void, I pushed the bolt forward and magazine back into place. The magazine was a box type that was loaded with what appeared to be home grown soft nosed bullets. I made a mental note that not only was the rifle going to be slightly underpowered, but the flat nose on the bullets would cause slight accuracy problems at extended ranges. I knew that I needed to be close when I fired and my shot placement would need to be pristine.
In a whirlwind of activity, we were whisked away from the lodge in the micromachine cars that our guides brought to bear on our transportation needs. It wasn’t long and we were cruising the forest roads in search of deer. The conversation was more than minimal since neither I nor my guide spoke the same language.
However, I preferred it this way. As a chaplain, my job is to talk to people. To know people. To understand people. It was nice to finally enjoy the rewards of someone’s presence without having to pay the cost of being their counselor. The silence was fantastic and much needed medicine for my soul.
The forest was black. Seeing nothing, we stepped out of the micro machine that brought us there. I looked over to see my guide sweeping the area with a thermal scope. I found myself pondering about fair chase laws and the European opinion on them. Even though it was apparently allowed and normal in Europe to use such equipment, I began to wonder how much the hunters of Poland would benefit if they voluntarily gave them up.
Hunting, even hunting in Poland, unfortunately, has become a game of public opinion in the modern era. Enhanced efficacy through technology only serves to undergird the antihunter’s argument that we have evolved past the need to embrace our place in the food chain and greater ecosystem. Yet, I was not the guide and this was not my country.
Soon I found myself riding into the strikingly clean and beautiful forest listening for the faint roars that called us deeper still. I could see through the trees, nearly to the horizon. One could have many complaints about the country, but it would be impossible to cast any dispersion on the Polish forestry practice. The love the Polish people have for the natural beauty and wonder of their homeland is evident in the care they place on the forest they inhabit.
Hunting in Poland: The Disappointment
Our peaceful ride was brought to an abrupt halt when we encountered a fallen tree across our route. My guide looked at me sheepishly and said something in German. We had come to a place in our relationship where neither tried to say anything in the other’s language, but we started to understand one another nevertheless. We would have to abandon the small car and go on foot.
Stepping out away from the disruption of the wind whipping through the moving car, we both realized that the deer was far closer than either realized. The roars were loud and aggressive. Wherever the deer was, he wanted all others to know he was there. My guide looked at me and no words were required, the hunt was on.
We silently, but quickly closed in on the source of the ominous roaring in the distance by way of a well worn game trail off to our right. The forest gave way abruptly to an impenetrable thicket accessible only through the highway of a trail that was clearly under heavy use. I readied the rifle, if I were to see something I would not have time on my side.
The trail weaved and I began to detect the distinct smell of mud and urine. Only a few steps later it became overwhelming as the thicket broke open into a small cavern of open space filled with wallows. Clearly, there were red deer here and the roars of the deer only served to confirm their proximity. They had become nearly deafening. It wouldn’t be long now.
We passed through the wallows and entered back into the meandering, winding game trail system. Yet not far up ahead was a break in thicket and light poured through the porous holes of the green wall that encapsulated us. The deer sounded like it was standing next to me. It barked, it roared, it seemed very agitated.
My guide stepped off to the left as we began to sweep the opening with his thermal sight. I came along his right as I stepped back into my old squirrel hunting habits. I scanned the opening just as my father taught me when I was a boy, I looked at everything at once and nothing in particular. Where was the movement? What stood out? My vision was slightly blurred and my whole being was engaged in the stalk.
In a matter of moments, I saw a wisp of fog move against the grain of the menagerie of background that juxtaposed it. It floated off and dissipated with a force that was unnatural. I plotted it’s trajectory and began to examine where it could have come from.
As my eyes glinted backwards, a figure became traceable against the background. Almost at once the outline of a giant red deer became more than obvious against the background of tree bark and greenery. He let out a roar that shook my very soul as another forceful fog cut into the crisp morning air from his lungs.
I felt the jitters of a hunter creep in as I instinctively turned my emotions off. Everything from here on would be cool, calm, and calculated. Too often had I let the joy of the moment cost me the joy of the kill. I had to bring this stalk to a successful close and I could not let myself get in the way.
As I brought the scope to my eye, I noticed that my guide was setting up his shooting sticks. We had gone from two foreigners who could hilariously not communicate to a smooth operating team united by the common tongue of hunting. We didn’t need to converse about what needed to happen.
I watched the deer billow in the scope as I found his heart in my crosshairs. I let out a long breath and began to squeeze the trigger. The natural pause in my breathing created a serene stillness that blocked the entire world out. For a moment, all that existed was me and the deer that moments before was announcing his presence to the world by way of an otherworldly roar.
He turned his head and looked at me through the scope. Our eyes locked and he cocked his ears forward. It was mere seconds until he bolted deep into the pristine forest he had come to dominate. Soon he would be deep into his kingdom and I would be left with just a memory.
The report of the rifle was striking and cut the serenity of the forest like a dull knife ripping through fabric. The deer crashed into everything around it as the recoil caused him to disappear from the optical hole I studied him through.
I quickly tried to reacquire him in the scope, had I missed? “No”, I reassured myself. It would be terribly hard to miss something that close and of that size. I pulled away from the scope to gain a broader perspective, I knew he hadn’t gone far.
My guide was excited to say the least, he exhibited the most emotion I had seen from him yet. Soon we were shaking hands and celebrating in two languages. The intensity of the moment was passing and our celebrations were the capitulations to the pressure of the moment.
I actioned the rifle and caught the spent casing in my hand. I put it in my pocket with the intent to permanently retire it from service alongside the rack that I knew awaited me in the forest. It had done its job.
We crossed the opening that had once served as a chasm between us and the deer. For a moment I was a boy again, the anticipation interlaced with anxiety reminded me of getting off the stand and looking for my newly acquired, most prized possession. How big was it? What did it look like up close? I couldn’t keep up wit the questions racing through my mind.
Scanning the ground I saw no blood. My heart sank. The silence of the forest brought about by the rifle’s report cut into my soul. Had I missed? Worse, what if I gut shot it? Would I ever see it again? Would his meat ever nourish me and his prized antlers ever educate my children in our home? It was all slipping away with each thought.
The guide and I spread out and began to look. It didn’t take long to reach the point of despair on both our parts. The joys we had shared moments before now grew fangs and attacked it’s former hosts. The emotion and disappointment slowly crept deeper until it became unbearable.
Hunting in Poland: Coping
My inner stoic took charge. This was no time for the passions of lost and the lies of my amygdala. I needed to keep my head about me and find this deer. I knew I hit it and had not missed. He was here somewhere, it was only a matter of eliminating potential places he could be hiding.
I turned around and headed back to where he was standing when I shot. “You should have done this to begin with instead of running out here full of excitement”, I told myself. Yet, I was, once again, at the behest of a guide that I had difficulty communicating with. There was no time for inner turmoil, those two demons could hash it out later. For now, finding the query was the matter at hand.
I surveyed the forest and confirmed that I was standing on the piece of earth that the deer and I had collided at. He was here somewhere. My nose felt the putrid smell of urine the deer was surely saturated in. “If only I could track like a dog, I would have him by now”, I thought to myself.
Then something caught my eye. I looked down to see a large red chunk laying amidst droplets of blood. The spray had been fine, but the chunk of meat was exceptional. I picked it up and immediately noticed that it was a different temperature from the rest of the world. It was not hot, but it was neither cold like Poland.
“Is it lung?”, I postulated aloud as I rolled it around my finger tips. The sudden break in my silence attracted my guide who had been scanning deeper into the wood. “No,” I answered my own inquiry, “This is meat.” My heart sank. It looked as though I had failed to place a shot that would have made my father proud.
However, I have never and haven’t since seen such a large piece of meat on the ground after shooting an animal. I have seen more than my share of blood, bits of lung, potentially heart and tons of hair. Never had I ever seen just meat like this before.
“Fox?” my guide muttered after searching for a word we would both understand. It served only to confuse as I handed it to him.
“No its warm and look at the blood pattern on the ground”, I knelt down to where I had picked it up and noticed a large track indicating the pivot performed in response to the wound. “He went farther into that thicket”, I said pointing at my newly determined direction of interest.
“Hund”, he stated confidently. Luckily, we had nearly hit a stray dog earlier and had a brief linguistic exchange concerning dogs. I knew what he meant. The main outfitter raised blood trailing dogs and had employed them frequently. Only days before, one of our party had wounded another deer and the dog had failed to locate it. “Wolves will find”, Tomak had reassured us.
We made our way back to the small SUV that had carried us to this strange and wonderful destination. During the trek, I took counsel of my emotions and had a frank conversation with myself.
“A .308 is too small for this animal, but that is all we have. You should have placed the round in his heart, but you failed. You won’t see the deer again. All you can do now is shake this one off and try again this evening,” I coached myself. There was no need to think about it any further.
Hunting in Poland: The Surprise
I found myself sitting back at the lodge to find that Tim had been successful. A deer that was far larger than any deer I had killed, yet was still dwarfed by an elk laid on a bed of fresh pine limbs. With a green leaf placed in it’s mouth and the ceremonious sound of a horn played to celebrate the end of its life, we began to exchange war stories.
Apparently he had watched this one since before daylight through Tomak’s thermal scope. Once the sun exposed enough of the earth to allow for Tim to make the shot, he had masterfully placed a soft nosed bullet through both lungs and heart. The deer dropped nearly instantly.
Pictures were taken, stories were exchanged and the time for naps was now at hand. It had been a long morning and the evening would be here before we knew it. We ate lunch and each retired to their own sanctuary to reflect and recuperate.
I found myself reading through a book and soon completely forgot about the morning. There was simply not enough time in life and certainly not on this hunt to attempt to reorder a life already lived. I had failed to place a killing shot and now I, the deer, and the guide must live with my failure. I had not done anything malicious and had made a conscious effort to blame the only responsible party; myself. Now it was time to forget and try again.
This I was well on my way to accomplishing when the door burst open. In front of me stood an exasperated Tomak with no shoes on. His socked feet perplexed me and I lowered my book to better assess why he was so elevated.
“My friend, we found your deer”, he said as he shook my hand. I stood there dumbfounded. Found it? It took a minute for it to seek in. Moments before I was lost in my book and had blocked out any thoughts of the lost deer. It would take a few minutes to catch up mentally and emotionally.
Hunting in Poland: The Success
He turned and went about doing something that did not warrant allocation in my memory. Dumfounded, I continued to stand there until I was being congratulated. I found my boots and began the multi flight stair descent to the front door and into the sun. I wanted to see it.
Sure enough, next to the deer from earlier that day laid my deer. Slightly bigger, slightly more impressive, but with its head turned back and laid out in the traditional presentation for Polish culture. Then it hit me and began to sink in. The animal I had heard about all my life as some rich man’s conquest lay before me. I had killed a red deer.
It reeked of the smell of urine and mud. The rack was impressive, yet odd. On the left side four points formed a crown that a bird would have nested in had he sat still long enough. I reached down and grabbed the antlers. Down his neck and across his back were the scars brought on by battle. Given that two points had been broken off above his eyes, it was easy to see that he was no stranger to a fight.
It was a moment full of emotion so complex it is hard to understand. Growing up I had always seen the illusive red deer on the outdoors shows we would watch on saturdays. I remember the scene from the Last of the Mohicans and watching it crash head over heels after a well placed shot brought it to its end.
I found myself trying to understand why it had taken a hund to find him and where I had struck him. One of the guides was giggling and pointing at the left rump in such a way it called for inspection. I left the crown of the antlers and looped around to the backside of the beast to find a half dollar sized hole in the upper left hind quarter.
Now I was very confused. How had that happened? The other guides seemed just as confused as they questioned my guide. I don’t speak German but I was able to pick up on my guide defending our honor amongst his peers. He continually pointed behind the shoulder as he debated in German.
“The bullet turn” one guide said to me in a tongue of foreign, broken English. In fact, that was the only real explanation. Due to the angle the deer was standing, it appeared that the bullet struck a bone and ricocheted in such a way that it exited his hind quarter at a 45 degree angle. The result was massive internal injuries not unlike a gut shot, but very little blood and one massive chunk of meat blown out.
I pulled out my phone and looked at the picture of the meat chunk I had found on the ground and compared it to the exit wound. It looked like someone had taken a core sample of the hind quarter. I would have never thought it was an exit wound had it not been for my own investigation.
“You gave it new arse-hole”, the more talkative guide said as he roared with laughter. Soon an amalgamation of Polish and German flowed freely as they laughed and laughed. I stood there somewhat annoyed at being given a .308 for the large bodied, testosterone fueled beast. Yet, here he was and my hunt was effectively over. I couldn’t be more satisfied.
The evening and next day came and went. I spent my last bit in weird “high seat” box stands and walking the woods with someone that I couldn’t communicate with. The silence was deafening, but very welcomed. It was incredible just to be away from everything and deep inside a foreign, yet strange wood.
It allowed me time to think and reflect. Had my guide, who I didn’t even ever understand his name, spoke English, I believe it would have detracted from the experience. It took me only an hour or two to understand his thoughts and approaches to hunting in Poland as I watched him work. We both had a very deep appreciation for simply being there. Neither of us needed to be successful, but welcomed it when the opportunity presented itself. Our success was simply the adventure, the peace of the forest, and the common bond of hunters that seemingly bridged the chasm of language.
Hunting is home and for a few days, I was there.
