The brightening Eastern sky was a crystal clear, frozen grey, the air keen as a knife and just as sharp, cutting shrewdly, darting through any open zipper or unopened coat with chilling effect. As I climbed into the truck I couldn’t wait to get my gloves on. The steering wheel was brutal to the unprotected fingers.
When I glanced at the gas gauge there was no doubt I had to stop and fill up; the needle was just above empty and the 22 degree temperatures would lower the gas mileage even more than usual.
Blast it! Now I was going to be late and Jim hates people being late. So do I, and now I was one of those irresponsible people simply because I hadn’t had the foresight to check the gauge the day before. I hit my fist on the steering wheel. Oh, well, at least the windows hadn’t been frosted over, the dry and brittle air was without moisture and that saved a little time.
Sure enough, when I pulled in Jim, Vince and Gary Clark, a talented deer taxidermist and avid hunter from Emporium were standing impatiently beside their vehicles.
“You’re 10 minutes late!” Jim exclaimed somewhat impatiently, looking like he really wanted to stamp his foot on the ground, but just restraining himself.
I gave him a weak grin, shrugged my shoulders and said; “Had to get gas.”
He just stopped himself from asking me why I didn’t get it last night, then shrugged. What’s done was done. Time to get the standers in place while we drove over to the next valley to put on a two man drive.
Two hunters were already in place in this nasty cold on the far side of the ridge and we hoped to move some deer around. Jim hopped in and after wishing everyone luck we drove to the adjoining valley and separating some 300 yards began working our way up the hillside, zig-zagging through the thicker areas.
The leaves were frozen hard, their edges curled up and frosted white in the frigid temperatures. The leaves gave off a loud and distinctive crunch when you placed your weight on them, but if your buck tag’s filled and you’re a driver the noise doesn’t seem to bother you one bit, strangely enough.   
At first the bitter cold was piercing, but 200 yards of uphill hiking soon had me sweating, coat open, ear flaps up and gloves off. As I climbed I observed plenty of deer signs everywhere: old rubs, droppings, frozen scrapes and areas where the deer had dug for beechnuts, but never a deer itself. For some mysterious reason the hillside that usually held deer was deserted. Where had they gone?
I hit the ridge, cut left and worked down through some hemlock, then an area of thick, orange-leaved beech brush, skirted a field, climbed to a slightly higher crest and down the far side through an open wooded hillside to the stream. Again, not a single whitetail showed in front of me.
Today was a day of family importance and so far I’d done pretty well keeping those memories walled up. I’d concentrated on the weather, the terrain, where to walk and occasionally using the binoculars to check out suspicious objects, but it couldn’t be done forever, not today especially.
Suddenly, it all caught up, hit me like a truck and abruptly I just couldn’t walk another step. My throat choked up, hot tears welled and ran down over my icy cheeks, it was impossible to see or move. I was forced to stop, to sit on a convenient log, my head down sobbing.
Today was December the ninth, my dear wife’s birthday, but there would be no party, no gifts, no cake. She was gone and the huge empty pit inside opened up and swallowed me.
Desolate I sat and wrestled with the despair of my loss. I’d thought the worst was past, but no, the anguish would not pass this time, but erupted again in full force of feeling.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but slowly the pain eased, my shoulders stopped shaking and I could swallow once more. I opened my eyes, wiped away the tears and looked up. High above the white fleecy clouds moved in stately procession across a washed out blue sky. The tree trunks and slender branches were framed against it, the sun glistened on the green boughs of a nearby hemlock. The peace and calm of the forest soothed me as my emotions still struggled with my loss, until calm returned once again.
Since I had always thought it was somewhat unfair to be born in December where Christmas robs you of some of the uniqueness of that special date, we always had Jane’s party during Thanksgiving. She liked that, but on the special day itself I always tried to write her a poem, have another gift and take her to dinner or cook her dinner myself. Usually a New York strip steak, baked potato, vegetable and of course ice cream for dessert. I did the dishes too; that was mandatory or it could ruin the whole atmosphere!
Those past dinners came back so clearly and the tears came again, not as strong as at first, but for such very special memories they could not be held back.
And so I sat on a fallen oak log, symbolic perhaps, and thought of my wife, the special part of me so desperately missed. Her face swam before me, the memories so sweet.
I looked up and sang to her, alone, on a log in the woods. I sang her happy birthday and swear I saw her smiling.