Christmas: When the Woods Suddenly Go Quiet

A final glance back at the high stand where I spent this morning.

A Christmas sit about responsibility, silence, and knowing the right measure. It’s December 24. I’m in the mountain woods, and it has snowed. The forest lies beneath a soft white blanket, as if someone laid a hand over every sound. Footsteps barely register. Even breathing feels muted. A white Christmas the way you hope for it—quiet, clean, and honest.

The stand is cold. The wood holds the winter in its grain. I settle in, pull my collar higher, set the rifle aside. Not everything has to be ready at once. Sometimes it’s enough to simply be there.

The morning before Christmas carries a weight of its own. Christmas Eve belongs to family—the hunt rests. No stand, no shot. An unwritten rule, never debated, simply lived. The morning before, though, leaves room for reflection.

Fresh snow changes everything. Tracks tell stories. The woods feel closer, almost familiar. Any sound would carry weight—but there is none. Only a deep stillness you don’t hear so much as feel.

Why are you here?

What do you expect?

And what are you willing not to do?

Game moves carefully, reserved, as the season demands. A brief moment that could change everything. But the trigger finger stays still. Not out of doubt—out of conviction.

Hunting isn’t about pulling the trigger.

Hunting is recognizing the right moment.

And sometimes the right moment is choosing not to shoot.

When I climb down and the day slowly brightens, the walk home begins. I look forward to what comes next—warmth, family, Christmas Eve, when the hunt rests. An old custom of my father-in-law’s, one I carry with me.

And I think of his quiet gesture: the small spruce twig he places with every trophy. No ornament. No words. Just a piece of the woods.

A symbol of gratitude.

Of respect.

Of knowing that nothing is ever guaranteed.

Merry Christmas.