outdoors

Possess an archery deer license and you own a ticket to a grand performance.

The show begins in mid-September amid green surroundings and balmy temperatures, and ends more than 100 days later when bare tree limbs yield to a northwest wind, waving goodbye to another year.

A balcony seat is suggested -- say 15 feet up in an ancient bur oak -- but the show can be viewed from the main floor as well. Camouflage attire is recommended.

Last week, I attended a mid-October late afternoon performance. I chose a balcony seat, a comfortable perch in a dead balsam fir, the needleless tree a victim of a lightning bolt. Fortunately for me, I was absent the day of the storm.

The stage was a soybean field, dried and crispy.

Surrounding it on three sides the upper-level seats were a wonderful mix of birch, ash, oak and spruce. The lower level consisted of mostly of willow, alder, hazel, dogwood and nannyberry.

Whoever decorated the theater was indeed an outstanding artist -- a color genius.

On the fourth side of the stage was a pond. As I climbed to my seat, I noted a small bunch of wood ducks swimming and tipping up among the wild rice and cattails.

The show started immediately upon my arrival. A sharp-shinned hawk glided on ridged wings low over the stage, scattering small songbirds along the way. Only robin-sized, sharp-shinned hawks are fast and furious. Their favorite prey is small birds, which they usually snatch from midair after a surprise attack.

The matinee I was attending also featured several audio performances. Nearby but out of sight behind a maze of colorful foliage, a ruffed grouse beat its wings from his own stage, the trunk of a fallen tree. The drumming tune was familiar to me; the lyrics were recognizable only to other grouse.

Further away, two barred owls were having a hoot-off, perhaps discussing who has the right to a hollow in an old ash tree. Overhead, a flock of Canada geese claimed to anyone willing to listen that suppertime had arrived.

As the theater lights dimmed, the show's pace increased. Next on stage was a doe and her roughly five-month-old buck fawn, his future antlers just fuzz-covered bumps between his ears. Shortly, another doe and her female fawn joined the initial pair. The audience -- me -- remained still and quiet. I could hear the soybeans crunch as the deer began to fill their bellies.

Suddenly, the four whitetails raised their heads in unison, eyes and ears riveted to my right, obviously alerted by a noise inaudible to me. Out stepped two spike bucks 40 yards away, their tiny finger-length antlers barely visible to the unaided eye. Immediately the does and fawns resumed feeding, and the young bucks joined them.

The theater lights were dimmer yet when a third buck walked onto the stage. This young buck's antlers sported eight points, but his rack was small. Hunters would call it a basket-rack.

Now there were seven deer feeding within 30 yards of the base of tree in which I was perched. The doe and her buck fawn were nearly beneath my tree when the fawn began nursing. I could actually hear the sucking sounds as the fawn fed.

A few minutes later, another 8-point buck walked into view and it, like the other deer, began eating soybeans. Its antlers were very similar to those of the initial 8-point buck. The stage was set, I thought, for the two deer to spar with one another, since they were very similar in size. They had another plan while they fed in proximity, unconcerned.

With the sun perched on the western horizon -- as if on cue -- six of the eight deer, including the two 8-point bucks, left the stage and walked through a narrow strip of woods and into an adjoining soybean field. That's when the two bucks finally began sparring. I heard antlers clashing and rattling, but because of the heavy vegetation I could only occasionally see movement. The doe and fawn that remained nearby would now and then lift their heads to look in the direction of the two sparring bucks as if attempting to discern the outcome.

Roughly 30 minutes later, the battling whitetails were still going at it, but by now they had pushed and shoved themselves into a shallow wetland. Although they remained mostly out of sight, I could hear water splashing in harmony with antlers clattering.

The seriousness of the buck fight was difficult to determine by hearing alone, but judging by the sounds and the duration of the brouhaha, it seemed as if it was more that just playful sparring.

At a half-hour after sunset, I climbed down from my balcony seat. As I left the stage and walked alone in the darkness, I reasoned the price of admission -- a mere $26 -- was a bargain for even a one-day showing.

Fortunately for me, my ticket was valid for about 75 more days.

Bill Marchel, a wildlife photographer and outdoors columnist, lives near Brainerd.