He sat in the autumn woods, in the warmth of the sun, but with an empty heart, because he sat alone. He was without the best companion he’d ever had in some 48 years of hunting. Lighting a meditative pipe, he wondered why his own son, a son he’d brought into the world with a dream that he’d be a hunter, a companion unparalleled, a son with somewhat of an advantage because Pop had bought him an arsenal of guns even before he came into the world, would ever give up hunting. The old father needed an answer. But where would he find it? He wondered if sitting alone in the woods with only his personal God would provide the answer.
As he sat there he penned a few words for when he returned home to the word processor. He wanted to share his feelings with other mothers and fathers who, perhaps, were also perplexed over the loss of a child as a hunting companion. He needed desperately to find a resolution, and he wished he could tell others how to handle the hurt that accompanies this kind of emotional transition.
It had been several years since his son Justin had shared the excitement of preparing for the autumn hunts for grays, grouse and turkeys, and the sacred winter hunts for the King of Hearts – the white-tailed buck. Just like water cutting its way through granite boulders over long periods of time, the old man was losing his love of the hunt, because of his son, and it hurt him deeply.
On this afternoon the skies were clear and, for the end of October, it was warm. There was none of that heavy, damp air that normally carries the smell of the autumn forest, the earthy smell of dampened mosses in runoff troughs cut through the hillsides by rain and snow, but the heavy musk odor brought on by the whitetails’ rutting moon was clearly evident. On this day the air was loaded with it. A bit soon for the bucks to be in full rut, he thought, and odd that such a dry woodland would be so heavy with the whitetail scent. Despite his deep love of this smell, on this day it was not as wonderful as those times when he shared it with a hunting son.
As he sat there he fondled the old Smithy turkey call he had used since 1984. To break his melancholy mood, and the golden silence of the enchanting endless mountain, he sent out a few kee kee run calls. Still an unbelievable sound the call had, he thought, still as wild and real as it was going on 20 years ago. Smiling, albeit with some difficulty, he sat back and refired his thinking pipe. His eyes became heavy with the warm sun. the pipe was loosely clenched between bottom teeth and gums – the old man never wore his upper denture to the hunting woods. A scratching sound soon caused him to open his eyes halfway, and he noticed a squirrel burying hickory nuts beneath the dry, dusty leaves of the fruitless white oaks. Again he smiled, wishing his son was there.
He worried about the wild turkeys and the deer, as there were virtually no white oak acorns this year. He wondered if they would find enough food. There was, however, a bumper crop of hickory nuts and plenty of apples. It was the best year for apples he’d seen since the early ’50s. Still, apples would not provide the fat needed during a harsh winter.
He became sleepy again despite the antics of the squirrels. He’d counted a dozen in just a quarter of an hour, and he could have easily taken a limit if he had wanted. He sent out a few more notes from his box call, and then closed his eyes. As he dozed off he thought about the three different flocks containing more than 150 birds he had seen just a week before. Today he’d not seen so much as a feather. Not even scratchings in the leaves of Tioga Country’s Hickory Ridge – the old man’s second home.
When his pipe slipped from his mouth he awoke and took a small thermos of lemon tea from his daypack, but before pouring a cup, he scanned the hollow below. More than a dozen bronze-backed turkeys were picking their way up onto the bench below, perhaps 40 yards away: Straight into the old shooting lane, he thought. He could have killed one easily, but the old man, the father without his son sitting beside him beneath the giant oak, never gave the golden opportunity a second thought. He watched as the turkeys fed out of range. After his tea and a handful of vanilla wafers he stood up, brushed off the leaf litter and headed for home.
He was lonely without his son, a son he loved as God loves the earth and His children, and as his dry lips moved in talking to God and himself, the words could barely be discerned: “Reckon it’s the thing about how you can lead a horse to water, but ya can’t make ‘em drink.” He thought about how he raised his son to love and respect all aspects of the hunt, and how difficult it was to fit a round piece of wood into a square hole. He had to face the fact that his son didn’t want to hunt, and he had to learn to respect that. He had to accept that his son was a man now, independent, set in his ways and obviously making his own decisions. His son was the arrow and the old man the bow that had sent him forth to seek and defeat his life’s challenges. He had raised him well in the ways of a gentleman. The old man realized that he had to quit feeling sorry for himself. He’s live his last years hunting, savoring the memories of those yesterdays when his boy hunted with him. The old man had, in fact, not lost him, only his companionship in the killing fields for a few days out of a year, which amounts to nothing when you string them together.
Justin would always be his son, and he had a daughter, too. Perhaps Erika would share in the autumn ritual and tote her grandfather’s Savage Model 99 .300 Savage in the deer woods. The old-timer wondered why, though, that Justin greeted him at the door when he returned home from hunting. Why he never failed to say, “Hey, Pop, how did ya do out there today?” Why did he look so disheartened when told about game passed up? Stupid old man; the answer is as clear as the big nose on your wrinkled face. It’s because he, not in fact the white-tailed buck, is the King of Hearts in your mind, and you the King of Hearts in his. You taught him well, and, therefore, would never really lose him to anything.
The old man whistled as he walked home that afternoon. He could imagine his son on the front steps of their old home. He’d whistle loud and clear, smiling as he used to. He’d wave to his son from high atop the hill in the big field, knowing for certain that his son would be there for him, with that ear-to-ear grin. His son would say, “Hey, Pop, how did ya do out there today?”
The old-timer would smile and with a twinkle through puddling eyes would say, “Just fine, Son, just fine. In fact, better than ever.”
As part of his resolution, the old man thought about his – and his son’s – beloved white-tailed bucks. He realized the deer shared only a small space in their hearts, however important to each man. That fact would never change, but he remained satisfied with that knowledge, knowing he gave his son the love of the majestic whitetails, which now seemed stronger than ever. He now knew in his heart that his beloved son had made a choice that obviously filled his heart, and with that, of course, the old man was glad.
One morning the old man hollered to his daughter, who was upstairs in her room in the old farmhouse. “Hey Erika, are you busy tomorrow morning?”
Erika came trotting down the stairs and said, “Hey, Poppa, what’s up?”
The old man smiled, and just sat there sensing his daughter’s mood, and then, like a prayer, magically she asked, “Poppa, how can ya tell a doe track from a buck track when you’re hunting?”
The old man settled deep into his old recliner, smiled and began, “Well, Darlin’, when we go out this year, I’ll show ya, but ya gotta always remember, if you’re gonna hunt with me, whatever sex you decide the deer is from scrutinizing its cloven track, it’s never certain.”
As the old tune goes, “Bless the beasts and the children …”