Author’s note:
This is the story of a young man who captured my heart in 1975, the year of his birth. And he hasn’t let go of it yet as the story tells.
He’s symbolic of what we all should be out there in the hunting wood. I, of course, taught him the fundamentals of shooting, hunting and respect for wild things and places. But this young man, alone, refined it all to form a sort of religion. His ever-deepening respect for wildlife, to this day, brings my eyes to the watering point and my heart to just beyond overflowing.
As I write this annotation, May 8, 1997, I think I may safely say his hunting days for those species we most loved to hunt together as he was coming “up” are pretty much over. Oh, I imagine there will be the odd grouse, perhaps even a wild turkey, but little else. Something inside of me switched off not long ago, and about the same time, Justin’s enthusiasm to kill as a hunter burned out to where it barely smolders. Perhaps a little autumn breeze will bring it to the flaming point once again? Only one man knows. The fine one in this story and his true Maker.
Hunting and time spent in the woods are as natural to him as trips to the Little Boy’s Room-and very nearly as necessary. But this day, not so long ago in autumn, had to be different even though he and his son had shared the first grouse hunt of the year several times before. It was time for him to let go of the young man he still felt, in heart and mind, was “his little boy.”
He must be allowed to discover the magic of hunting alone. The father thought, “Let him feel the quiet, taste the pungent, almost tangible woodland air created by the decaying forest litter.” The hollow below their home would allow the young man a certain peace, a needed peace. And a feeling of confidence that every man needs before he can consider himself a man. And so, with a feeling of pain greater than a root canal, he said to his son, “Naw. You go on ahead by yourself. I don’t feel much like hunting today.” Certainly it was a white lie, but the kind which a mutual God, at times like this, excuses?
He watched as “his” young man laced his boots and dried the FP-10 oil from his Red Label over/under with the same excitement inside him as he felt when readying himself for the first grouse hunt-any hunt. Only this time he felt a sort of emptiness that didn’t blend well with the excitement. It would be his son’s first time out alone; the cord was severed.
He questioned his son about how to handle things out there, navigate hills safely, be careful of hidden acorns beneath the leaves, when to shoot and when to hold back? And there was the last minute briefing on lead and pointing, not aiming and yes, they came from an apprehensive, empty heart. And he knew all the while the instruction wasn’t necessary. For the young hunter knew these things, and well.
The Old Man wanted so badly to go, but no, not this time. This was a sort of gift to his son. Not truly his to give, but indeed his to share. The young man attended to things quietly and his face revealed the need he’d had for quite some time. The need to go it alone, if just this once, this first time. “We all need our space, our private moments.
“See ya later, Pop! Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine…” And sure he’d be fine. He was fine when he began to hunting years ago. He was well-schooled in all aspects of the hunt; the safety, the overall appreciation of wild places and wild things, be they tree, plant or animal or bird. At age twelve, he seemed a veteran, but then he endured the pains of having an outdoor writer for a father to include getting his tender, two-year old shoulder bruised by a 16-guage side-by-side good old Pop held to it, telling his, “Pull the trigger, Justin.” Never before or since were his eyes opened wider. And often, old Pop laughed to himself when he summoned the memories of the long-ago time.
The field before the house slopes away gradually at first, then drops abruptly into a marshy area. Pop could see “his” hunter’s Ten-Mile orange glowing in the morning sun, perhaps 150-yards away when he remembered the chokes. He hollered, “What chokes do you have in?” The answer stating modified and improved arrived clearly to his near-deaf ears. “I should have known he’d know that much…” But there is always the slightest strand of cord, never visible, but still, attached. “He’ll be just fine.
He watched until his son knifed his way through the whippy scrub oak, certain, he thought, to teach him a lesson in handling a little pain without having someone there to complain to that-seemingly-eases the severity and discomfort of it all? And soon thereafter, his hunting companion was out of sight, out of reach but, no, never out of mind or heart. The Old Man would live out this morning’s hunt, moment by moment, in his mind’s eye. For as always, he walked with his son in spirit.
Soon the young hunter would be negotiating the old, rusted barb-wire fence, one they always joked about. “Doesn’t look as though this fence line ever held anything in or out!” Then his son would be following Orphan Creek for a ways. A brook which to their knowledge, no one ever bothered naming and so they did. Thus it was “their” brook, their woodland friend, however dry in autumn it was still a special place to them. “Just a little creek, that’s all!” That’s what the county natives said of it. Just a little creek, yes, but too, the path to a marvelous grouse covert that seemed to forever defy the cycle of the grouse populations and always produce at least a few birds, year after year. “I hope he brought number eight’s,” thought the Old Man. Knowing, deep down, he had of course. For in so many ways, his young hunter was a veteran at the age of 12.
Down through the hemlocks, past Time-Forgotten Orchard his son would go. All the while ready, but never fully, for the thunder of a grouse flush. “He shouldn’t be too tensed-up through the hemlocks…knows there aren’t any birds in there til the snow flies.” But then, after the grove he would again come to Orphan Creek, follow it a while then come into a whole different cover type-some of which a field mouse would scorn as far as being uncomfortable navigating. Berry thickets, multi-flora rose tangles and a general potpourri of seemingly impenetrable vegetation that seemed never to succumb to cooler or even cold weather. It was always there, always thick and tough going but yes, always held more than a day’s bag of ruffed grouse. He and his son didn’t refer to this magical place as a covert, but instead, a cradle. A place wherein Mother Nature seemed to forever hide Her favorite birds-each and every year. The Old Man always said, “Blows big holes in the biologists’ cycle theory, doesn’t it.
The Old Man thought to himself, “I’ll just stand out here on the deck and listen for his shots.” And all the while, small prayers came from his lips. “Please, if there’s a Red Hunting God looking down right now; give my young man a break. He’s not yet tasted the thrill of downing a grouse. Just this one time, for I surely don’t want him spoiled into thinking it’s an easy game. But give him two, if you would, barely angling birds rather close and don’t let them startle him so much that he doesn’t even get off his shots. He’s an awfully fine young man you know?”
And Pop thought he could almost hear his son’s careful but anxious boots whispering their way through the fallen leaves. He could envision his son’s widening eyes in anticipation of what surely lay ahead. And he recalled what his son once said about the hemlock boughs as they passed through there one day. A branch tip had brushed his son’s chilled cheek and he smiled while recalling his son’s words: “Geez Pop, even though I never had one, that felt as soft as a young girl’s kiss! I never realized how soft those needles were…” And at the time, Pop laughed and said he himself often wondered what was nicer. A kiss from the bough of a hemlock or a fair-haired lassie; that it was a toss-up to his way of thinking.
About now, his son should be into the grape tangles just before the thicket. About 20 or so yards from their beloved Cradle. “No shots yet? Must be he’s not quite into it?” Nearly an hour passed and all was quiet in the hollow; no sounds at all some three cups of coffee later. “He’s fine. Just poking along as he always does?”
He’d taught his son well; that they hunted not primarily to kill, even though it was a part of the intention. They hunted also to seek challenge, learn of peace and wild things and the platter of grouse drenched well in wine sauce with a hearty side of parsleyed potatoes was simply a bonus for their efforts. “You always come home with something, Son, even if it’s not in your game pouch.”
He imagined he could hear his son’s heart pounding and, if he closed his eyes, he could “see” his knees trembling, readying himself for what no man is ever totally ready for-the thunder of a grouse flush. But was it to be that day?
Some three hours later he could see from the window that “his” hunter was headed home. But even from the almost 300-yard distance Pop thought he could see the young hunter smiling? The binoculars proved him right. “Ahh yes! Thank you God! You have given him something he’ll never forget, his first grouse. Perhaps a brace?”
“Grouse,” his old man would always preach to him, “are forever better than the men who hunt them when it comes to being alert, ready and furtive, even using trees to their fullest advantage when flying away.” Surely this day’s success would cultivate a confidence level in him that would breed forever; something he needed. Something all young hunters need in conjunction with sound common sense in every hunting venture. And this hunter of his, Justin, had the good sense and the maturity of a seasoned hunter from Day One but lacked, somewhat, that all-important confidence level that allows a hunter to know well his limitations and to use them to his advantage and in all fairness to himself and his quarry. Pop would always torment him good naturedly, that when it came to grouse it didn’t matter what the legal limit was. “Heck, Justin, you never shoot when they flush!” But all the while, Pop knew Justin’s day in the sun would arrive and he would be truly deserving of that time.
He once said to his father, “You know what, Pop? I’m kinda glad grouse are like they are. You know, flushing like thunder, breaking the silence and catching hunters off guard. Even though I want one so badly I can feel it all year long, it’s something I’m strangely grateful for. I guess it gives me the secure feeling that grouse will always be out there for hunters and that if they ever do disappear, it won’t be because of overhunting. You know?” And sure, Pop knew. It was his job to know these things. About grouse, about his son.
Pop hollered from the deck. “How’d ya do, Partner?” Justin then about 100-yards from the house. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled, not answering with anything. “He got one, by golly!” Pop was thinking aloud, almost tap-dancing on the deck. “He’s just being coy with his Old Man!” But, as the hunter got closer to the house, Pop noticed there wasn’t anything tethered to his belt. “He knows to keep birds cool and not put them into the heat of his game pouch!”
“Where are they, Partner? Got into them did you?” The young man had this look of peace in his eyes and on his face. A look that Pop wouldn’t soon, if ever, forget. To this moment in time, he hasn’t, either. For that “gift” given to him by his father, that certain freedom of hunting alone in a seemingly enchanted hollow, would last his son a lifetime; last until he, too, gave his own son that precious, priceless “gift” of freedom, responsibility, trust and yes, the faith that his children would do all that which is right during these sacred autumn rituals. And take special care of that which has been entrusted to all mankind by the Maker Of It All.
“They were there, Pop! Just like you said and we both thought they’d be, but, no, I never even warmed my gun barrels. It was the most magical thing I’ve ever seen! All was so unbelievably quiet in the hollow this morning, you know, like you always said, I could almost hear the dewdrops evaporating. I even walked up on a bedded doe and she didn’t seem afraid. Like it was a day of peace among everything living, she wasn’t the least bit spooky and just lay there as though I belonged, as though I wasn’t a threat. I even whispered a good mornin’ to her and got so close I could see the texture of her wet, black nose. Weird morning.
“That doe wasn’t but forty or so yards from the Cradle so I was taking it slow and quiet. I was ready. Had it well set in my mind that I wouldn’t come unglued at a flush. And I no sooner got into the edge of the Cradle when that strong, sort of muffled sound of wingbeats sounded to my left. I watched it carve its way through the trees as fast and confident as God would allow. Then another one flushed seconds later and I watched it, too. Then another, another and another and yep, another! Six all together and I followed each one of ‘em smooth and easy. Pop, it was beautiful! Like a dream come true and more exciting than anything I’ve ever seen before in any season! Six grouse from our very own Cradle!”
Pop, bewildered and in awe with the relating of Justin’s story which seemed contradictory to his longtime dream of killing a grouse or two asked, after clearing his choking throat but still sounding soprano-like, “And you never shot at one? How many could you have grassed?”
“Of the six, Pop, probably four if it were legal but two were real easy shots and I know they could have been mine! I was just so taken back with the magic of it all! I could even see the bands of their tails, the unbroken male bands and the broken bands of the females! That’s how close they flushed. It was beautiful. So much so, at first I forgot to shoot then decided after the first three flushed that I wouldn’t regardless of how many burst out of there. It was so quiet, Pop. Even though they sure broke the silence of a beautifully quiet morning, it somehow seemed fitting, just right. You know, natural like? In the moment it all took to unfold, I made my decision right then to just drink it all in and let ‘em fly on until another day. That was a magic moment for me and one I’ll never forget and you know what, Pop? It most likely wouldn’t have been the same had you been there with me. Too, it was almost as though you had it all planned for me, ‘course I know better. Geez, how many times in all of your hunting years have you seen a half-dozen grouse flush from the same cover?
“I remembered that verse you made me read a while back by the Prophet, Gibran, where he said something about beauty not being a need but an ecstasy? And that beauty isn’t a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth but, instead, a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted? I remembered that verse real well and I’ll tell ya, Pop. My doggone heart was on fire this morning and the rest of me was full enough that killing those grouse didn’t seem all that important right then. A morning of wonder, this one Pop!”
What does a father say at times like there? Very little if anything. His son had found and learned that which he was sent forth to find and learn. Though certainly, this will never cease to amaze fathers as long as there are moments like these. Moments that come from understanding that sons and daughters mature on their own and yes, quickly and easily. And by just simply “pointing” them in the right direction, giving them some space, freedom and love.
The Old Man couldn’t help but recall the words of Aldo Leopold in the famous, “Sand County Almanac,” which stated, “A peculiar virtue in wildlife ethics is that the hunter ordinarily has no gallery to applaud or disapprove of his conduct. Whatever his acts, they are dictated by his own conscience, rather than by a mob of onlookers. It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of this fact.” A father, in this case, may add to that; in that at this moment of truth experienced by the young hunter whereby he was offered his dream-come-true, only he can decide what to do with the moment, the opportunity. It is a personal choice; and this young man, by his own choosing, decided to let the mystery and beauty of this morning marinate, magically, in his heart.
“Well, Son, come on into the house. The soup is hot and we’ll sit and talk about your morning.” That look of peace and a heart-born smile continued to adorn the young man’s face.
“Justin you’ve been wanting to kill a grouse since I bought you that Red Label years ago! Hard to believe you chose to let ‘em fly off like that. But, hey, I respect your choice and, in my own way, understand why you let ‘em fly. And heck, you needn’t worry none; the old red hunting gods’ll pay you back one day soon.”
“I hope you’re right, Pop, cause I’d like to, if you don’t mind too much, go out alone again in the morning? Just to see if they’re still in the Old Cradle and whether I can walk up again like I did this morning?”
“No problem, Partner. My old back is killing me anyway, so you go on ahead, enjoy yourself. I just hope you’re as lucky tomorrow as you were today. I could sure handle a grouse or two for dinner this week, so give some thought to shooting a bird or two.”
The next morning, the Old Man heard his young hunter tiptoe across the deck. He got out of bed to watch his son finally disappear into the hollow, this time, wishing more than ever, he were with him. The strand remains forever connected, no matter the time.
Some time later, the Old Man saw the young hunter coming through the field with that ever-present bounce in his young legs. He strained to see whether there were birds tethered to the belt of his son. Using the binoculars, revealed nothing but a smiling red face; no birds could be seen.
“He’s being cute again! Probably had ‘em hidden in his game pouch?” But there were no sounds of gunshots earlier and the Old Man always seemed able to hear such things-usually.
“Well, Partner, how’d ya do this time? Find those birds again or not?” The young man was but a few steps from the deck, checked his Red Label and set it in the crook of where the house joins the porch then sat down on the step.
Smiling and looking up into the Old Man’s eyes, he said, “Couldn’t keep the Red Label quiet this morning, Pop! I think I could have shot right alongside you and Osgood today!” With that he lay two, plump grouse at his father’s slippered feet.
Pop exploded! “All right! Congratulations Partner! Two birds first time shooting is great! How many did you flush?”
“Only five this time, Pop. Rascals held tight with the misty rain and all. I figure the sixth bird just sat in there with all the action going on. These two just exploded from the Old Cradle, about thirty-feet in front of my gun but they did give me a little angle. One went left and the other kinda veered toward the first one just after I shot. After those two went down, three more went outta there. So with that sixth bird and those three, that ought to be enough for the seed you always talk about, huh Pop?”
“Wait a second. How many shots did you fire?”
“Just the two, Pop, why?”
“You mean you got doubles on grouse first time shooting? That’s crazy! I sure expected the old red gods to pay ya back for your shining ethics and deep-felt appreciation for the wild Old Cradle and its magic, but doubles on grouse first time around? Sometimes those old gods are just too doggone gracious!”
“You’re probably right, Pop, but do you know what? It’s my turn to pay them back for their generosity.”
“How do you propose to do that, Partner? You have a whole season ahead of you and it’ll take a ton of restraint from now on, now that you got a good taste of wingshooting?”
“Well, Pop, I figured I’d let you hunt the Old Cradle from here on out. You know you usually miss the first few grouse of the season and, in a sense, my letting you have dibs on the Cradle is the same as giving something back, or better yet, just not taking anymore grouse from the Cradle this year!”
The father and son laughed at that and went on into the house where two bowls of yesterday’s soup awaited them on the dining room table. The same table where two grouse, drenched in wine sauce would be steaming on the morrow-moreso than the Old Man was steaming today but, with a father’s pride. For from the death of two grouse came the birth of a fine hunter who belongs, of course, to himself…even thought the strand of cord will forever be a strong connection between father and son as it always has. And with age, the generation gap narrows…