I take this from Joseph Campbell’s, “The Power of Myth” even as a father, I can say it no better: “We have today to learn to get back into accord with the wisdom of nature and realize again our brotherhood with the animals and with the water and the sea…The idea is trans-theological. It is an indefinable, inconceivable mystery, thought of as a power, that is the source and end and supporting ground of all life and being.”
In this story I take you on a precious journey through a very special period in my life. One I won’t forget. One I feel has no equal, save his birth into my life. This then, is a story of my son who shed a tear at just the proper time, confirming that indeed, he was “mine,” but fit well into the natural scheme of life-and death…
A Rising Son
You wouldn’t miss this autumn sunrise for the world, but the unusual pre-dawn warmth has helped close your eyes and caused your thoughts to drift to another world. You are half asleep in your favorite hardwood forest; but it’s okay, since the gray squirrels won’t be moving about for some time anyway…
A bluejay sounds the wake-up call; a rowdy chipmunk carries on like a hyper-active drill sergeant. And, once again, the dawning is solely yours to appreciate. It brings on a recurring daydream, one you have often cherished and you whisper “Thank you,” to your Creator.
Perhaps you dream of someday taking a trophy white-tailed buck? Many of us do. Others, however, may dream of yet another blessing: of someday having a hunting partner in the form of a child, a son or daughter? A person with whom we may share the dawnings, the bounty of earth…
Son or daughter really matters not. As long as we’re able to stir the predator inside of him or her, that we know is certainly-and naturally-in there, somewhere. A little prayer now and then seems perfectly in order, well justified.
The mental images of our own child at our side in the woods of the whitetail is a strong motivation to move us into a premature shopping exercise; we begin shopping for the child’s first deer rifle, long before we realize whether he or she will even care to hunt. But after all, this will give him an opportunity you never had. He will have a choice between his own new rifle or the worn-to-silver saddle gun you started out with. And, for the most part, it matters little to you whether he chooses the former or the latter.
Selecting a deer rifle for a four-month old child is more difficult that Japanese arithmetic. While visually scanning the gun racks in numerous sporting goods stores, you can’t help but envision a fragile, dimpled, little hand forming a harmless fist and a trigger finger about the size of an empty .22 casing. It’s nearly impossible to imagine that hand curled around the pistol grip of a high-powered rifle, but you must mentally project a “picture” some 12-years away and trust that you’ll make the proper selection. And, of course, you do.
Eventually, after mind-boggling confusion, you exit the store with the heft of your child’s rifle and it brings a most obvious smile to your proud face.
It turns out you chose a rifle you yourself wanted for years, one you know is suitable for most of this nation’s big game, and one you know does more downrange damage than it does at the ligneous end where the shoulder meets. Let’s say the rifle, then, is a 7 X 57MM, a dandy choice indeed, or so you think, and you whistle most of the way home…
The ensuing years pass like chilled molasses through a fine-wire strainer, but deer seasons take on a whole new meaning for you now. You strive, intently; to learn more of the forest and wild things so that when your child comes of hunting age you’ll appear an expert in his eyes. You save even meager racks as evidence of your past successes and build a dramatic “story” for each of them. Most of which are based on absolute truth…
And then finally, the youngster’s 12th birthday has come and gone. The cake had a thick blanket of buttery icing and was adorned with a piney meadow surrounded by typical, high country timber with a Boone and Crockett buck; the candles were as close in color as you could get to red shotshells. His gifts came in camo, florescent orange, leather and carbon steel along with a few vials of urine from generous female deer. Several boxes of ammunition are in escrow until he graduates Hunter’s Education classes but the rifle is given a safe mooring above his bunk. It “waits” patiently, cradled in a tight set of antlers that once belonged to a four-point, a buck that so very often rekindles your warmest, and most vivid memories. Only your child could win that rack from you. For to give it was to give a piece of your golden past, of your love, as the antlers belonged to your first buck.
Autumn slips in with a closer sun. For the first time in years you feel as you did many times, but long ago and the thought of the first snowfall and deer season wrenches at your stomach. It’s good to feel this way again. Butterflies return to their old haunt just below your heart and it’s that same feeling, wonderfully familiar, you had as a young man, but stronger now than ever before-or so it seems?
You try to maintain a coolness about your demeanor, but at the same time, try to stimulate excitement within your child. After all, you are his mentor and in some ways, often difficult to live up to, his idol…
You try, always, to be at your best, even though to his eyes, your worst effort is the best. Still, you feel you must never err, never miss a clay bird, the low-house 8 or the almighty “10” ring. There isn’t room for anything other than perfection; all else must take a place on the back burner or in the rumble seat.
Hunter’s Ed time nears. You decide it would be wise to attend the classes yourself as they were nonexistent when you were coming up. And all the while you pray you’re not the only adult who has made this decision. You’d feel silly, you think, being a foot or so taller than most of your “classmates.” A Larry Bird in a roomful of Mickey Rooneys or Danny DeVitos….
Hunter’s Ed has come and gone. A great amount of brass has been emptied at the rifle range and your son has punched groups in the 100-yard targets adequately enough to allow him to drop a deer with a single round, “probably up to two-hundred or so yards?” you think aloud. His targets are secretly dated and stored away, for these will one day provide more golden memories. ..
The early hunting seasons run their course. The times were full of flavor, fellowship and fun, but, your child did not draw an easy shot on anything-or blood. You wish now, you’d spent more time with him in the field, but work and a large autumnal canning affair took precedence. Only a handful of small game days were yours to share and Sundays were spent scouting for whitetailed bucks. Deer season should provide different; there’s the traditional week off from work with a few days thrown in for Thanksgiving by an oddly generous boss. Doubt then, burdens not. A brace of whitetailed bucks shall be roped, heads up, to the old backyard apple tree-before noon of the opener?
There is considerable talk of deer in the house and Mother repeats herself a hundred times over: “Is that all you two can talk about is deer, deer, deer?” Magazines full of hunting stories are scattered about and the smell of Hoppes’s Number 9, your child concludes, is even more pleasant to the smell sense than the Old Spice you’ve worn for years. He goes so far as to dab a bit on his forearms and savors the smell while watching television. You laugh together as you mention to him, “Well at least you won’t rust away in the deer woods should the weather turn bad!” The atmosphere is good, better than the other times of the year; more relaxed with so much to look forward to insofar as being truly “together”. Funny, you think, how the hunting seasons create such closeness between father and child. You enjoy it all in the most absorbing manner, for in your wisdom you know these sweet years will pass all too quickly. Then, once again, you will hunt alone and your heart will never again be as light….
Deer camp is but a short drive from your mountain home, just far enough to get the harmonicas juiced and warmed up, as well as heat up the anticipation to the near-boiling point. Deer are spotted along the way and you observe your son’s eyes twinkling as he observes the deer. You search for a twinkle, a widening of eyelids, and try to imagine what he’ll say. Casually, your answer comes and you are surprised at his cool nature: “The deer are in great shape, Pop!” Then you wonder why his restraint is better than your own, why he didn’t ask you to “Stop the pickup so we can take a better look.” You, after all, wanted to! And, silently, you ask the Red Gods to help your son carry himself that well at the first light of the morrow. You ask that his composure remain “just so when his buck shows up…..” Sleep comes hard as usual. The hot tea and cinnamon rolls had little, if any, tranquilizing effect. A last “Good night, Partner” brings no reply, which leads you further to believe he’s handling his excitement better than you, a veteran of some 33 deer seasons.
It seems as though you have just fallen into a deep sleep when the alarm sounds. It’s all you can do to muster enough strength to unzip your bedroll and roll out. The young hunter, fully and widely awake, in the bunk next to yours bids you a hearty, cheerful, “Good mornin’, Pop!” Your reply is barely audible and you are soon thereafter forced into a rare white lie when he asks whether you slept well. He prances about the camp galley like a rutting pronghorn and ignites the propane burner beneath the waiting coffee pot. “Salvation syrup…” You whisper. Your knees then, half-buckle as you attempt rather comically, to stand for a quick glance out the window. And your silent prayers for tracking snow were futile. You think, “The deer should be moving anyway what with all the activity, just a bit tougher to spot against the gray of the hardwoods. But his eyes are young, his vision very keen…”
Breakfast includes plans for this morning. Your son will sit on stand with you; a dream, finally, come true. He will be allowed first crack at a legal buck, after all, you’re a vet and can take one “anytime?”
Boot, orange coveralls, sheath knives, cartridge loops in leather and other paraphernalia are donned and adjusted just so-for comfort is a must. And, once again, you go over safety procedures meticulously, but you have full confidence in your son’s good sense. You advise him to, “Just pick out that vital spot on your deer, take all the time you feel you can, concentrate on that spot where you want the bullet to impact and not that whole animal, then squeeze ‘er off, Partner.”
You leave the marvelous warmth of camp. The stand area you’ve chosen is a good 20-minute walk and first light will sneak up over Mt. English in about 45 minutes. An old dug road will lead you and your partner into the depth of the forest quietly; there will be deer along the way which must not be spooked. An old, bent and deformed oak, one both came to agree upon should be called, “The Easy Tree,” indicates the spot where you must turn to leave the convenience of the road in order to get to the stand. The area is intimate, familiar, even in the darkness and the morning “stand” is found easily. Things have thus far, gone well. You coughed but a dozen times on the way in! You think to yourself, “He must’ve held his?” But no, nicotine is foreign to his good lungs and youth is a strong, dependable ally.
After a few long moments on stand, you begin feeling the knifing chill of the 10-degree morning. You whisper, “Cold, Son?”
He whispers, “No, Pop, you?”
You pretend not to hear him, then reach into your cartridge case for a handful of ammo. Ever so carefully, you remove five rounds, motioning for your son to do the same. This minor procedure, elementary at best, was part of your “training” program. The “Don’t-allow-your-shells-to-clink-together-at-any-time” lesson. You feel the pain of “Why me, God!” as some four of your five fall noisly and seemingly in slow motion, to the ground; clinking softly but disappearing into the dark ground litter. The Zippo and a cold, searching hand, recovers them and you are forced to blow them clean. That comes from your frozen face as a sort of low whistling sound. You figure by now, your son should be thinking or saying under his breath, “Geez, what a clod!” But no, he merely watches you with that oh, so familiar, “So-you’re-the-veteran-look” in his eyes. Seconds later, his shells slide into his magazine smoother than heated butter exits a Teflon-coated ladle. You wink at him, and smile. He winks back to humor you and acts as though he never though anything of your carelessness; but you know he did, that deep down inside he laughed…
Your eyelids are closed to half-mast when he taps you on your thigh and points out a band of grayish forms slinking through a stand of multi-flora rose. You whisper white-lie number two: “I saw ‘em, Son, I was just waitin’ to see how long it would take you to spot ‘em. Quiet now, look for horns and let ‘em come in closer. Shhh…”
The deer pick at browse, stretch their necks, searching, scenting, trying to enhance their furtiveness. Their tails twitch east to west and steam funnels from their black, wet nostrils. The wind is just right but the deer, forever cautious step in our direction slowly. They are yet too far to identify for certain. Daylight rapidly brightens the day, the deer are closer. “Seven,” your partner whispers, “and I think the flanking deer nearest us has antlers?”
You say, “I don’t think so. Shhh…”
Something mysterious though common in whitetail hunting happens and the larger-bodied flanking deer jerks his head toward your stand location. “He’s scented us, Justin, and it’s a buck!” The young man’s rifle slips slowly to his shoulder. You are shaking inside and out, which never before happened during any of your about-to-kill moments. “Take his, Son” you say, “take him right now!”
The boy whispers back, “My bullet may pass through him, Pop, and kill a doe, too!” Good thinking, you think, and your nervousness causes you to nearly bite through your lower lip.
After several seconds, perhaps nearly a full minute, the buck for no obvious reason, decides to bolt, leaving the does behind-in harms way or not…
The boy’s rifle comes to his shoulder smoothly and your eyes follow the swinging muzzle which is in perfect unison with the buck’s desperate stride. “His” old saddle gun barks and stirs the silence of the hollow, the echo lasting for what seems like minutes. Your flinching prevented you from seeing the buck buckle through his middle but you see him tumble after but a few great strides. “By golly, you got ‘im, Son! You put ‘im right down!” He again gives you that “So-you’re-the-veteran-look” as he does he ejects the spent casing, catching it in his hand. You wonder now, who’s the “exper,”, the “veteran” really is here? “C’mon, Partner,” you say, patting his shoulder, “let’s go get down there and get him!”
Carrying rifles at port arms, the hunting team walks toward the downed buck, a plump 3 x 3, nearly perfect. “That was a perfect shot, Partner, perfect. Rascal was dead before he finished tumbling…” You look for a better place to field-dress the deer, some spot with a little slope to it, and as you do, “your” partner kneels to tag his first buck.
His back is to you now, but you’re able to see him slip his buckhorn-handled knife from its scabbard. How proud you feel, how very proud he must be. You soon find a roll on the mountain’s bench that will be just right for getting the buck dressed out and drained. Then you walk back to your kneeling son. You think, “He knows what must be done next,” and you feel a warming smile on your cold, weathered face…
You place a firm, congratulating hand upon his shoulder and he looks up at you. There are tears streaking his cheeks and you as his father, as a longtime hunter, know exactly why they’re there. But you know, too, that his knowledge of wildlife and whitetail deaths will ease, however little, his newfound pain-somewhat. You know that his lessons were well-taught, well-learned and you take a private pride in that. His application of every lesson taught was perfect and even those he found within himself were mature and highly ethical. He understands, most certainly, that hunting must be. It is the easiest way for animals to die; and die they must if indeed their species is to survive. He knows all of this…
You say nothing as he makes his cuts and gets the buck ready for the drag to camp. It’s your fatherly way of saying, “I trust in you, son…” You hug him, then grab the dragging harness, noticing his cheeks are still wet. And you smile to yourself with a heart that is lighter than ever before.
Your hand squeezes his firm shoulder and he looks up at you with a smile you know for certain, was borne from a great heart.
The walk out is, for the most part, without conversation. In your heart you are happy like never before. Just yesterday you were bringing up a son in the best way you knew how; today you are walking beside a man, a hunter…
Had there not been a tear or two you may have felt a little differently? And now your cheeks show a set of tears, though ones created by deepening happiness…