The day my aging father passed his
favorite deer rifle to me caught me off
guard. No matter how fast I blinked, I
could not stop
the stream of tears from welling eyes.
Many would have read this as a sign of
overwhelming happiness to have received
a new
rifle and pride of ownership. Those
tears transcended written words to
describe my feelings at that moment.
They were tears of
sadness that only you can understand.
It was the end of a way of life that
lasted more than a half-century. There
were to be no
more frosted mornings sharing a
Pennsylvania deer hunt with the man I
respect and love most. The sudden
finality of the
moment made me physically unable to
look in his eyes, and it will be many
years before I fully understand the
tears either of us
shed that day.
Over the years, this gentle man slowed
many hunts to include 4 sons and as many
daughters who wanted to love the woods
as
much as he. They went even before they
were old enough to carry a weapon and
cherished time spent with dad. He wore a
broad smile and carried a light load
when sharing his time afield. As the
last honeysuckle patch of the rabbit and
pheasant hunt
approached, he would often tire of
carrying his worn Browning and hand it
to his son for help. The first few times
it was
unloaded, but that didn't matter when
the pheasant cackled upon take off. Dad
watched and beamed with pride as empty
barrels
swung in time with iridescent plumage.
One day, a rabbit broke between us and
the empty barrels remained in the
upright safe
position. On the very next hunt, those
same barrels were loaded when his tired
hands let his son carry the Browning
through the
last thicket. Not a word was spoken
but we both knew what had just happened.
We shared many small game hunts at our
farm including rabbit, pheasant, dove
and groundhogs. Often, he would be tired
from
work and resting on the couch when his
energetic son wanted to hunt. Many of
those times, his son had already loaded
the car
with the guns still smelling of Hoppes
and paper hulled shells he loaded
himself. This was done before dad got
home. His hunting
jeans, a wool shirt and his small game
jacket were carefully laid on his bed as
though an invisible person had been
wearing them.
His license had been carefully
attached through the same holes in his
jacket and the Vibram soled leather
boots were laid out with
socks in each, laces loosened. Timing
sunset, cat-naps and hunting was a
delicate process for this son. You
wanted dad to get
some much needed rest, wanted to go
hunting before the sun set and wanted to
maximize your chance to go. Leading up
to the
question of going hunting to a resting
father was always awkward and was never
just a direct question. Sometimes the
final
question was answered by “after just
10 more minutes rest” and then it was
off to watch the clock in the kitchen.
The second
hand seemed to go slower with each
minute. He always smiled when he went to
his bedroom and everything was ready to
go.
About this time, our Dachshund would
be at the kitchen door whining and
running in endless circles.
Dad had a way of always putting his
sons on the trails most rich in game. In
our younger days, we thought we were
skilled
hunters, but over time, we realized he
had hunted our farm long before we were
born. His years of experience had put us
in just
the right place at just the right
time. Many ringnecks cackled and
launched within easy range of his
Browning only to fly by his
waiting sons. Often, he had some sort
of brush in the way preventing a shot…
Rabbits were slit and innards flung into
the sticker
bushes where the dog couldn’t reach
them. Retrieving the heart for Schatzi
warmed cold fingers on a brisk fall day
and we
learned to toss the heart to her after
a few pinched fingers. Blood soaked
fingers were wiped on the frosty grass
and dried on
pants to keep the blueing on the guns
clean of this corrosive fluid. It didn’t
matter if doves, ringnecks, rabbits or
groundhogs were
hunted, just being there with dad was
enough.
After a few decades of hunts with dad,
the cycle reversed and we were slowing
our hunts for him. For several years, we
carried
his deer hunting pack and rifle up the
mountains to our carefully chosen spots.
His still energetic sons had pre-season
scouted
these areas and dad was finally put in
the best spots. Still later, lower spots
on the mountain were chosen and flatter
terrain suited
his aging legs. On his last deer hunt
with me, he watched as a magnificent 8
point bred a doe. No shots were fired as
he felt the
gene pool should carry on. As he laid
down to rest on his back, a volley of
shots was heard across the fields. He
continued to lay
and rest as he had already decided the
deer were safe that fall day. In a
flurry, 2 does rushed to his location
and stopped with their
feet inches from his head. He remained
still and looked directly up at frosted
whiskers and plumes of steam shooting
from the
nostrils of the fast breathing does.
After nearly a full minute, they hopped
into the pine thicket below him and he
had hunted his
last hunt.
As my tears splashed on that old 7mm
mag, a flood of memories floated by.
Though we haven’t hunted together for
some years,
I continue to learn from those
memories. It takes time to figure out
how much you missed during some of those
hunts, and I am
still trying to figure it out. Now in
his mid seventies, he listens to stories
of hunts I have experienced and the
twinkle is still in his
eye.
