How he hoped that his son‘s first hunt would be just as memorable as his own 30 years ago. And now, as a chilling wind sliced through the canyon, the perfect words to calm the boy just wouldn‘t come. But something else would.
Big blue eyes met mine; his lip began to quiver. “I wanna see Mom,” he said as his chin wiggled. I looked away. I’d been caught totally off guard, since I thought everything was fine.
Excited about the game we’d seen, I failed to notice his change in mood. I needed something quick; the timing was crucial.
This was our first hunt together and we’d climbed an hour in the dark. I walked, and he rode Cindy the mule. We topped the ridge at good light, there they were … a three-point buck, two cows and a spike … all moving uphill.
My six-year-old son Evan was tired. The early rise and rhythmic ride had rocked him nearly to sleep. Then a chilling wind brought Mom to mind. I too longed at her mention and understood the yearning. I needed the perfect words and oh, how they had to be perfect. The wrong words could doom the day.
From inside the trees we looked across a basin and saw deer moving through the scattered sage.
Beyond the nearest ridges rose the slopes of other ranges where I’d taken my first hunt nearly 30 years ago. I don’t remember crying for Mom that morning, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t. I do remember the excitement of following my father into an enchanting forest draped in freshly fallen snow. I could only hope that Evan’s first hunt would be nearly as memorable. Hopefully, everything goes right. He enjoys it, loves it and wants to carry on. So many things could go wrong … too cold, too wet, no game, a bad shot, a wounded cry. But no, only the warmth and want of Mom was about to shatter the scene.
Still, the perfect words wouldn’t come. I glassed around as if I hadn’t heard. No response calmed us both. I hugged him to my leg. “Let’s move right over there.” I hushed and slid to my right, knowing he would follow. It was all I could think to do or say.
A couple steps to our right brought more canyon into view. Below us more game. “Oh Evan there’s a good deer,” I hissed.
“Where? Where?” he wondered.
“Across the canyon comin’ this way.”
Moving toward us in the canyon below, the buck stepped into the sun. His square-framed rack was maybe 30 inches wide; a better than average buck, probably the biggest we’ll see. The does begin to turn. He’s a good 300 away. “Evan, I think we better take him. Here, sit down beside me.”
Shaky elbows on wobbly knees, no good. I stretch out prone. The crosshairs touched his shoulder as he turned. The Weatherby rocked. The deer staggered and disappeared into a gray draw. The does were a ridge away when I caught their tails darting full-tilt west, but no buck. “Evan, I think we got him.”
“Really!” he gleed.
“Yea, I think he’s in that draw.” Evan’s arm thrusts upward. “Yes!” in victory.
Cindy in tow, we headed into the brush. Deer disappear quickly in this stuff … even wounded. I thought I’d hit him well. My gun had been dead on.
From atop a rise through a crack in the brush I spied his sprawled form. The posture of death. He was ours and we circled in from above.
A beautiful buck. Three years old, maybe four. Three hundred pounds live weight, I guessed. Glossy tan coat underlain with slate gray, white face, walnut brown antlers flashed with light.
Evan, wide eyed, reached down and stroked his warm side. His first dead touch, I’m sure.
Points of purpose were discussed. Appreciation spread thick and wide. Thankful for his gift and how it would add to the health of our family.
On his warm flank we ate our snack. Our missing of Mom was not discussed.
Field dressing turned into biology class. Fun. Exciting. I knew I was changing his life and his understanding of life.
Halved carcass slung on Cindy, we hit the trail triumphantly. The air warmed, thin clouds rose. A November morning that mirrored March. We spotted game, large and small. Evan led as I guided Cindy through raking brush on rocky trails. Evan chattered. I couldn’t hear him clearly, but I yea’ed and uh-huh’ed as we walked down the trail.
Then he stopped, spun dead in his tracks. “Dad, can I carry your gun?” he quizzed.
“Well, a sure,” I stammered. “That would be fine, it’d make it a little easier on me too. Let me make sure it’s unloaded. Here, put it on your shoulder like that; okay, let’s go; you lead.” Off we went, Evan bobbing a spring he’d never known. Our load secure, we had an easy trip down.
Nearly to the truck he spun around, big blue eyes like quarters. “Wait till Mom hears about this!” he popped, then tucked his chin and headed on.
“Yea, Yea,” I smiled, remembering my struggle for the perfect words.
Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared in the 1998 Sept./Oct. issue of Sporting Classics.
Ten Was The Deal is more than a book of stories about hunting and fishing, it offers all of the enchantment of yarns spun while sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck; all of the lore of tales told around a campfire. Buy Now
