dogghr
Well-Known Member
It really begins season year ago. I had late October taken a nice buck with the recurve but my son, in his limited hunts, was still empty handed thru the season. It was late one evening and as I left my stand in the dark, he called asking me bring the atv to back ridge for a doe he had shot earlier the afternoon. I was a bit aggravated at first, as how does a young man in his prime need his old man come help retrieve a deer shot earlier? But I was indeed excited riding up in the dark. We high fived and celebrated as if it was the biggest trophy he ever taken. Loading it and taking to his truck, we gave each other the big hug as always as we departed. It is impressive as we age to wrap our arms around the broad muscular shoulders of your son, remembering how once, ourselves, had those broad , strong shoulders. Happy none the less.
The following August, just as I were about to fall sleep for the night ,away on vacation, the Call came. Rescue dive team had been called for response at my son’s lake house. Shock, unbelief, denial, but unfortunately would be true. He had suffered one of the seizures which with he dealt, and this time Gods Angel wrapped his arms around my sons shoulders and said “its time to come home my servant”. Words can’t describe, nor comprehend that loss.
As fall approached ,and the hunting season that always had enticed me, came near ,but it had lost its charm. I made myself go. Even sitting his stands at times. But my mind was elsewhere. I would wonder the farm, paying no attention to anything, returning to the Jeep in a stupor , vague on where I had walked. Yes the weapons were with me. I had drawn the stick bow twice at nice bucks, even once from his stand, but instead simply chose to not release its arrow.
Trips were random, but as season came near the end, I went late one evening with the ML. And once again, I stalked haphazardly, not really knowing where I intended to go, when a ghost of a buck appeared at 70 yds. Quickly I knelt, arm on knee, hammer already cocked yet no finger on the trigger just yet. I was shaking like a leaf. Never does that happen with me. The buck continued feeding and I wrestled with whether to shoot or allow his 8 to grow larger. Or if I even wanted to shoot. And what was the reason to even bother? Finally I took a deep breath, lay my finger against the trigger, and released the spark. Of course the gun bellowed, and as the smoke cleared, I saw the buck crossing the creek bottom , minus his headgear, to lay on a flat. As he expired his last breath, I wondered would this be my last deer I would take off this land, or would I somehow have the desire to return again next season. That answer still lies in a quagmire of emotions. As I ran my fingers thru the bucks thick fur as the heat left his lifeless body , my mind raced thru hundreds of memories of past times with my son. I just sat there. For a long time. Enjoying and agonizing the moment.
But I know this, of all the things my son and I experienced together in his 39 years, it is those broad-shouldered hugs we always gave each other with the “ love you” , that I remember more than anything. Well....that last deer....on our last hunt together...sure comes close.
The following August, just as I were about to fall sleep for the night ,away on vacation, the Call came. Rescue dive team had been called for response at my son’s lake house. Shock, unbelief, denial, but unfortunately would be true. He had suffered one of the seizures which with he dealt, and this time Gods Angel wrapped his arms around my sons shoulders and said “its time to come home my servant”. Words can’t describe, nor comprehend that loss.
As fall approached ,and the hunting season that always had enticed me, came near ,but it had lost its charm. I made myself go. Even sitting his stands at times. But my mind was elsewhere. I would wonder the farm, paying no attention to anything, returning to the Jeep in a stupor , vague on where I had walked. Yes the weapons were with me. I had drawn the stick bow twice at nice bucks, even once from his stand, but instead simply chose to not release its arrow.
Trips were random, but as season came near the end, I went late one evening with the ML. And once again, I stalked haphazardly, not really knowing where I intended to go, when a ghost of a buck appeared at 70 yds. Quickly I knelt, arm on knee, hammer already cocked yet no finger on the trigger just yet. I was shaking like a leaf. Never does that happen with me. The buck continued feeding and I wrestled with whether to shoot or allow his 8 to grow larger. Or if I even wanted to shoot. And what was the reason to even bother? Finally I took a deep breath, lay my finger against the trigger, and released the spark. Of course the gun bellowed, and as the smoke cleared, I saw the buck crossing the creek bottom , minus his headgear, to lay on a flat. As he expired his last breath, I wondered would this be my last deer I would take off this land, or would I somehow have the desire to return again next season. That answer still lies in a quagmire of emotions. As I ran my fingers thru the bucks thick fur as the heat left his lifeless body , my mind raced thru hundreds of memories of past times with my son. I just sat there. For a long time. Enjoying and agonizing the moment.
But I know this, of all the things my son and I experienced together in his 39 years, it is those broad-shouldered hugs we always gave each other with the “ love you” , that I remember more than anything. Well....that last deer....on our last hunt together...sure comes close.
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